More on Me 'N' Solomon

One the Bible's great mysteries is Solomon's downfall.  God gave him wisdom - more wisdom than anyone who'd ever walked the earth, before or since.  And Solomon walked away from God.

I know that's a gross oversimplification.  After all, he lived a life between being granted that gift and the end of his days.  As the king of a powerful nation, I'm confident that his life must have been full of more stress and trial than I'll ever imagine.

Still, I wonder.  What was the problem?  He had money, prestige, and power.  And he used it to obtain lands, wives, wealth, and, ultimately, other beliefs.

He had an amazing father.  King David was no spiritual slouch.  He was exuberant for the Lord.  His praise was lively.  His repentance was deep.  His reliance on God was exemplary.  And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if this was part of Solomon's problem.

My husband's faith is exuberant, lively, deep, exemplary.  He makes no bones about loving his Lord.  Most of the time it's beautiful and outstanding and worthy of emulation.  It can also be perplexing, dismaying, and even embarrassing.  I'm sure some in David's day found him the same, though I'm certain that few had the platform to say so.  Naturally, the Bible would not report such near-blasphemous thoughts.

If David were alive today, would he sit in his car, in his own driveway, blasting the worship music and weeping?  Would he jump and kick before the podium while strumming his lyre?  Would his amplified voice crack with emotion as he pronounces words of redemption?  Would he shake hands with strangers and look deeply into their souls as he shares his savior with them?  Would others' discomfort in these situations even admit itself to his perception?

Men of great passion are hard to live with on a daily basis, particularly for the cerebral.  Those of us who are also spiritual face an internal dissonance.  The man of passion lives all the external ideals of the faith. To disdain his passion is to seem to disdain his faith, as well.  The dissonance must be even greater for an adult child than it is for a wife.

There are few choices in such a situation.  To embrace the passion is to slap one's own intellect in the face.  Living alongside it, without participating, causes the dissonance to crescendo to an unavoidable din.  Outright rejection, the option that perhaps Solomon eventually chose, is unacceptable, at least to the faithful.

There is another option, one that doesn't particularly appeal to me as an all-or-nothing kind of person.  And that is to step in slowly, toe first, as if timidly entering a pool.  A sprinkle baptism of sorts, if you will, with the intention of becoming a dunk...eventually.  The hard part is that it must be intentional.  Rather than waiting for the Holy Spirit to come and shove me into the tank, I've got to bare my own sole and begin the ponderous plunge myself.

If I maintain my gradual immersion, perhaps my kids, who are  guided by my actions far more than by my words, will find their balance better than Solomon did.

***

Some of my earlier thoughts on Solomon.

Picking at Scabs

Why do we do this? When we were kids, we'd peek under the band-aid until it fell off, then pry up the edge of the crusted blood. It hurt hurt hurt, but for some reason we just had to look.

I was on Facebook today, and decided to look over the list of folks Facebook thought would be good friends for me. I was very surprised to see the name of a person with whom we'd had a significant disagreement this past summer. It wasn't your normal relationship thing, either. There were very serious allegations involved, and the outcome was the splitting of a beautiful group of people and a lot of very hurtful finger-pointing.

So did I scroll past the suggestion? Did I close the page? Did I shut down my browser and find something else to do? Of course not. I clicked on the name.

Despite only recently joining Facebook, this person had hundreds of friends. Of the top few, several were former friends of ours who'd judged us, harshly, based on accusations that were fabricated to sway opinion. These former friends never even sought our side of the story - just cut us off.

This person had also set up a brand spankin' new website for the group that had so painfully been split. Naturally, pathetically, I followed the link to view the site. It was very welcoming. It warmly invited all who were interested to join (except those of us who'd been asked to leave, but of course that was not mentioned).

Ouch.

What happens when we pick at scabs? Well, our curiosity is sated. At what cost? Pain. Prolonged time for recovery. And, if we're not careful, infection. The wound now requires more time and attention to heal properly, and is more likely to leave a lasting scar.

Of course I realize that there is no way this wound was going to heal completely to begin with. The laceration was jagged, rough and deep. Those who would have offered aid and relief were the ones who caused the injury. And infection set in very quickly. (Should I admit that I derived a very tiny amount of pleasure from the grammar and spelling errors I saw on the website? Probably not.)

But there was no good reason for me to entertain my curiosity this way. I might just as well have poured salt right into that gaping gash. And not the good, "salt of the earth" kind of salt, either.

So why do we do this? I have no answer. I'd love to be able to say it filled my heart with forgiveness and love toward the people who hurt us. I'd love to say that I wished them well with their new group and rejoiced that they seem to be off to a good start. I'd love to, but I'd be lying.

Time for a fresh band-aid. Maybe some antibiotic ointment - I'll find it in prayer. And maybe my Father will hold me again, despite my foolish picking, and reassure me that it will be all right.

Hotdog Lady

Since I was young, I've always wanted a nickname.  When others give you a moniker, it indicates a kind of intimacy.  It must feel good to have those you belong with confirm that belonging by choosing an endearing quality about you and dubbing you with a special name.  Even silly names often reflect a fun event in the history of a relationship.  In fact, one of my favorite Bible promises has long been Revelation 2:17, which says "I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it."  A sort of a nickname straight from God, in my mind.


That's not to say that I didn't have a nickname growing up.  My first name, unfortunately, rhymes with the name of a particularly odious canned meat product made, nominally, of spiced ham.  The coincidence was not lost on the average American schoolchild, so rather than my given name, I was often called by the name of the "food" item, instead.


Nickname - good.  Processed meat - bad.


When I first became a Christian, I felt strongly about not participating in Halloween.  It just seemed wrong, given its history and its spiritual significance, which continues even to the present.  For many years, my husband and I would purposely go out to dinner rather than stay home during trick or treat time.  However, about four years ago I was very touched by a post I read on a homeschooling forum.  A mom much like myself shared that she'd felt the same way, and even had a good excuse not to join in - her family lived on a house at the top of a solitary hill.  It would be quite a hike for little ghouls and goblins to reach their home, not that she desired to participate, anyhow.  But one day a Bible verse touched her: the passage in Matthew 5 that says that a city on a hill can not be hid, and to let your light shine before men.  From that time, she has thrown on the lights and made her home on a hill bright, welcoming those who would come and hoping to shine a spiritual light in her neighborhood.  She really got me thinking.


A little further in the conversation, another mom related how they handed out hotdogs every year.  "Huh?" I thought. "Hotdogs?  That's a little nuts."  But the more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea.  Once per year the whole neighborhood comes right to my door.  What better way to meet people than to give them something they would value?  They'll surely stay a few minutes and chat.  I shared the idea with my husband, and after some prayer, he agreed that we would try it.


October 31, 2008, we brought our barbecue onto our front walk and began grilling our Halloweenies.  Even though it's an urban neighborhood (or perhaps because of it), we don't get a whole lot of folks trick or treating.  But what fun it was to ask a group of costume-clad travelers if they wanted hotdogs.  None of them had ever heard of such a thing!  The idea took a few seconds to process.  Sometimes they asked how much we would charge them.  Sometimes they appeared distrustful.  But for the most part, they came, enjoyed a hotdog, and spent a few minutes talking.  We had a wonderful time!  We met neighbors, shook hands, and even prayed with a few people.  We had tracts available because they were stamped with the church address (and often, when people hear that my husband is a pastor, they want to know which church he leads).


We've given out hotdogs every year since, and this was our fourth year.  Once we also gave out juice boxes, but that got a little messy.  The next year we changed it to hot apple cider, which most parents welcome as the chilly day draws to an end.


This year was extra special.  Really, really special.  You see, right around 5:30 we saw two families traveling together.  While they were still across the street and nearly a block down, one little girl began to jump up and down.  "It's the hotdog lady!  The hotdog lady!" she yelled.  The group walked a bit faster - one family of kids were eager to have a quick meal, and the other were excited to see who on earth would hand out hotdogs for free.


I was chatting with another mom, whom I'd met the year before, when her husband called.  He wanted to know where to meet her.  "I'm at the hotdog lady's house," she told him, and he needed no further description.


Ah.  At long last.  My dream has come true!


Nickname - good.  Processed meat - good!

They Didn't Come Back. But...

The Visitors did not return.

We were all rather pathetic on Sunday.  As the regulars entered the sanctuary, they were clearly crestfallen at the sight of the two empty pews.  And each time the church door opened, almost everyone turned to see who was entering.  The thoughts were nearly audible - maybe the Visitors came a little late!

Nope.

But...they called on Wednesday.  Out of town guests kept them away, and a vacation would prevent attendance next week, but they are looking forward to joining us again the week after that.

Ah.  That feels good!

Back Door Optimist

This is my new term.  It describes someone who acts and talks like a pessimist, when all along the real determination is optimism.

I am a back door optimist.

When something comes up (an opportunity, a problem), I immediately assume the worst will happen.  And why do I do that?  Because the worst WON'T happen, and then I'll be a step or two further toward happy than I would have been if I had optimistically expected the best but didn't get it.

The only hitch to this is when the worst does happen.  Because I wasn't, actually, expecting that.

You might say I'm a "glass is 1/8 full" kind of gal.

There Is Only One Leonardo da Vinci...

...and you're not him.

I said this to my son today.  See, he's very smart.  Unusually smart, if I do say so myself.  But he's lazy as the day is long.  He'd rather sketch a few ideas, jot some notes, and wait four or five hundred years for someone else to come along and actually produce anything worthwhile.

Unfortunately, brilliant inventors who do nothing are probably a dime a dozen.  I often wonder how on earth Leonardo actually became famous.  Surely it was because of his art.  But my son is not artistic.  And there aren't many rich aristocrats looking for starving artists to sponsor these days, anyway.

Nope.  He's just going to have to learn to work, like the rest of us.

Poor guy.

The Visitors That Came Back

Today was a banner day at church.

You see, we had visitors last week.

Our church is small - very, very small - so visitors are quite noticeable.  Our church is very, very friendly, so visitors are much welcomed.  Our church is also a very, very short distance from a major tourist attraction, though.  And, besides all that, we're Pentecostal.

Now, we're not Holy Rollin' Pentecostal, by any stretch of the imagination.  Our worship is lively but not jumpin'.  Some of us (most of us) raise our hands now and again as an expression of worship.  One or two dance sometimes, gingerly and a bit self-consciously.  After each song we generally have some light applause and a few quiet hallelujahs.  In the murmur, if you listen carefully, you can hear one or two gently praying in a special language only the Holy Spirit understands.

Last week, two whole families came to visit.  Two.  Whole.  Families.  That's two pews - whole pews! - filled.  Although our church seats over 200, our regular Sunday attendance is somewhere around 45.  Our service was unusually long last week - an hour longer than usual.  We had a visiting missionary from India, you see, and we freely give our pulpit to those who give their lives to share the gospel and minister to others in need.  After the service, the two families stayed for a bit, greeting people and talking among themselves.

Then they left.

And the waiting began.

It isn't usual for visitors to return.  Generally, they really are just visiting and are from out of town.  Or our Pentecostalism turns them off.  Sometimes our service is too long (usually an hour and a half).  Or our two-member worship team just doesn't do it for them.  Or any of a number of reasons (pews too hard, nursery too small, not enough families, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera).

It is nerve-wracking to be a tiny, close-knit church and have two whole families visit.  You can't help but hope to see them again.  I suspect that, last Sunday, there was a lot of talk over dinner at various members' homes about the Visitors and the likelihood of their return.  Last week's Visitors, especially.  Turns out they were local.  And they stayed after service to talk with us - a good sign.  We imagine the Visitors' teens in our youth group.  Perhaps the Visitors will even come to Bible Study.  Maybe one or two of the Visitors plays an instrument!  Why, we could double our worship team!

Those two pews looked really good all filled up like that.  And the people who normally sat there didn't bat an eye about their usual seats being taken - after all, these were Visitors.  And the Visitors were nice people.  And they had kids.  They held a sort of promise that maybe our church won't always be so very, very small.

At our house, we expressed some hope, but kept things pretty quiet.  No one wants to get all excited over visitors, only to be disappointed yet again.  It's probably toughest on the pastor and his family when visitors come who could potentially stay.

It was a long, wait-ful week.

And this week, they came back. (!!!)

And, if possible, we'll be even more nerve-wracked come Saturday night of this week, wondering if we'll see them again.