This week, astronomers discovered a previously unknown moon circling the “un-planet” Pluto. Astronomers just discovered it. God knew about it all along. I wonder how many other discoveries are out there, just waiting for us. Perhaps enough to spend eternity discovering? I’m counting on it. Eternity is a long time, and I don’t want to get bored.
Occasionally, I write very short stories. Flash Fiction. Perhaps it’s because I don’t have enough patience to write long stories. I liked the latest one so much, I decided to post it on the main page.
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Where Does Juice Come From?
How to get juice from spinach? She contemplated her predicament as she rolled the carrot between her fingers. She had one carrot, a half of an onion, and a big pile of spinach. The challenge was to make a good tasting juice from what she had. And what she had, wasn’t much.
She promised her kids some juice, but the piggy bank was empty and the cupboard was filled only with dust. Now all she had was one carrot, half an onion, a bunch of spinach, and a sick heart. She didn’t even like spinach.
As she twiddled with the carrot, she stared out the kitchen window and slowly, without even realizing it, gave up hope. The carrot dropped to the floor. She slid her back against the cabinet and slowly sank down beside it. Closing her eyes, she thought of her two beautiful young children. A single tear formed in each eye, one for each child.
Her kids walked down the hall to the kitchen doorway, where they stopped abruptly. They stood there quietly, watching their mother for a few moments. Eventually, the youngest one, prompted by an unseen truth, said simply, “Have faith mommy. There is always hope.”
An hour earlier, a next door neighbor had been at the grocery store. In a rare moment of quiet insight, he actually listened to his heart instead of the noise and confusion of the world. He bought extra groceries to give to his neighbor. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, an hour later, he pulled in her driveway and hoped she would not consider him silly when he showed up on her doorstep with an armload of groceries.
His arms were so full he had to knock on the door with his elbow. The kids heard the knock, ran to the door and opened it. “These are for you,” he said. The kids got so excited they both latched on to him in an effort to give him a big hug. In the process, they knocked him off balance. Had it not been for a little push in the right direction, he would have surely dropped the gallon of orange juice.
My dentist has a massage chair in his office. I went to get my teeth cleaned this past week and had to sit in it while the dental hygienist stuck her assortment of torture tools in my mouth. I guess the idea is that it is supposed to relax you while getting your dental “procedure” done. Speaking from personal experience, I can attest categorically and undeniably that, it does not work.
I will admit that when I first sat in the chair and leaned back, it felt kinda good. The tooth torturer left the room to prepare, so I sat there trying to relax. But then she came back in the room, snapped on some latex gloves, and picked up a small, sharp metal spike. I’m sure it has a more innocuous official name. Something like “dental probe” or “tarter removal tool.” But I’ve seen it. I know what it is. It’s a small, sharp, pointy metal spike and it’s headed straight for my mouth.
At this point, (yes, a pun) the relaxing massage chair is completely overpowered by the sight of that spike and the knowledge of the discomfort that is to come. As the spike moves toward my mouth, every muscle in my body is the exact opposite of relaxed. The scraping, the poking, the high pitched whine of the miniature pressure washer, all blow away any inkling of relaxation the paltry massage chair could hope to provide.
While I lay back in the chair, suffering the consequences of actually using my teeth to chew food, I realized the futility of the massage chair. It was starting to annoy me. The stupid mechanical hands relentlessly kneading my spinal cord as if to make taffy out of my vertebrae. I wished it would stop. I wished the tooth torturer would stop. And as the poking and scraping moved on to the pressure wash of pain, I wondered why God didn’t make people like sharks.
Why didn’t God make our mouths more like a shark’s, with rows of teeth ready to replace those that wear out? If our mouths were like a shark’s, we would NEVER have to go to the dentist. I am confident no one has ever seen a shark at the dentist office for teeth cleaning, much less a root canal. Even if a shark DID show up, what dentist in his right mind would stick his hands in a sharks mouth saying “Now bite down?” No doubt, if I had a mouth like a shark, I would not need to visit the dentist. Sure, it might make french kissing my wife a bit dicey, but if it meant no more dental visits . . . Maybe God should get some advice from me next time He decides to create. Or maybe not.
Well, I admit God knows best. Otherwise He wouldn’t be God. I also figure God can, and does use these experiences to teach me something if I am listening. So, in order to make sense of this whole dastardly dental deal, I have come up with three key points.
1) A simple pleasure or indulgence that can make you comfortable in the right context can be an annoying detriment in the wrong place or at the wrong time.
2) Sometimes in life there is pain. Suck it up and get through it. Yes, God could have designed a world with no pain, but in His wisdom, He saw fit to at least allow it. Perhaps He has a reason for His design that goes beyond my puny human understanding.
3) Never french kiss a shark because a) it could be dangerous and b) since they don’t have to go to the dentist, we should refuse to allow them the pleasure of a loving kiss. God designed that one for us.
The messy, beautiful tree in our back yard
There is a tree in our back yard that makes a mess. It covers our deck and fills our pool with gooey dead blooms. It drops little bitty leaves like confetti, and occasionally lets go of entire dead branches. It grows super fast, sticking its branches in unwanted places, like into the side of my house, above the chimney, or right over the pool. It causes so much shade in places that it nearly kills the grass.
It is a troublesome tree. I have to trim it back every year, yet I still tolerate it. I tolerate it because I love it. I planted it when it was just a baby. I have watched it grow into a giant shade tree that makes a wonderful cool shade in the hot summer. Its blooms provide a colorful splash of pink against the sky, drawing hummingbirds to the big dinner table above the rooftops. Below it is my wife’s garden bench, a place to sit and rest a while. A swing hangs from one of it’s large branches. I love the tree, despite it’s faults.
Except for one who walked this earth over 2000 years ago, nothing in life is perfect. Not a tree, not a person, not a church. Too often I concentrate on the faults and problems and ignore the beauty in life. I could cut the tree down and save myself some mess and trouble. I could move to a place where there are no trees. I could spend my life trying to rid myself of anything that causes me pain. But I would miss a place to hang my swing. And the beauty of the tree.
I wish I were a brave man of action like David the warrior.
I wish I were a wise decision maker, like Solomon the king.
I wish I were a humble leader, like Moses the deliverer.
I wish I were a loyal follower, like John the disciple.
I wish I were a mighty missionary, like Paul the apostle.
But I’m just me.
God already had a David.
God already had a Solomon.
God already had a Moses.
God already had a John.
God already had a Paul.
God wanted something unique.
His love is too big for monotony.
So He made me.
But by the grace of God, I am what I am . . .
I Cor. 15:10
I took our big new truck through a narrow place today. It was a little scary but I made it through just fine. I went very slowly, folded in the mirror, and proceeded with caution. I had to watch closely and be very careful so as to avoid damage. That’s the way it is when you are taking precious cargo through a narrow place. You be careful, watch where you are going, and keep moving in the right direction. Wide places are for the reckless.
Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.
Matthew 7:13-14
Fleas have invaded. Finding sanctuary on our dog, they have occasionally ventured from dog to carpet or furniture, and from there, to human. We are fighting a war.
To win the war against fleas, one must fight on multiple fronts. Treat the dog – “their “homeland” – then treat all the other places they may hide in the home. Our next battle plan involves treating key dog resting spots outside the home. If necessary, the dog may be restricted from coming in the home for a while. Clearly, without the dog, fleas would not be a problem. Fleas like dogs. But then, so do people.
My family has nearly always had dogs. From my earliest memories, dogs were a part of our life, and therefore, fleas were too. I remember one time when I was about 15 years old the fleas nearly got the best of me. We had been on a long vacation, leaving the house closed up, waiting for our return. Meanwhile, the fleas were multiplying and getting hungry. As we arrived home, inserted the key in the lock, and cracked open the door, the fleas were jumping for joy. The hungry masses were ready to pounce on the incoming smorgasbord.
I remember coming into the house and walking back to my bedroom to drop my bags on the bed. As I stood there beside my bed, I felt a tingling sensation on my legs. I looked down. A black mass of little hungry fleas was swarming up my legs. A stampede of miniature blood suckers, rushing in for a meal. I ran, yelling for help. We treated me, the dogs and the house. We finally won the battle, but for days I felt like I had little things crawling all over me, even when there was nothing there.
The Bible says the devil is like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour, but sometimes I think he and his minions attack more like fleas. I am moving through life well enough, then some little worry, bad habit, or pet sin comes along. I let it into my heart and mind. The fleas take up residence and make themselves at home. I notice one or two. A worry, a thought, a concern. I brush it off; fail to deal with it. Next thing I know, the fleas have multiplied and I am overwhelmed. I finally wise up and run screaming for help when there is only one thing left to do. Treat the whole house. I don’t think there is such a thing as “just a few fleas.” At least, not for long. Either they are being eradicated as you deal with them decisively, or they are multiplying like crazy while you ignore them. I hate fleas.
The trash man comes by our house every Monday morning. Since he comes so early, we usually put the trash out on Sunday night. The can waits by the curb for an early Monday morning encounter with the trash truck. At about ten minutes after seven o’clock, the truck comes by and all our garbage is neatly taken away. That’s the way it works. Or at least, that is the way it is supposed to work.
Our trouble, at times, is getting the trash TO the curb. The trash collector has not yet set one foot in the door to empty the kitchen waste can. The trash in our bedroom has never been sucked to the curb by some mysterious whirlwind. We have to take it out. And sometimes, it doesn’t happen. I pay for trash collection. The guy comes by every Monday. But on some Mondays, he just drives right on by our house because we didn’t make the effort to get the trash to the curb.
I am finding that getting the trash to the curb is the hard part.
We have this Kiwi plant that is going crazy. I bet it’s growing as fast as kudzu. I measured one particular sprig of it that is growing up on our back deck and found it grew about three or four inches in just 24 hours! It has already spread from the nearby trellis up to the second story deck where it’s started curling around the deck posts, latching on like a frightened child to Daddy’s arm.
It’s growing like crazy, always reaching up, wrapping tenaciously around things above, and preparing to bear some delicious fruit. I think the Kiwi plant has pretty much got life figured out.
I would like to share something I read this week. It’s from George MacDonald’s book, “The Hope of the Gospel.” The language and style might be a little archaic, but the message is wonderful. He is quoting what a true child of God might say about Jesus and the Gospel . . .
'But to believe in such a man,' he might go on to say, 'with such a message, as I read of in the New Testament, is life from the dead. I have yielded myself, to live no more in the idea of self, but with the life of God. To him I commit the creature he has made, that he may live in it, and work out its life--develop it according to the idea of it in his own creating mind. I fall in with his ways for me. I believe in him. I trust him. I try to obey him. I look to be rendered capable of and receive a pure vision of his will, freedom from the prison-house of my limitation, from the bondage of a finite existence. For the finite that dwells in the infinite and in which the infinite dwells, is finite no longer. Those who are thus children indeed, are little Gods, the divine brood of the infinite Father. No mere promise of deliverance from the consequences of sin, would be any gospel to me. Less than the liberty of a holy heart, less than the freedom of the Lord himself, will never satisfy one human soul. Father, set me free in the glory of thy will, so that I will only as thou willest. Thy will be at once thy perfection and mine. Thou alone art deliverance--absolute safety from every cause and kind of trouble that ever existed, anywhere now exists, or ever can exist in thy universe.'
If you want to read more, you can find a free copy of the book for your Kindle on Amazon, or you can download it in various formats from here: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14453