A Wonderful Gift

It isn't my birthday. It isn't Christmas. I haven't done anything special to deserve a gift, but I received one anyway. I found out yesterday on my way home from work.

It started Thursday night. My dad called me. He and my mom live about an hour away, by car. He asked if I wanted some strawberry plants (he was thinning his patch). What? Of course I want strawberry plants. I love strawberries.

The problem was my schedule. That, and I was sick. Ugh.

I work at my kids' school. We leave each morning at 6:50 a.m. and don't get home until 5:30 or 6 p.m. Soccer, piano, etc., after school. Add to that my work at a local resort two nights a week and a very, as you can well imagine, messy house. Did I mention being sick?

How would I ever find the time and energy to plant 40-50 strawberry plants? When would I go help my dad dig them up? Clean out a garden spot for them? I'm sure you can well imagine what my answer to my dad was.

"Yes."

Am I crazy? Maybe. But... the strawberries I will have next summer.

Yesterday on my way home from work I was talking with my daughter. We were going over what needed to get done over the weekend. I won't bore you with my list. It might seem like an attempt to gain pity. At any rate, the list was concluded with... "Oh, yeah, and plant 50 strawberry plants."

I decided to call my dad. With rain in the weekend forecast we would have to play the strawberry exchange by ear. Would he dig them and meet me halfway to my house? Would I need to drive there and help dig? Would I need to borrow his small tiller to turn the soil in my garden? I was up for whatever he suggested. He was, after all, giving me free strawberry plants.

My dad answered and I went right into the strawberry inquisition.

Then, the gift arrived. It wasn't wrapped. It didn't come in a bag. It wasn't in my hands (yet). It was what my dad said. What my dad did.

He told me that while I was at work he drove to my house. Then, he proceeded to clean out a garden spot for the 40 plus strawberry plants he had laboriously dug out of his garden and lovingly placed into mine (after he had tilled the garden).

Have you ever felt like laughing, crying, jumping, dancing, and squealing all at the same time? I did at that moment. I was, however, driving, so I controlled myself.

What a gift.

It cost my dad time.

It cost my dad work.

It cost my dad gasoline.

It cost my dad.

It cost me... nothing.

That's what gifts should cost for the recipient. Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

In fact, it will be a gift that keeps on giving. Fresh strawberries. I can almost taste them now.

That's the kind of gifts God gives us. Free. Ever bearing. Sweet. Red. The color of strawberries and the color of blood. I did nothing to deserve the gift of sacrifice that Jesus made for me on the cross, either. But there it is. Available. For me. Free. A gift. Just like the strawberries.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Jesus. I accept. Thank you.

Religion vs. Jesus: Which Would You Rather Have?

RELIGION	JESUS
Law-driven	Love-driven
Behavior- driven	Relationship-driven
Never enough	100% FREE
We sacrifice	He sacrificed
We work	We rest
Slave to sin	Slave to righteousness
Guilty	Grace
Shame	Forgiveness
Self-will Driven	Holy Spirit driven
We try to obey	He enables us to obey
We search for the right path	He leads us on a path of righteousness
We keep on trying	Jesus said, “It is finished.”
All your work leads to death	Faith in Jesus Christ leads to eternal life

Which would you rather have?

Me and My Little Problems

I started a new job recently. It’s been a tough learning curve. I'm tired. My family is so busy. Sometimes we don't even eat meals together. Not only that, a little black cloud has been following me around.

Cut my finger.

Ouch.

Car battery died at the mall.

Help!

Left my wallet in a public bathroom.

No!

Waking up extra early.

Yawn.

Hardly see my hubby these days.

Busy.

Head aches.

Back aches.

Brain aches.

Do you ever have those days, those weeks, where you feel as if you are being pecked on the ankles by a pack of chickens and you just can’t seem to get out of the coop?

Well, that is my past two weeks. Poor me. Oh, poor me. Pretty pathetic, huh?

Today I heard that our president is considering an attack (small, as they say, but an attack nonetheless) across the globe. It made me put my little problems into perspective. I can just imagine how much that frightened mother on the other side would change problems with me in a second. Not even needing to think.

Bombing and firing.

Terror.

Empty streets.

Frightening.

Escaping to the countryside.

Help! A real need for help!

Children crying.

Please, no!

Church burning.

Sob.

People dying.

Noooooooooooooo!

No more!

Heart aches.

Heart aches.

Heart aches.

Unknown History of Someone's Hands

The other day I went with my daughter to the Alzheimer's Unit at a senior living complex. She plays piano there for the residents on occasion as they eat lunch.

As I sat and listen my attention was captured by an elderly gentleman. He had finished eating and was just sitting, in his wheelchair, staring blankly. As I began to wonder about his life, he moved to take off the over-sized bib he was wearing. The process took at least 10 minutes.

Perhaps 10 minutes doesn't seem like a long time, but it is for a such a small task as removing a bib.

First he pulled a corner of the cloth up to wipe his mouth.

Slowly, he reached back to undo the Velcro behind his neck. It was painstakingly laborious for him.

With unsteady, shaking fingers he brought the bib to his lap and began to fold it.

As he folded in a methodical and strained manner, I noticed the music coming from the piano. My daughter was playing a Beethoven song. Moonlight Sonata. Melancholy. Almost haunting, yet lovely.

The music seemed to speak to the condition that had become this man's life. And I wondered at his hands. I wondered at all they had done before the painful removal of a bib.

Perhaps those hands had preformed surgery at one time. The steady, precise skills of a doctor.

Maybe they built cabinets. A carpenter connected with wood through the patient movement of a chisel and a block plane.

Or maybe those hands played music. A violin. A guitar, piano. Maybe they played Moonlight Sonata. Maybe the song was played for someone the man loved, as Beethoven had written and played it for someone he loved.

After the bib was carefully placed on the table, the man resumed sitting still, staring. He seemed to have nothing to do and nowhere to go.

My daughter began playing another song. The man sat. I wondered if he was listening to the music. Thinking about something? How could I know.

He folded his hands in his lap. As quiet as the whisper of his life and what his hands had once been doing. Working. Playing. Reaching around someone he loved. Wiping a tear from the face of his child. Brushing his dog. Writing a letter to his mother. Cooking. Raking. Waving. Praying. Playing a piano.

But now quiet. Still.