Jan Hagels. Flowers. Parsnips. Hope.
{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.}
Remembering Ernie
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.}
No manna on Saturday
Yes! A free Saturday. I wrote “WRITE” in caps across the square (Yes, I still use a paper planner) and looked forward with anticipation to the first free Saturday I’d had in months.
When the day arrived, I realized it wasn’t entirely free, as I’d forgotten Jeff had a fundraising race in the morning. So we loaded up, cheered him on, the littles and I ran the kids funrun, and we arrived home by lunchtime. I went for a quick run, got lunch prepped, served, and cleaned up, then took a quick shower and relished the fact I still had 4 free hours left in the day. Plenty of time to crank out some pages.
I sat down at my desk. Ahh…here we go.
Nothing. I read and re-read what I’d written before, but I suddenly realized how mentally tired I was. I’d been speaking the past 5 weekends straight, and had several other items on back burners that required mental space. I realized that it wasn’t necessarily that my body was exhausted, but my mind was. I laid my head down on the desk and prayed, asking the Father to lead me and show me what to write.
All I heard was: Rest.
Rest? Then it occurred to me as I lay there reveling in how good it felt to rest my head and close my eyes, that it was Saturday.
Sabbath.
Hm…
I quickly protested. But this is the ONLY FREE DAY I have to write! Have you noticed that ALL my other free time is spent serving other people??? I have to use this time to work. So could you please just give me some words to write?
I waited. I prayed. I waited and prayed and waited and prayed. I scribbled out some sentences that were terrible, deleted them all, and went back to waiting and praying.
Rest.
And then thought occurred to me: There’s no manna on Saturday.
Oh. You mean, that’s a thing?!
Here’s what I mean: Jesus told us clearly that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. This rest-thing wasn’t something God dreamed up just to keep us under His thumb. He created it for our good. The whole point is that we need rest. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. We were created to need rest.
And He illustrated this clearly for the nation of Israel by telling them to gather bread (from heaven!) 6 days a week, but the 7th day they were to rest. And just to make it clear, on the Sabbath He said:
“Today you will not find it in the field. Six days you shall gather it, but on the seventh day, which is a Sabbath, there will be none” (Ex. 16:26).
There will be none.
No manna on Saturday.
He’s telling them, “Don’t waste your time going out and trying to scrape up more than you need. Just rest. I’ll give you plenty on the other 6 days. Trust me.”
But some of them didn’t. I can relate to these funny folks who just had to go out into the field to see for themselves. Maybe there was some left behind they could scrape up and save for later? Maybe there was extra they could sell to the neighbors? They carry their baskets out to the fields on the Sabbath, but there was none.
“On the seventh day some of the people went out to gather, but they found none” (v. 27).
God makes it clear: Don’t bother. There’s no manna on Saturday.
God will not provide the strength to do something He hasn’t called us to do. He won’t energize efforts of the flesh. He won’t give me a single measly word if He knows I need to rest. Why? Because He loves me.
Because Sabbath was made for me.
Because the whole point isn’t which day we do it or whether it’s sundown to sundown or whether it’s ok to drive to the store or bake bread or blah blah blah. The whole point is, when the Father says Rest we’re wise to obey and not waste our time out in the field looking for manna that’s not there.
Manna is simply the stuff we regularly need — it can be different for each of us. For me, most often it’s words. Words to speak, teach, write. I don’t worry much about money, but I desperately need words on a regular basis. That’s my manna.
What is your manna? What are you scraping for in your own strength instead of resting in the Father’s good plan and trusting at the right time He’ll rain it down? Has He been whispering Rest to your soul too? He loves you so much … let’s listen to Him.
{Thank you for reading.}
Clarifying or Modifying?
This concept came back to me recently, and I remembered this phase we went through when Heidi was a toddler. Chewing on this again today, considering subtle ways we seek to modify His will. Praying we submit to His plans knowing they are always for our good!
~
It was in the toy aisle at the Dollar Store where she first said it.
We were picking out party favors, puzzles and games, when she pointed out some bigger puzzles that had caught her eye. In her bird-chirp voice: “Can I have that?”
“No, sweetiegirl, those puzzles have too many pieces for us. But you can pick out one of these kids’ puzzles for the party.”
She looked up at me with her wide eyes and sweet smile:
“When I’m bigger I can have that?”
My heart melted. Precious little thing. I reached down and picked her up, kissing her on the cheek. “Yes, babygirl, when you’re bigger you can have that.” We finished our shopping and left.
A few days later she asked for something unrelated. Probably a graham cracker or a drink of juice. For whatever reason, I said no, not right now, perhaps later. Her same sweet smile and singsong voice,
“When I’m bigger I can have that?” I grin. “Yes, babygirl, when you’re bigger.”
It was cute. She kept attaching little smiley questions when I’d answer no. One time I left her at naptime (instead of snuggling until she fell asleep) and explained that I was going to get the laundry. A few weeks later, when I left the room at naptime she said, “You going to get the laundry,” and smiled to herself, falling asleep. Cute.
But as time went on and she kept saying it, it was less of a question and more of self-talk. When I’d say no to something she’d say to herself, “When I’m bigger I can have that.” Again, not disrespectfully or unpleasantly, necessarily, but it started to get my attention. And then, whenever I’d leave her room she’d say I was going to get the laundry.
Finally one afternoon I clarified, “Mommy’s not going to get the laundry. I’m going to go write and you need to go to sleep.” She cried. What? “Mommy I want you to get the laundry!” What had I created here?
Finally, too, I intervened with the self-talk. Heidi asked for something and I said no, she started sobbing, and through her tears told herself she could have it when she got older.
I bent down, “Heidi-boo, Mommy didn’t say you can have it when you’re older. I just said you couldn’t have it. I need you to simply say Yes, Mama and not tell me or yourself that you can have it when you’re bigger. Just accept Mommy’s words.”
Do I just accept His Words?
In our last session of Bible study we talked about how sometimes we have learned beliefs from our families, from growing up, things we’ve always believed, that aren’t necessarily God’s Word. We tell ourselves these things, often even subconsciously modifying God’s commands. The first time Heidi had asked the question she had genuinely been clarifying my word. But as it progressed it developed into her modifying my word. Instead of simply accepting my commands, she modified them in her mind to make herself feel better.
Taking a straight-up No. is too hard. So she added a qualifier to soften the blow.
How do we modify God’s Word to soften the blow?
When God says, “no” or gives a clear command and we add some sort of modification, even if it’s a tiny thing like “when I’m bigger”, it’s still a big deal.
Why? Because as long as we add the modifier we’re insisting on the final word.
We’re not really bowing.
We’re still making ourselves the god of our life, by adding modifiers, however innocent or subtle they may be.
Honest, clarifying questions are always welcomed by God. Subtle statements modifying His will are not. When we clarify, He is on the throne. When we modify, we’re trying to usurp. We forget He is a good Father and all His commands — even the “no’s” — are for our good.
Let’s trust our good Father and just accept His Word … even when we’re bigger.
{Praying this for us today! Thanks for reading…}