Compassion part 6: Watch Her Reaction When She Gets a Sponsor

Today I planned to write about letters, both received and sent across continents.

I wanted to type down the translated words here for you to read. I wanted to tell you how each exchange has helped us know the kids beyond their photos, revealing their fears, their loves, and the days of their lives.

I planned to talk about how fun it is to find a fat envelope that has traveled thousands of miles, and how we know that the ten minutes we spend writing will mean more to our sponsored kids than all the checks we write.

Actual letter from Asnaku, who lives in Ethiopia.

But any words I put write here would be flimsy next to this video produced by Compassion, Australia. Just watch it!

To read about the three beautiful children that I am trying to connect with sponsors of their own, click here! 

When you wonder if you measure up

The chairs were arranged in an inviting circle and the coffee was sputtering cozily in the corner. On the door was a sign saying "Welcome to the 24-hour prayer meeting"

I walked around, fluffing pillows and making sure that the keyboard was plugged in. I checked my watch: 5:34. Maybe they're all still getting off work. 

Over seventy people had been invited, but I knew that it was Memorial Day weekend and I might have only a handful show up to pray.

At 6:45 the room was still empty, so I sat and held out my similarly empty hands. Lord, I said, this is for you. You asked me to pray with other people, so here I am. I've sent the invitations, but I can't make them come. I hope you like this. I hope you can use this, even if it's just me all night. 

Suddenly, into the expectant space, I felt these words:

"It's already a success. It's already a victory."

I sat up straight and opened my eyes. Really? You aren't disappointed if no one comes? You like it already--before anything happens--just because I obeyed? 

In that moment, relief blew through my heart and the anxiety I didn't know I'd been holding dropped on the floor. I sat there for a minute or so, just enjoying the realization. He was pleased. He even called it victory! Wow.

I felt like Samuel, learning that man looks at the outward appearance while God looks deeper. (Check out 1 Samuel 16:7 for the story)

Things that look"unfruitful" or "a waste" may tip the scale in unseen battles that we will never know until later.

If He calls it a success, who am I to call it failure? So why is the prospect of Christ being formed in me somehow less significant in my eyes than twenty people showing up to a prayer meeting?

Friends did come to pray with me :)

The thing is, we live in a culture pretty obsessed by numbers, stats, and feedback. 

At school, we measure success by grades.
At the gym, it's the number on the scale or the pounds lifted.
At work, we are evaluated on a sliding scale in dozens of categories designed to measure output, growth, and efficiency.
In online dating, it's the number of winks or likes.

So what if the grade is borderline, the scale doesn't move, and the winks don't roll in? 

In the absence of measurable, positive feedback, we can easily conclude that the effort was a failure. Like that age-old riddle about the tree falling in the wood, we ask, if the Instagram post didn't get any likes, was it any good? No, we conclude, it wasn't.

This formula is dangerous and inaccurate. Inaccurate because numbers are only a partial measure of value, often dependent on the human dolling them out. And what if that human is having a bad day? It is dangerous because the value of something--or someone--may be wildly mis-represented.

Now, please don't misunderstand--numbers are good, helpful tools. I use numbers every day at work to help me reach targets. I learn from feedback and rankings. And, in the world of social media, the number of clicks can give helpful clues as to what stories mean the most to readers.

But when the numbers become the only feedback that matters to me, or when I become unwilling to obey the Lord's leading if it flies in the face of those numbers, my heart needs to be re-aligned. 

These are questions that I've been asking myself:

• Do you feel discouraged when no one notices your efforts? 
• Do you get the urge to quit when you feel like your best try just did a bellyflop? 
• Do you hesitate to embark on something that you know won't have a tidy accompanying list of accomplishments to check through?
• Does the thought of being graded--in school, at work, or by friend's opinions--make you nervous?

Oh, yeah, been there. Still there, friend. The good days are the days I choose to step back, and purpose to remember truth.

And the truth is that our God is a God who sees. He sees holistically, accounting for the state of my heart, not just the tally marks on my list. (Genesis 16:13)

Faithfulness in little things matters to him immensely. He notices when you turn to him, try that brave thing, choose to obey--even if no one else is impressed. (Luke 16:10, Matt 25:21)

He does not break the broken--he lifts and heals. Failure or depression or mental illness or addiction do not disqualify you from his love or from serving Him. In fact, He tends to choose weak things and people over the strong ones. (Romans 8:39, 1 Cor. 1:27-29)

The economy of the Kingdom sounds backward. The weak and lowly--even kids--are rulers. The King bends to serve his subjects. The poor are rich and the rich are poor, and the small, weak things are chosen over the strong so that God will be magnified.

It sounds so crazy...but maybe we are the ones living topsy-turvey.

My life is like the movies

I have a crazy story for you. 

It was lunchtime a few weeks ago on a workday. I was chasing the last of my food with my fork when I got an odd text from my friend, Macie.

“Cherise, have you ever been to Pine Cove?”

And then, two seconds later—“And did you ever live at [insert address]?”

Um…yes. I had been to that family camp many times, but not since I was in high school. And that was my old address.

Immediately, my mind started running through bizarre explanations for why she might be asking. Did the camp release some ancient video online that showed pictures of me? Did I lose something at Pine Cove that had my old address in it? Why would she have it?

The truth was stranger than I guessed.

Macie is the kind of girl to whom encouragement is like air: she breathes it in eagerly and then exhales it to everyone around her. Just standing near her is like a fresh breeze to your heart. When I met her, she was a week away from marrying one of my hubby’s best friends. Our apartments stand facing each other now across the street, just right for five-minute conversations if we happen to be getting home at the same time.

Because words hold such weight for her, she has kept a growing stash of encouragement in a burgeoning drawer somewhere in her house. On the day of the weird text, she’d been doing some spring cleaning and decided to sift through a stack of notes from 2003, the year she had become a believer in Jesus.

One of the notes was from a camper she met while working at Pine Cove as a counselor. It was written in careful cursive on notebook paper decorated with gel pen swirls.

It was chatty, talking about summer plans to go camping and about how the writer was about to get her driver's permit. It told Macie she had a beautiful heart and that the note-writer was praying for her. 

It was signed, “Cherise Beekman”.

Y’all. That camper was ME.

It's seriously like a movie! I can picture it in lights: “Girl discovers that she knew her friend before she really knew her.” We had a first class freak out on the phone as we uncovered our secret past.

That summer in 2003, my dad had been out of work nearly eight months. My sweet grandma had died of cancer only a few weeks after the layoff, and our family had been feeling the strain of change, grief, and uncertainty. Some kind person paid for us to go to Pine Cove as a family. The counselors were wonderful—so grown up and so kind to the bony fifteen year old and her three younger sisters.

One of them was a bouncy person with flaming hair and a big smile who went by—wait for it—“Hip Hop Anonymous”. Isn’t that a great name for her?

So our friendship didn’t actually begin in 2008 when Macie bounced in to Jenny’s apartment with leftover wedding shower cake to share. In reality, I met Hip Hop Anonymous in 2003, before our husbands ever laid eyes on each other and before Macie ever joined our church!

God knew we were meant to be friends. J

Five minute Friday:: Reach

When I read this week's prompt on Kate's blog, I immediately thought of a story told by author and pastor Brennan Manning.

This one took longer than 5 minutes, (so I totally cheated this week!), but I think when you read the story you might agree with me that fudging the rules in this case was totally worth it.

"Reach"

His name was Larry Malaney and he was even less glamorous than his name suggests. He was a hippie who never bathed, never seemed to change his clothes, and had a horrible case of acne. His appearance--and his odor--isolated him from his classmates.

When Brennan Manning met him in the 60's, Larry was a college student and self-proclaimed agnostic. He would often come to Manning's office to debate him about spiritual topics. It was probably one of the few places on campus where he was not rejected because of his sloppy hygiene. "In all my days," Manning writes, "I have never seen anyone with such low self-esteem."

He grew up under the strict thumb of his father, one of a breed of traditional men known as "lace-curtain Irishmen". Even in the heat of August, Mr. Malaney Sr. never came to dinner at his own home without dressing in a freshly-pressed suit. Larry would come to the same table smelling like he had never bathed in his life.

Family tension? You bet.

One Christmas, however, everything changed. Larry had spent several days at home, filled with the usual squabbles and strained silences. He told his father that he was leaving on the train the next morning, and his father said he would ride with him part of the way. It was, after all, on his way to the office.

The next morning, they sat together in silence. At the stop they disembarked, the elder to walk to his office, the son to wait for the second train.

Photo credit: www.urban-photography-art.com 

As they stood on the platform, a group of men across the street began to taunt Larry. One man yelled out "Hey Pig Boy! Oink! Oink!" Another man jeered, "If that was my son, I'd lock him up in the basement where he belongs!"

Larry turned away wordlessly. The cruelty was not new and he had learned to ignore it.

Suddenly his father, the prim "lace-curtain Irishman", gripped him by the shoulders and turned him until they were face to face. He then pulled his son into the first embrace of his life and kissed him on the lips.

"Larry", he said, "if your mother and I live to be 200 years old that wouldn't be long enough to thank God for the gift he has given us in you. I'm so proud that you are my son."

After that cold December day at the train station, Larry was a different person. He was still a hippie, but he cleaned up. He started dating. He had a new confidence, and he smiled readily. Soon after, he showed up at Manning's office with a simple request. "Tell me about this man, Jesus." Manning then explained the good news of the Gospel. At the end, Larry simply smiled and said, "OK."

In his book, "The Furious Love of God," Manning explains Larry's transformation:

“It wasn’t because of the six weeks of sitting in Brennan Manning’s office while I talked about Jesus. No, it was because of a day long ago, during a Christmas vacation, standing at a bus stop, when his lace-curtain Irish father healed him. Yes, his father healed him. He looked deeply into his son’s eyes, saw the good in Larry Malaney that Larry couldn’t see for himself, affirmed him with a furious love, and changed the whole direction of his son’s life.”

That prim man reached for his son when the world flung insults--and healed him. Despite any rejection that he had previously meted out through his strained silences and tacit disapproval, this was the shining moment when he loved well.

You may not be a perfect parent, but today, you can choose to heal with your unearned acceptance.

You may not have had a perfect parent, but there is a Father who reaches for us now. Arms stretched painfully wide on a rough cross, he reached for us in our stinkiness, our sloppiness, our never-enough.

And we are healed.

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Italy::Just the Highlights

It's a fact of life--life can sometimes get crazy busy! We completely understand, trust me.

So if you haven't had the chance to catch up on blogs or facebook in a while, the hubby and I thought we'd do a summary post to give our friends and family the highlights of our recent short term mission trip to Italy.

But since I've written a lot about Italy this year, I thought it'd be really fun to let you hear from the team leader himself!  So here it is--hubby's very first guest post on my blog. :)

Jordan--

"God did more than we could ask or imagine this year in Italy! (Ephesians 3:20) Nine of us left to go and reach college students in Milan, Italy on May 11^th.  We served the local students through English clubs to help them practice their English skills. We had over fifty students attending almost every day! As the team leader, I (Jordan) can tell you that a lot of hard work goes into making these two short weeks worthwhile for the Italians, but it's a lot of fun.

  

As a team, we prayerfully made a goal before we left to share our testimonies and/or the gospel thirty times.  I lost count near the end of the trip after we shared over fifty times!  Also, two of the students put their faith in Christ!  For a two-week trip like this, being able to share as much as we did was not normal. We know that through your prayers and support, God did more than we asked!

It was awesome to see how our team was filled with boldness to share the gospel as well as their personal stories.  For some it was a challenge, but with God's help they overcame their fears. As a result, many people heard for the first time about the forgiveness and grace of Jesus."

Italy by the numbers:

31 new Facebook friends for Cherise alone

252 espressos consumed by the team (a conservative estimate)

39 total hours of travel

282 people supported this trip!
50+ gospel presentations
2 new followers of Jesus Christ

Of course, it's not about tally marks. We humbly realize that God evaluates the success of a trip by a far different standard, so we don't share these numbers with that heart.

It's to say "look how BIG God is!"

We are brimming thankful.
Thankful for the chance to be part of God's age-old plan of love for Italy and the world.
Thankful for the chance to tell our stories of God transforming us and rescuing us.
Thankful for the dozens of answered prayers for safety, health, unity, and relationships with Italian students.

We are also crazy thankful for YOU, our wonderful friends and family members! That fancy dinner out, that new thing-for-the-wall/car/yard that you decided to sacrifice so that you could help us return to Italy--thank you. We couldn't have gone without you on our team.

Those minutes in the car when you thought of us and prayed for God to move--thank you. He did.

If you missed any of the awesome stories from the trip, here are all the links so you can catch up.

On our way to Italy again God was already answering prayers, and we weren't even in Italy yet!

Ciao-dy, Milan! It's been a while A picture-full post to let our families know we'd arrived safe and sound.
Photons, and a safe place for my flurried soul "Moo-care". 'Nuf said.
An Overdue Update! Lots of fun stuff in this one. :)
Living Forgiven in Front of Them One of the most memorable nights of the entire trip.
Five Years with My Love Our romantic date on the town in Milano.
A last-minute train ride to Turin! It wasn't on the original trip agenda, but it was awesome.
Clubbin'. English Clubs, that is.  In which Cherise finally explains what on earth we do at those English Clubs.

Living forgiven in front of them

 In my last post, I gave a teaser about our awesome Friday night. Thanks for patiently waiting! I always overestimate the amount of blogging time I'll have while we're over here in Milan.  (I mean, who knew we'd need silly stuff like sleep and food, right?)

Every evening after English Clubs, we go as a group to a local restaurant and invite the students to join us. The conversations we enjoy over food are often quieter and more personal than any we could have in the short break time during English Clubs, so we were excited when a large group joined us on Friday.

That particular night, we had an additional attraction: bowling! I'm terrible at the game, but I *almost* got a spare once, and laughing makes you bond with people, right? I don't mind being the joke. :)

Stylish, no?

Srike celebration!

"Giorda" is apparently the only logical way to spell my hubby's name...

After bowling, we headed over to the food court. I was with a sweet, talkative girl I'll call Rose, and I decided at the last second to join her group at "The Wild West". It's Italy's attempt at Tex-Mex, and while their guacamole leaves much to be desired, they do have pretty good nachos.

As the four of us at our end of the restaurant booth talked about the civic role of the Catholic Church in Italy, our studies, and our families, I was praying. I was listening intently, trying to hear past the surface and understand their hearts.

Usually, Italians are very reserved, and they have a hard time sharing personal details or discussing deeper topics. But if you listen well, there are often clues dropped about painful circumstances in their lives that can help you have a deeper conversation with them later.

Rose told how her mother had suddenly become very devout after visiting a shrine in another part of Italy. She now goes to church daily, as well as praying an hour every evening.

"How do you feel about the change in your mom?" I asked.

"Oh, it is fine and good," she said. "I like that she chooses this herself. It is not only religion. There is no person forcing her to do this--she decided it on her own. I think there is big difference between religion and a faith."

"I agree," I said. "When I was little, it was easy to believe in God because my parents told me. Later, I had questions and I found the answers when I read the Bible for myself. My cousin told me that it is ok to have questions because if something is true, it will still be true after you test it.'"


The conversation shifted and I listened for a long time. Then one of the guys said, "Wait--I want to hear you talk. Tell us about Texas." They listened, disbelieving, as I described the distance from Houston to Dallas, the variety of foods and cultures represented, the fact that not everything is desert, and the country dancing. The conversation was about to veer into an animated debate about Wild West shows when the same guy said, "No, this is OK, but tell us something else. I like to hear your voice. Tell us whatever you like."

Could I have asked for a more perfect chance to tell how God has changed me?

So I told my story.

How I used to find my value in the fact that I was a good student. How I thought my family was perfect. How my Grandma died. How Dad lost his job. How God helped me forgive my parents completely because I have been forgiven. How I now know that my value comes from the fact that I'm loved by God--not from what I do.

As we paid and walked out of the mall, Rose said, "I can feel everything you said. It is so similar to my life!"

She had to leave early and can't spend any more time with our team because of a job in another city, but neither one of us wanted to stop talking.

Please pray for this beautiful girl and for the other students who were sitting close. I know from experience that only God can give hope to a family that is breaking apart.
Only God can help us forgive wounds like that.
Only God's love can silence the accusing voices that tell us we're unlovely and unlovable. 

Being a one-car family

For three weeks last month, my faithful little car sat inert and unresponsive in the driveway. Inserting the key did absolutely nothing--not a flicker of light or sound.

It was like a car coma.

We tried all the normal stuff--battery checks, tightening of connections and cables, even a battery swap with the running car--but nothing worked.

 #firstworldproblems

We were puzzled, but since we have a second car, life went on.

Actually, it went on beautifully. Each morning my sleepy, scruff-faced husband drove me the short distance to work and dropped me off at the front door.

Because I didn't have to trek the quarter mile from my parking lot to the office, I was able to leave the house ten minutes later. And when I was ready to leave, there he was with curbside service. So luxurious!

I started to look forward to those drives. Ten minutes of connection to bookend the workday. Who knew that living with less would feel like being spoiled?

Of course, getting places took some planning. There were some conversations that went like this:

"Wait, were you going somewhere? I was about to go to the--"

"Oh, ok, well...can you drop me off?"

"Maybe, but I don't finish my thing until--"

"Ooooo, that won't work. I'll call so-and-so. Maybe they can bring me home."

We have been talking for a while about downsizing to one car. Less gas. Less upkeep. And the thought of slashing our car insurance by 50% makes those Geico commercials look like amateurs.

But my weekend out-of-town plans couldn't happen without my car, so we finally had her towed. Sixty bucks later, I had wheels again.

During those three weeks, I felt God whisper to my heart: "I am all you need. Reconsider what is 'essential'" 

I want my life to be oriented toward things that will last, stuff that isn't stuff, you know?

I want to be distilled,
pruned.

Even if it means I'll need a ride. 

The Case of the Missing Mailbox

 Who on earth would want to steal a mailbox?

This is what hubby and I have been wondering, ever since our mailbox disappeared almost six weeks ago.

And we’re not talking about a little hump-backed classic with a red flag and a wooden post. Oh, no. This honker is a huge metal contraption with a honeycomb of mailboxes that serves nearly 20 families on our street.

It all started one night in October when I came home from the gym to find a police car flashing blue and red in front of our house. The policeman was inspecting a huge dent in our poor mailbox, which was lying flat on its back.

“Looks like y’all had a hit-n’run” he said. “No witnesses, so I really don’t have anything to write up.”

Two days later, it disappeared. We assumed the post office had collected its damaged property, but when the hubs went to pick up our mail, a postal worker informed us that some scalawag had stolen it!

The vacant spot where our mailbox once stood

Again, who would steal a mailbox, especially one so huge? Isn't that a federal offense? Is this some new level of thrill-theft, like stealing street signs?

Until they decide to lug another one out to our street and install it, we are braving the Christmas lines once a week to pick up our mail.

This whole saga is making me appreciate postal workers so much more than I ever have before!

Five Minute Friday :: "Laundry"

Today I am linking up with Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where you set a timer for five minutes and write on a specific topic until it chimes at you to lift your fingers from the keyboard. No edits, no back-tracking, just writing for the fun of it. You can join in here!

Today's prompt: "Laundry".

___________________________________________________________


Hi. I’m a sock.

My friends call me Houdini.

I’m fuzzy on the edges and worn at the toe and I’m an escape artist. My mate and I aren’t really tight these days, so it’s a miracle if you find us clean in the same load.

My cousins are nubbley sweaters and your favorite t-shirts and those jeans that you bought back in college that now look outdated but you love them because nothing else is as comfortable on a Saturday.

We’re a motley crew and we haunt your closet floor, the corner in the bathroom behind the door, and the hidden pockets of your suitcases that you always forget to check after a trip.

Like I said, I’m an escape artist, so I’m the one who missed the basket.

 Again.

 STOP

A Report to Celebrate!

For all of you who read the last post about our (quickly!) upcoming mission trip, this is a celebration report of God's faithfulness!

A silly picture from last year at a Milano coffee shop. (I'm wearing the hat.)

Last Thursday was the deadline, the critical day when all of the funds had to be collected, in hand, and on their way to the bank. Only one week before, our team was falling far behind, collectively in the red by more than six thousand dollars.

The team was praying, but even they were unaware of another circumstance that threatened to add an additional two thousand dollars to the overall team goal. If the university in Milan would let us use their free classrooms for the English Clubs, we would be ok. If not...well, let's just say that renting hotel conference rooms would be pricey.

This alarming news had come Tuesday. To avoid a team-wide freak out, hubby and I were praying quietly between ourselves.

On Thursday, I went to work as usual and sat there praying between customers, waiting for news.

By the end of the afternoon, ALL the money had come in--to the penny!
AND the university had agreed to let us use their classrooms! Not only did this reduce the price of the trip, the convenience of the location will also make it easier for more students to attend and meet our team. We are thrilled to see how God will use this close location to connect students with the church in Milan.

So if you prayed,
or gave,
or did both,

THANK YOU!

We will need more prayer than ever as we go, so please don't stop! I know from last year that I can do absolutely nothing without His power. 

Teller Tales (In this case: Veggie Tales)

Kids really do say the darndest things.

As a bank teller, I have the distinct privilege of providing a listening, supportive ear to anyone who needs to complain about their day, talk about the weather, or brag on their grandkids. They don't know us beyond a four-minute transaction, but we are a comforting constant in their daily routine.

One day at the bank, in walked grandma. She had checks to cash, a deposit to make, and she couldn't wait to tell us the cute thing her granddaughter said.

"She said the cuh-yoot-est thing last night!" The wrinkled, rose manicured fingers flashed back and forth with emphasis, and she grinned, full of story.

"I asked her, 'Sweety, do you like green beans?' 'No, Grandma,' she said. So then I said, 'Well, don't you like any vegetables?' Guess what she said then."

We didn't know, so grandma went on.

"She said, 'Not since the accident.' Now, I was wondering, What on earth? So I said, 'What accident?' And my little granddaughter said, 'Well, when I accidentally ate a vegetable!'"

Poor thing. Accidents happen. 

Part of the Club

My husband and I joke that our street is a tiny slice of ghetto in a suburbia pie. There are old cars and weeds instead of sculpted lawns, and the cracked concrete probably dates to a time before my birth. But none of this stops the kids of our street from turning our neighborhood strip into a half-mile play zone.

I love the kids. They run and bike and scooter and clump noisily in driveways and stairwells, taller ones toting toddlers. If you stop between car door and front door to talk, shyness will evaporate, brown eyes will sparkle, and suddenly you have a friend.

google pic

Ever since I moved in over a year ago, I've daydreamed of building relationships and even organizing a simple Bible Club with stories, games, and snacks. What could be easier? I live here, right? But my student life left no margin, and I've found time just as scarce now that I'm a working woman. God, I prayed,  I want to be involved somehow, but the thought of starting something from scratch feels so overwhelming. 

Enter: the awesomeness that is answered prayer. Boom. 

I wanted to work out at a nearby gym, but instead of driving, I decided--for the first time ever--to walk.

I was halfway down the street, when I heard an excited female voice ask"...And what do you think Joseph did then? He went right to his brothers and told them his dream!" Who is telling a Bible story? I wondered.

As I rounded a group of parked cars, I saw a tiny crowd of children, all giving rapt attention to an elderly blond woman who held a picture for them to admire. Another elderly woman sat nearby with a curly-headed girl in her lap. I quietly came close and sat cross-legged on the edge of the blanket. This was so much better than lifting weights.

At the end, as the kids smeared their mouths red with popsicles, I introduced myself to the women. I discovered that the Bible Club that God had placed on my heart had already been in progress every week for fourteen years! Their faithfulness humbled me to the core. Ms. M actually lives on my street, and though she usually leaves the storytelling to her friend, it is her willingness to host and fund the Club that has kept it going for over a decade.

Yesterday, I went back, and I feel so encouraged! Here is a place for the dream I've held so long. Here I can meet the kids, show them love, know their names and stories. Here I can use the puppets that have languished, unused, in my old trunk for three years. Here I can learn from the faith and faithfulness of the older women, and begin to make love a tangible verb on my street.

(AND, if you live on my street or anywhere nearby, you should come! 4pm, Wednesdays.)

2 > 1 (Two are Greater Than One)

Have you ever visited Enchanted Rock?

The giant pink granite boulder rises 425 feet above the surrounding landscape, and is a popular site for campers, hikers and bird-watchers in the area west of Austin.

In the past three or four years, it has become a Thanksgiving tradition in my family to scale the monolith early in the morning, just in time to watch the sun spill golden over the earth's edge. This past weekend, I made the traditional climb with my parents, my sister, her husband, and my own sweet love--the first triple date the six of us have ever had!

Laced, jacketed and gloved against the dark cold, we left the sleeping campsite and drove an hour to the base of the mound. By the time we arrived, the coming dawn gave hint of the graceful, curving mass looming above us. We started walking.

Because all was dome, there were no edges to fear, but the higher we climbed the more we fought against Lady Wind. Our ears became aching holes on the sides of our heads and I wished for a scarf.

Then, halfway up, Mom almost turned back. She had stolen a glance behind her, and suddenly realized just how high she stood above the tiny trees and cars below.

Dad and sis quickly took her arms and gently, steadily encouraged her forward. One step, then another, and another. I was so proud of her when we all reached the top!

To be honest, I have had many moments of near-retreat just like Mom's. The mountain may have been less visible, less touchable, but no less real. I remember the many sharp twinges of terror and fear that have threatened to paralyze me, the overwhelming urges to lay down, and simply...quit.

I am so thankful for people like my parents and my husband who laced their arms through mine and lent me the courage to take another step.

"Two are better than one, 

because they have a good return for their labor. 

If either of them falls down, 

one can help the other up. 

But pity anyone who falls

and has no one to help them up." (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)

Teller Tales :: Fortune Cookies

Conversation overheard at work:

"My fortune cookie says that Fortune is smiling at me."

"That's kinda creepy. Who is Fortune and why is she smiling at you?"

"Why didn't you get a cookie?"

"I always eat too much when I go there; I never have room."

"That's why you're supposed to get ten of them--to eat one hour later when you're hungry."



There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the secret musings of bank tellers when there are no customers in the lobby.

I want to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a college student who felt like she was going to drown in papers and books and verb conjugations.

Her writing hand was claw-like from clutching the pen.
Her shoulders had grown together from hunching.
Her computer was overheating from research.
Her eyes were scratchy from staring.
Her clothes had wrinkled into a sitting position.

And she missed the outdoors.

Spring Break was shimmering in the future, glowing with the promise of long nights of sleep and the certainty of exercise. Sweet vacation would soon be here. Then the tension would ease, the books lie forgotten for a while.

But the college student needed rest now, or at least a substitute.
Snacks?  Nope, tried that already.
A to-do list? Those only made her knotted shoulders tighter behind her neck.
How about a nap? Too large a risk; she would sleep for a week.

Then, the student stopped still. She had felt a familiar sound. Yes, she felt more than heard, for this Sound reached beyond soundwaves and caressed her heart under the armor she wore. The sound was a Voice, and it spoke from a well of deep rest, deep comfort, and a deep knowing. It invited her to sit close. She was still clutching her pen and her books, but she sat.

The Voice said her name, and she softened, but she still held the pen and books.
"Daughter?" said the Voice. "Do you know that I loved you before you had accomplished anything that you consider worthwhile or valuable?"
The college student held her pen tighter.
"And do you know that I would love you if you completely failed?"
She shuddered at the thought.
"I am the source of your rest, my lovely one," the Voice continued. "If you try to satisfy yourself with other things, you will feel like you're drying up."
"I feel like I'm drowning," she mumbled.
The Voice laughed, warmly, and she could imagine smile creases forming around tender eyes.
"The water I offer never drowns," He said. "It quenches. And the rest I offer isn't limited to vacation. I am always with you, and I don't run out or get tired."

She sat a long time. Gradually, a little bead of realization began to trickle slowly through her thoughts. The water swelled into a sturdy stream, eroding the fears of failure and the tiredness that had crusted there. He could be trusted. He was a deep well that never ran dry. The water soaked her, and her tears of relief flavored the deluge with salt.

And she let the pen fall from her open hands.