Category Archives: Emotions

Guilt and Forgiveness—a Visual

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Inner Healing
Karekare Black Beach 491

Karekare Black Beach, NZ

Guilt is like strolling on a sandy beach—you leave footprints for all to see. You may try to cover your shame by smoothing sand over the prints; but as you walk away, you create more footprints.

Forgiveness is God sending His wind (the Holy Spirit), blowing across the sand, erasing all the prints. And even if you fail again, the wind continues to blow.

But how much better to scramble up onto a solid, flat rock where no footprints can be made and no guilt and shame exist.

I’m on the Rock, hallelujah,

I’m on the Rock to stay,

For He lifted me from the miry clay—

I’m on the Rock to stay.

 

The Worry Worm

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God

From my 2020 Journal. Everyone is jumping on the bandwagon of trying to give us encouraging words and uplifting things to focus on during our forced isolation from COVID-19, and I’ve purposefully tried to stay away from the topic on my blogs. We’ve heard and seen enough for a lifetime on the news and in social media to bring fear and anxiety into our hearts. I am not afraid, so don’t tell me not to be afraid! But then it hit me. I’m may not be afraid, but I did identify some worry. Oops. So here’s my response.

Worm dried

Worry

Is like a worm,

Weaseling its way into my brain,

A virus that goes viral,

With nothing to stop the corruption.

Too late to quarantine,

It’s already done its damage.

All I can do is holler for help and pray and praise

To arrest it in its tracks and

To wash away the filth of the residue

Praise Him, praise Him, all ye little children,

God is love, God is love.

Ahhh, sweet peace.

Going Home

Posted on by under Emotions

From my 2009 Journal. Home, to me, will forever be Nigeria, but part of me got left behind in Indiana. Every 4 years we packed up our suitcases and returned to our passport country to visit our supporting churches. In 1966 (my 6th grade year) we landed in Elkhart, Indiana, and then again, one more time 4 years later, when I was a junior in high school. When my missionary parents returned to Africa again, I stayed behind with a local family for my senior year. These 3 years of my life left me with strong memories, and in July my big sister Grace Anne and I decided to revisit our old haunts.

It’s the middle of the night and my thoughts are ricocheting so fast I can’t sleep. How does one record thoughts, emotions, and impressions, and for whose benefit? I’m experiencing this trip with my sister, which is hugely satisfying since we share the bond of one year’s memories, and I’m eager for the next day’s adventure to begin.

First, we drove over to the old Lindahl’s home where Grace Anne lived during her senior year of high school. Then on to Concord High where she’d attended. Those memories are hers alone, but I’m happy to go with her. We stopped by 137 Parker Ave, where I lived with the Muehlbergs, my host family for my senior year. The new owner invited me inside to see their renovations. “Uncle” John got me my first job working at Accra Pac, an aerosol packaging plant where he was a chemist.

January 1972 with “Aunt” Harriet at 137 Parker Ave
1972, my first job

We drove to Central High School where I attended for two years and from which I graduated with 900 other seniors. Too many memories to recount of race riots, loneliness, and cultural adjustments.

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Next, we visited the Grace Bible Church Tabernacle on 2nd Street where I dedicated my life to the Lord. I’d forgotten there was a laundromat next door. I recall Sunday school, Wednesday night prayer meetings, playing marimba duets with Grace, the ladies giving a Tupperware shower for my mom to take back to Africa, and hanging out with Debbie and Dennis and other kids my age. The elderly saints in the church left such an impression

GBC Tabernacle 2009

Grace Bible on 2nd Street

on me. The current pastor (the 7th occupant of this building), who has a ministry to inner city dwellers, invited us in to look around. The ceiling had been lowered, there was no central aisle, and the platform was changed. I was glad to see that God is still at work here.

Two blocks down the street on the corner of 2nd Avenue and Pottawattomi Drive was the old parsonage, our home where I first learned to use the telephone. This is my story, my history. I’ve relived it in my mind many times. My mom was sick with Hodgkin’s that year, and we didn’t like Dad’s cooking! Snapshots in my mind of Grace Anne collecting fashion photos, of finding marbles in the heat register in my brother Paul’s bedroom, of packing for our summer trip across the USA.

I wanted so much to peek inside and see my old upstairs bedroom and feel the pulse of my mother’s piano and experience again the joy of the Young People’s gathering at our house when we played “rhythm” and ate cherry cobbler with red hots (my mom’s favorite dessert) in the living room. Christmas excitement and playing with Duke our dog and ironing in front of the TV in the basement. Marimba lessons and slip-sliding in the oversize bathtub and begging my mom to buy a new brand of toothpaste because I’d seen it advertised on TV, another novelty to us.

The neighborhood is seedy now and multi-racial. The neighbor across the street came out to chat and fill us in on the state of the house: it’s in foreclosure for $10,000 and no one lives there. So sad.

Jingle Jump

I stood outside our home and “watched” my 6th grade self playing Jingle Jump on the sidewalk. I saw me climbing the tree out front with my boyfriend Terry Bunn and climbing out the bedroom window onto the roof. I see the black walnut tree in the back yard and me practicing baton twirling. When I pose for a photo in front of this old house that’s falling down around itself, my immediate thought is that I want to send the snapshot to my mom who died earlier this year.

2nd and Pottawattomi 2009

The parsonage, now condemned

My best friend Kathy lived on the same block, we walked to school together each day, and we lived at each other’s houses and formed the TGTG (The Glued Together Girls) club. She taught me to make snow angels, and we played king of the mountain. Besides hundreds of

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Kathy’s house

 games of Yahtzee, we biked down to McDonald’s in the winter for a warm bite of hamburger and French fries; and when the A&W opened a root beer stand, we were in heaven. It was the year that Kathy preferred to be at our house because her daddy was raping her at hers, and I was too ignorant to know. Grace and I drove slowly past her house, and memories flooded back.

My Samuel Strong School building now houses a business. Memories, memories. How do I record them all? Open stall bathrooms in the basement, volleyball in the low-ceilinged gym, cheerleading for the guys’ teams, fire drills, skating on ice for the first time, giving my testimony in class, being teased for being the teacher’s pet. My teacher, Mr. Mann, got saved that year. One time I picked dandelions on the way to school to present to him, and the boys ridiculed me for giving him weeds. (How was I to know?) I was elected to be a crossing guard, but I was too scared to accept since I didn’t know what that was!

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Samuel Strong School

Kathy and I would stop on our way home at a Mom-and-Pop grocery store to buy candy cigarettes (yes, I did) and wax pop bottles or wax lips filled with sweet liquid. We sucked on enormous icicles dripping from the eaves in winter and kicked fall leaves across the sidewalks.

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Next, Grace Anne and I attended the evening service at Grace Bible Church (now located on Edwardsburg Ave) where in high school I had sung in the choir, attended youth group, taught Sunday School and determined where I’d go to college.

The next day, we drove by the 1432 Okema Street house where Mom and Dad and I had lived for my 11th grade, and where I learned to babysit for the first time. I rang the doorbell, and I could sense movement inside, but no one answered.

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2009 in front of our Okema Street house

Our short visit had come to a close, and my heart was full. These are MY memories. With whom do I share them? I record them for myself so that in my old age I have somewhere to refresh and keep the memories alive. I don’t share these with my children because they weren’t there. But maybe someday they’ll visit one of these spots in Elkhart and stand there and say, “My mother’s spirit was here.”

You Made Your Own Bed . . .

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions

From my 2009 Journal. A few years ago, I had a friend (A) who adopted two girls from another country. One day my friend injured her leg and she struggled to take care of them. Another friend (B) dismissed it with the attitude “Well, she asked for it.” (i.e. she had no business adopting if she couldn’t afford them.) I was shocked and surprised at B’s attitude. Yes, Friend A had made that choice, and yes, she has to live with her choices, but it wasn’t A’s fault that she injured her leg and needed compassionate help.

Perhaps I should examine my own heart, however. A smoker I know is struggling with emphysema, and I don’t feel like giving him any sympathy. Of course I would never withhold getting an oxygen tank to him if he ran out, but I’d still roll my eyes and think he made his own bed and must lie in it! I guess I’m no better than Friend B and her judgment.

Or I think of someone who struggles with physical challenges because she is obese. Do I withhold compassion and mercy when she has a stroke? In a way, you could say she asked for it, but I don’t think that’s the right response. Instead, I need God’s compassion for her in her debilitating state. In the same way, I need God’s pity and mercy for my own struggles that keep me bound and powerless to change.

The thing is, I can readily see the solution to everyone else’s problem, but find it harder to deal with my own. Quit smoking! Lose weight! Turn to Christ! Let go of your anger! Forgive that person who hurt you! But when I look inward at my own issues, I find I can easily make excuses for my own actions and attitudes.

You may have made your own bed and must lie in it, but I can choose to help you change your sheets.

monkeys in bed 2

Relationship with Adult Children

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, Motherhood, Peace

From my 2009 Journal. I’m still learning what is appropriate and what isn’t in relationship with a newly-adult child under our roof. Is it reasonable to expect our daughter to pick up after herself in family living areas? To help with the dishes? With cooking? With cleaning the house? And if she chooses not to, when is it permissible to speak to her about it? I realize communication at this point can be tricky. My expectations and desires for a neat and tidy house must be subservient to maintaining relationship. Therefore, I am far more tolerant of mess than I would be if I were still trying to train her.

Living in a dorm situation she discovered firsthand what it feels like to have a roommate who never assists in the kitchen. So when she came home from college, I was delighted to hear of her intentions to help out more in the kitchen. But if she’s too tired to help out for a couple days, why do I hold her to her good intentions? Why do I feel resentful when I return home to find breakfast dishes still in the sink? So she slept late that day, worked the entire day, and ran out of energy before the work was done after supper . . . I do not fault her, but I do have to figure out why I feel what I do and what is an appropriate response.

VISUAL: As a young mom, I had three girls in a wagon, and I was pulling with all my strength, trying to get them to follow me. If I tried to get them out of the wagon to assist or to walk on their own, they whined and cried “We’re too tired!” and then they pushed and shoved and fought each other. What am I doing wrong?

How did a friend of mine get her children out of the wagon and behind the thing or in front to help? I don’t know. I just know that I have to quit pulling. It’s time I drop the wagon handle and walk away. There’s work to be done. The trick now is not to become resentful or nagging or whining myself.

The trouble is when people in the wagon get comfortable there, they begin to expect you to bring their food to them and clean the playpen for them. But now they’re old enough to clean their own area . . . and they don’t, and I trip over the toys and have to clean around them. It’s a perpetual issue with a husband too (sorry Scott). Relationships are messy!

I feel so many times like a Martha. Lord have mercy, and God forgive me!

So . . . I can “whistle while I work.” Praise God that I have two arms and two hands. Praise Him that I’m not in a wheelchair and unable to stand at the sink. Change my attitude and enjoy the brief time I have with my daughter. What’s a little mess matter when I can have her company. She’ll soon be gone and I’ll miss her.

God’s Extravagance

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God

From my 2009 Journal. Scott and I are out of town visiting our middle daughter who is pregnant with our first grand-baby. We needed some milk and a vegetable for dinner, so we sent Scott to the grocery store for these two items. Ladies, you can already predict what happened . . . He returned with three bags of newborn diapers (not needed for another five months), a box of cereal, some salad dressing (both of which we already had on hand but he didn’t know it), three bags of cookies, the milk, the requested veggie, and some tea.

I started to grouse about his over-kill when the Lord struck me with this thought: “This is like Me—an over-abundant, extravagant, generous, over-flowing, more-than-you-need kind of God. Do not spurn generosity.”

Thank You, Lord, for Your extravagant gifts and for my generous husband.

Groceries

On Losing Weight

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Inner Healing, Peace, Prayer, Quotes

From my 2009 Journal. This Sunday I watched a particularly well-padded lady at church who loves to move to the music. I’m fascinated to watch human flesh respond this way in motion. Why does this mesmerize me? I feel sorry for the lady, but in truth I feel sorry for me. Here she is, obviously enjoying the joy of the Lord and (seemingly) oblivious to the fact that the people around her are watching. I feel like slapping myself for my rudeness in staring.

Here’s what I’m thinking: “If she only knew what she looked like . . .” Is that what people say when they watch me? If I don’t like what I see in the mirror, why should others?

I confess my fascination, my rudeness. Why am I not very tolerant of obesity? Why so critical? Is this self-righteousness? There’s always someone who is heavier than I am, and I’m envious of those who are thinner. I don’t like the numbers I read on the scale. I want to lose some weight, but why? To fit my clothes better? To feel better physically? To feel better about my looks?

The one I want to explore is Reason #3. Is this vanity? Where am I getting the belief that thin is beautiful, that I’ll look better in the eyes of others if my underarms don’t jiggle or my stomach is flat?

Though I’d not say I am obese, I do know I’m not at an ideal weight at the moment. What would motivate me to give up one thing in order to gain something else? My strongest drive, and the only one I think, that would work to help me lose weight, is to believe that it would please my Savior. But is that true? He loves me no more, no less, if I’m fat or thin.

What I do know is that obesity is often a symptom of a heart need. It’s just that an obese person’s issues are visible, whereas the issues of a thin person may not be. When I’m judgmental of people who are overweight, I fail to address my own hidden hurts.

Ok, now that the issue is out on the table, what do I do with it?

I’m currently reading Bill Thrasher’s book A Journey Into Victorious Praying. He states, “God wins His greatest victories in the midst of apparent defeat” and “God uses the needy moments in life to prepare us for His work.” And when anticipating temptation, “think ahead and ask God to give you a prayer burden to pray each time you are tempted to go back to your previous lifestyle . . . Make it a prayer that will damage Satan’s kingdom as God answers it” (pp. 33-35).

Suddenly I realize that I haven’t talked to God yet about my desire to lose weight. Oops.

As I pray, I hear Jesus say, “Step into the light. The mirror and the camera don’t lie.” First I have to come out of denial, acknowledge the truth, and confess my vanity. And then I ask God to reveal to me what’s really in my heart. I am willing to stop filling the empty place with food and I ask Him to fill it with something of Himself instead.

I can now see the church lady in all her beauty, loving God in full abandon. God knows her heart. It’s no longer about me.

Chocolate

On Growing Older

Posted on by under Emotions, Peace

From My 2009 Journal. I asked my mom one day what it’s like to grow old. “Growing old happens so slowly you don’t notice it” she said. But when you look back through photos or the pages of a diary, it’s startling to see the contrast. You expect to look young in your school yearbook photos. You’re supposed to look like a child or teen. The change from child to adult is drastic.

From ages 25-50+, however, I felt no different. Adult is adult. But now when I look at those early adult photos, I realize how young I really was. Enough time has passed that I can see the huge changes that have taken place in my body, and suddenly I feel dissatisfied. Age has never bothered me before. Why now? What am I seeing? I see the squareness of my face and the wrinkles in the neck, and the post-pregnancies stomach.

Do I need to go back to my Bill Gothard notes and stand in front of a mirror and admit I don’t like the way the Lord made me? The funny thing is, when I look in the mirror, I don’t actually see it. It’s when I look at those early pictures that I notice the contrast. Why do I suddenly feel ugly? Why so obsessed with the physical,  the outward appearance? I know our bodies are wasting away, but what of the soul? Am I growing more beautiful on the inside? Or uglier? How can one tell? It’s intangible, hidden. I think I’m growing. . . .

Okay, here’s the visual of what I’m feeling. Age is like a rose. The unopened bud is childhood and the full bloom is middle age. But now I’m at the stage where the petals are starting to droop and wither. It’s the second half of the life cycle. Soon the petals will begin to detach and flutter to the earth. How do I feel about that?

I see the tree in our front yard, heavy laden with pink blossoms till a storm comes and shakes them all to the ground. And it literally rains petals. It’s breath-taking, beautiful, soul-filling. They’re pretty on the tree, yes, but it’s an emotionally moving experience watching them flutter to the earth. My soul and spirit can soar even if my body can’t. Age has its own beauty, and I am content.

 

Pink flowers 2

Green Bananas in the Classroom

Posted on by under Emotions, Inner Healing, Peace

From my May 9, 2009, 9:09 am (for real!) Journal. I feel sorry for students who have to live through a teacher’s first year in the classroom. I’d like to apologize to any of my 1977 Berean Academy students reading this blog.

One of my students read on my Facebook page that I’d be visiting her city this week. She wrote back to say, “I only live half an hour away!” So I invited her to visit my hotel room for the afternoon. While reminiscing about those years in the classroom, I made the statement that I was a bad teacher. “That’s a lie,” she declared. “Maybe you were inexperienced and uninformed but not bad.” I appreciated the affirmation, but it still felt true in my heart.

After we parted, I thought back to my teaching experiences at Berean and at two community colleges and decided to list all the good and bad memories that were stuck in my brain from those years. I suppose I could go to each of these memories and issues and deal with them one by one, but I think I need to start with the big picture—my view of myself. I felt tall and rigid on the inside, trying to appear bigger and older than I was in order to stay in control of my classroom so the students wouldn’t run all over me.

I felt like a shepherdess trying to herd her sheep or goats that were running in all directions, and I didn’t know how to corral them. I wanted to be like my teachers who had good classroom discipline and not like others who let the students run the show. I hear myself saying a lot of words to these sheep, but not all of them are paying attention. I’m trying to teach, but they’re self-absorbed, busy eating, or wandering off.

In those days wasting time, in my opinion, was about the biggest sin one could commit. I was a master at planning, organizing, and accomplishing, and I expected my students to follow suit. One day I remember making a false accusation to one of my students about the use of his time, and his retort had stung. What did I conclude about myself at this point? That I’m just an ignorant teacher? That I don’t really know my students? I felt shame and embarrassment, and his words left me feeling like he’d snared me in a steel trap.

Because the teeth only caught my clothes, in my mind I can shed that article of clothing and wriggle free—but that doesn’t take away the emotions. I need to apologize: “You’re right; I accused you falsely. I don’t know what you do with your time outside of class.” The teeth unclench, but the student is still wary. He doesn’t know if he can trust me. And so I have to be wary around him now. I don’t like this feeling.

I see Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves trying to woo the wolf. He’s gentle as he coaxes and encourages. I could have done that with this student. Instead, I clammed up and clamped down to protect my ego.

My picture of the shepherdess with her sheep now changes. I can woo and call and encourage instead of chase and run after and herd. And how do I feel now about myself as a teacher? I’m no longer hiding behind a teacher’s desk. I’m sitting beside the students, encouraging and mentoring them.

Was I indeed a bad teacher? No. Just a girl trying to find her own way. I’m sad that I didn’t know then what I know now. Life is such a learning process, and we sometimes leave damage in our wake of inexperience. But each of us must process our lies and wounds from our childhoods. I pray my students will have the grace to forgive me when God brings to light any pain I’ve caused them.

I was so green back then, like an unripe banana. Why do we allow green bananas in the classroom? I know everyone has to start somewhere, but we don’t ripen till we go through the process. God is ripening me little by little and, hopefully, I’m becoming sweeter as I stay closely attached to the tree stem. Eventually, hopefully, I’ll be mature enough to be plucked; and should I become overripe, there’s always banana bread!

bananas

Live Long and Prosper

Posted on by under Choices, Emotions, God, Prayer, Scripture

From my 2009 Journal. Why do we hold so hard onto life here on earth? Suicide, euthanasia, and murder are odious to us. Is staying alive a God-given survival instinct? What if we knew the date of our death? Would we accept it or bargain for more days?

In her last days, my mom observed, “The will to live is pretty strong,” and she fought hard till the end to stay here on earth. Shortly after she passed away, I read Isaiah 38, the record of King Hezekiah’s demise. God said to him: Set your house in order; you’re going to die.

Hezekiah wasn’t too happy about that announcement and he wept bitterly. Remember my good works and service to You,” he replied. And later, “I must depart . . . deprived of the remainder of my years . . . my sleep has fled, because of the bitterness of my soul . . . Give me back my health and make me live.

I cannot judge Hezekiah for his response. We do this all the time. The minute someone gets ill, we pray for their recovery. I don’t think that’s wrong—but I think it needs the condition “if it’s Your will.” What would happen if, when someone fell ill, we also prayed for their spiritual growth or acceptance of their plight?

We do not always know the mind of God. We think all affliction is bad, but sometimes it fulfills God’s purpose. In Hezekiah’s case, God told him directly that His will was that it was time for him to leave this earth. When we do know His will, why do we fight against God’s directions? Do we really think we know better? He knows our heart. Do we know His? Do we know the whole picture? The whole truth? (See Job).

Surprisingly, God responded to Hezekiah’s plea: I have heard your prayer. I have seen your tears. I’ll add 15 years to your life. And I’ll deliver Jerusalem from Assyria.

It is a comfort to me that the God of the Universe has an ear to His creation. He has compassion on our tears and He responds with abundance. Not only did He spare Hezekiah’s life, but He offered safety from his enemies. He answered Hezekiah’s prayer, but at what cost? During the remainder of his life, pride and arrogance took over his heart. Was 15 years on earth really better than 15 years he could have lived in heaven? I can picture Hezekiah arriving at the pearly gates, realizing the ignorance of his request, hitting his forehead with his the palm of his hand, and saying, “What was I thinking!?”

The Scriptures talk about long life being a blessing. We always assume a person’s life is cut short if he dies young. Somehow it seems easier to grieve an elderly person’s passing than a younger one. But from heaven’s perspective, the younger one has been spared an awful lot of heartache. If God’s best is for a person to live 5, 15, or 50 years, then he has lived for his full quota.

When God speaks, when He reveals His will, it is best to keep silent. I don’t think it’s wrong to struggle and work through our emotions—even Jesus struggled to accept the Father’s will—but our conclusion, in the end, must be, “God’s will be done.” I don’t want someone praying for me if they’re not praying the Father’s will!

I’m not near death’s door. When my time comes, will I, too, scramble for a foothold in order to stay bound to earth?