To My Hurting Friend

To all my friends out there who live with chronic pain... God bless you.  I've gained a new appreciation for what you suffer since having my wisdom teeth removed...My little experience with this is nothing compared to how others suffer, I know, I know.   But I've never had to manage pain beyond a couple days.  This week my life has become all about pain and painkillers and nausea and itching and side effects and what I can and can't eat and struggling to find a position where I can just get relief for a couple minutes. It's about my formerly clean (I mean CLEAN - we didn't have the kids week before last and it was spotless.) house no longer being clean because it hurts too bad to bend over and pick that thing up.   Its about wondering if I'm taking the right amount of medicine and feeling like that's all I ever do.  I can see how so easily people can become addicted to these things.  I've discovered that my day isn't measured by the clock but by the dosages of this or that.  I am constantly counting the hours to remind myself that I need to take this medicine or that at whatever time.

It's exhausting.

And sleep? Sleep is as elusive as a unicorn ridden by a leprechaun through the streets of Atlantis.  How do you do it?  I'm a FREEKIN ZOMBIE!  I'm so tired I can't even think! I've misspelled every word in this post... twice.  And yet, you get up and go to work in the morning!

I struggle to cope and live a normal day in spite of that constant nagging pain, too small to feel justified in complaining about about but too big to ignore completely ... 

This (and probably worse) is what you deal with EVERY. DAY.

So, my hurting friend, by next week I will probably be back to normal and you will go on like you always have.  Through this I've had the teeniest-tiniest of tastes of what you live with day in and day out.  It humbles me that you handle your pain with such grace and for the most part, you never complain.  Even if you did, I probably wouldn't understand it, or you're afraid that I would tire of it, so you never say anything.  I apologize for that.   I apologize for not asking anymore and when I do -tossing out meaningless platitudes for replies.  I don't mean to be utterly insensitive to your pain but to acknowledge it and know I can do nothing to help it is more than I can bear.   So I ignore it or I say things- sometime the absolute wrong things- because in my  mind, something is better than nothing.

Its so hard to admit I'm powerless and I don't have the answer.

My hurting friend, thank you for being faithful to God in the midst of whatever kind of pain you are in right now. Thank you for showing me what grace and determination looks like.  Thank you for allowing me to see your love for God when you "don't feel like it."  I see your pain, I don't make less of it, I know that you are a walking picture of "peace that passeth all understanding."  Because you endure, I know I can when the storms come and things get dark.  You inspire me, though I may never say it and if I could take this pain away from you, right now, I would.

Plato is attributed with saying "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."  We don't think that everyone is struggling.  We tend to think that other people have it all together because we constantly hide ourselves.  We say "fine" when we want to cry and we brag on facebook and instagram because we want other people to think we don't have pain. 

We do, physical, emotional, mental, it is the one thing that unites us.  We all suffer.  Different ways, different degrees, but it's always there.   Since it's such a constant in our world it looks like we'd be better at handling it than we are.  Instead of compassion we heap more hurt on people who are already hurting.  We turn our faces away, we pretend it doesn't exist or we bury it inside where all it can do is fester.

That's why I'm thankful we have a God who not only knows of our suffering but came down here to experience it with us.  He not only understands, He sits with us in the midst of the ashes and holds our hand. 

He doesn't ignore it, He doesn't tell us to "suck it up".  He doesn't condemn us or give us words with no substance. He hurts when we hurt.  

So, my hurting friend, I am saying a special prayer for you today. 

Blessings, y'all. 

Being Commander McBragg

This week at Vacation Bible School we have gone on a "Journey Off The Map" along with our   children and Adults.  I don't get excited about much but I LOVE VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL!  I have always loved it!  I'm 40 years old and still love VBS!

 

 

Due to traveling and other issues I haven't been able to help out as much as I'd like. However, our Music Minister  Brother Mike approached me about doing the opening drama with him.  "You can be a puppet!"  He said.

 

 I loved theater from stagecraft to backstage work.  I've even directed a few high school plays.  I never, however thought I was talented as an actress.  I never could get over... me.  Unlike other people who act- they BECOME their character- I've always just felt like me.  Leslie Crane.  Pretending she's someone else.  If I ever had to act I would become so self conscious I could barely stand it; but then, many years ago someone put a puppet in my hands and I was never the same after that.  The simple fact of a puppet is that I  am hidden... and nobody sees me... and therefore... I could become that character!  Puppetry is SOOO much fun and EVERYBODY LOVES PUPPETS RIGHT?

 

We decided on an orangutan which I stitched some glasses on.  I had to decide on a voice and an accent and a personality for this guy, so I went home and went to work.  He looks pretty goofy so I thought about a stereotypical "country"  accent (Hay y'all, how y'ouns a doin?)  but I figured a country accent in South Georgia wouldn't be much of a leap.  Then I tried the sort of mild mannered English gentleman (Oh, my! How dreadful. How about a spot o' tea?) but didn't think that suited him either. 

 

                                                               

 

 Finally I decided to look to Rocky and Bullwinkle for inspiration.  I seembed to remember a character on there that had been everywhere and done everything, sort of the same thing I wanted with this puppet.  So I went online and found him: Commander McBragg.  

 

Growing up in the three channels days I would often get up before the television station started broadcasting so I could get a leg up on my Saturday morning cartoons.  The first cartoon that came on was the Rocky and Bullwinkle show.  I always considered this show to be the cartoon equivalent of that Halloween candy that nobody eats.  However I did like Mr. Peabody and Commander McBragg.  So I went online and watched about every episode of Commander McBragg until I could mimic the personality- not completely the accent.  I wrote three "Brags" and the rest has been random stuff we made up. 

 

The children of our church went CRAZY when he came on stage for the first time.  You don't often see a talking ape in a Baptist Church.  I guess at first the identity of the puppeteer was a mystery  but after two days the kids figured it out. 

 

"I know who you are.  You're the monkey." 

 

"Ape darling.  Monkeys have tails." 

 

"You're Commander McBragg.  I know you're not real.  Why you want to be a puppet?"

 

"Well it wouldn't be nearly as funny if it was just me hanging out of that treehouse, now would it?"

 

Smug look and turned around in her seat.  Third Graders.  They think they know everything. 

 

Why do I want to play a puppet?  This is why...

 

You see, without me, that thing is just a bunch of cloth, fake fur, some little bits of plastic.  Nothing special.  Without me... it would sit there like a lump and do nothing. 

 

But you see, I picked it up and I put a part of myself into it.  I gave it a voice and a personality and a backstory.  I gave it my mind and my sense of humor.  While we are on stage, at least, its an extension of me and I've created something that is good and fun that makes people happy and maybe I'll say or do something that will make a difference in some small way. 

 

I think God does the same thing.   

 

Without Him, I'm just meat and skin and bits of bone.  I'll go about my own way doing my own thing but for the most part- I'd just sit here like a lump and do nothing much of importance.

 

But then one day He picked me up, and he brushed me off and he put a part of Him into me.  He gave me a voice, and a personality and He became a part of not just my backstory- He became part of my ongoing story.  He gave me His spirit, His mind, His sense of humor.  While I am on the stage of this life- I am a extension of Him and hopefully, if I allow Him, He's created something good and fun that makes people happy and maybe He will allow me to say or do something that makes a difference in some small way.    

 





Missing Kevin Durant

 I don't know anything about basketball so the name is a bit misleading, so let me tell you the story behind the title. 

Last week during 4th block class change I heard a sound outside my classroom window.  It was a bird calling.

One of my students walked in, tilted her head and said "You have a chicken outside your window." 

I lived on a farm long enough to know it wasn't a chicken but I was far too busy loading my bell ringer to look.  A boy following behind her bopped into my room and said: "There's a Killdeer nesting outside." 

Everyone in my room had to go to the window and look then.  Sure enough, right outside my window, only feet from the building was a momma killdeer in her nest.  Killdeer make their nests on the ground.  I didn't know that before she came to rest outside my window. 


We watched her for a few minutes.  Of course half the class had to document this momentous discovery on their phones, and then we went back to French.  It's final's time coming up so we can't spend too long on the Killdeer. 

That night, sometime in the middle of the night I woke in horror!

I had seen the mowers over at the Middle School that morning!  That meant that they would be at the High School pretty soon and if they did, they would destroy this little nest.  I could hardly sleep. 

First thing I sent out an email to the whole staff and asked for some stakes and ribbon.  I wanted to keep the mowers away from the bird's nest. 

My students jumped into this "bird rescue" whole heartedly.  I have a class of almost 30 Students and they were all crowded around the window.  Several faculty members sent me supplies and I sent some boys out to create a barrier for our Killdeer. 

Until the barrier was completely in place, there was no going back to the passé compose.  My students refused to leave the window until our killdeer was safe from the mowers. 

Sure enough, the following morning I heard the sound of the mower outside.  I watched anxiously from our window.  Momma Killdeer was still on her nest (Looking quite perturbed by the whole thing) but because we had made the barrier she was safe. 

At this point someone might say: "What's the big deal?  It's only a bird."  But my question is: of course it's only a bird, but couldn't the same be said about just about anything in the world?  I mean, if we can justifying not doing good when its something insignificant, couldn't we justify this attitude about anything else?  When does "It's just a bird" turn into "It's just a test." or "Its just a grade"?  Could that attitude not grow into "It's just a building", "It's just a flag"or"It's just a job" ?

If we can do something.  Shouldn't we?

A couple of years ago, one of my students grew his hair out long.  All the other boys teased him about it and one day I asked why.  He told me he was giving it to locks of love.  I wanted to know why he was doing it, I thought perhaps he had someone in his family suffered from the disease.  His answer surprised me and I've never forgotten it.

"Because I can Mrs. Crane."  He went on to say: "I may never be a doctor.  I may never discover the cure for cancer.  But I can do this.  This is something I can do right now."

If we know to do good, and we are able.  We should.

Even if it's for "just a bird."

Two of my students creating Mamma Killdeer's barrier before the mowers arrived. 


So Momma Killdeer screeched at my boys for fiddling around her nest, but she did not attack them as they worked.    Elijah decided that since it was a Kill Deer then we should name her Kevin Durant.  KD.  Kill Deer.  Kevin Durant.  Get it?  Anyway, for two days we watched Momma Killdeer AKA Kevin Durant and we couldn't wait to see baby Killdeer running around. 

We even googled Killdeer and learned all about them.  Talk about teaching across the curriculum.  Momma Killdeer act like they're hurt to lead predators away from their nest.  They make their nest on the ground.  They sit on eggs for around 20 days before they hatch.  Within hours of the hatching the baby Killdeer are running around all over and they leave the nest.  The momma Killdeer take the babies away from the nest and never return.  One article even said she would hide the pieces of the egg to keep predators away. 

Gosh, this was exciting! 

The third day Momma Killdeer "Kevin Durant" was gone. 

We were all disappointed, though we are trying to keep it positive.  Perhaps she moved her nest due to all the unwanted attention.  Perhaps the babies hatched and are now somewhere else.  Nobody wants to think that a varmint ate them.  We won't even go there. 

Because, you see, we miss Kevin Durant.  She wasn't "Just a bird" to us.  For two days we were untied in  witnessing the miracle of life, marveling at the tenacity of a mother protecting her young and relishing our ability to help something that couldn't help itself. 

She wasn't 'just a bird' because WE loved her.  WE wanted to protect her and WE went out of our way to do it.  Mamma Killdeer had worth because WE gave her worth.  She was worth something to us. 

And in a very small and humanly understandable way, we glimpsed something very special. 

We saw in our little killdeer what God saw in us. 

Alone, small, lost in our sins and unable to help ourselves, God stepped in and made a way for us to come to Him.   Because He went out of His way to love us, to protect us, and to save us... WE have worth.  He gave us worth.

I miss Kevin Durant, but I am thankful for the lesson I learned from her.  I'm like to pretend but I suppose I'm not as smart as I think... so sometimes God has to talk to me by using something as insignificant as a bird. 

Barabbas

Brother Brad has been preaching on “The People at the Cross”  and while he has, I’ve been joting down my ideas about those people.  So this is a little free verse poetry for all you cool cats out there. (snaps fingers.)

 

Barabbas

Pilate would release a prisoner,

As was custom. 

A way to appease the Jews

On the eve of their Holy Day. 

It would be some minor offender usually.

But there were none present

It was only us.

Two thieves

And a rebel leader.

We wagered amongst themselves

Which one it might be.

I knew

It wouldn’t be me.

So while the other two argued over who was the most deserving of life

I remained silent.

They called out to a God

They had all but forgotten

Until their capture.

I hadn’t forgotten Him.

I had turned away.

The son of a Rabbi.

The descendant

(However distant)

Of a king.

I knew the scriptures.

I knew what greatness lies in my blood

And so I was willing to become a martyr

To my own life

And even my soul

For freedom.

I made the decision the day I walked away from my father

And my name

The day I picked up a sword

That I would rather rot

In the midst of Hell

Than to live under the command

Of these barbarians.

That kept us in chains

That kept us from worshipping freely. 

So, in a way,

Even though I had walked away from Him

I was doing it for him. 

He had promised

How long ago?

To send a deliverer

Someone who would remove

The yokes from around our necks.

The blood of kings

Ran through my veins

And I took it upon myself

To be that man. 

Surely that was His purpose

For me. 

But then I found myself here

And I would soon die for my beliefs

The grandson of kings

On a cross.

What irony is that?

I would not be like these others

And beg for a second chance.

There would be no deliverer for me.

I knew it.

But the two others begged and boasted and blamed

Until I was sick of it.

So when the rumor came in

That the preacher had been arrested

I laughed until I cried.

That wanderer from Gallalee,

That teacher that taught only love

And forgiveness

Why had they arrested him?

Surely he had ticked off the wrong people.

And he would be the one to go free.

My cellmates were silent after that.

They knew as well as I did.

The “Minor offender” had just stepped on the stage

And we were dead men.

But then they came and took me out.

Why me?  I had no idea.

They stood me beside the preacher.

Then I understood.

He had been roughed up pretty badly.

“You look terrible.”  I joked with him.

If you couldn’t have a sense of humor

In a time like this, then what could you have.

He smiled through busted lips

“I can say the same for you.”

His eyes were full of compassion

And I told him I held no offense

I took my place beside him

I knew my part in this drama

And did my best to look savage and wild.

The people were sheep

They were controlled by their emotions.

The religious leaders wanted this man’s head

And I was there

To ensure

The correct choice.

“Who will you choose?” 

Pilate shouted and held out his hand. 

“Barabbas or this Jesus?”

Of course,

Given the opportunity

To release a “real criminal” or this preacher

It was little surprise who they would choose.

“Give us Barabbas!” They shouted

And I looked at him in shock.

What? How could this be?

“Give us Barabbas! Let his blood be on our heads!”

They took us away then,

Pushing us roughly

Because the ruse hadn’t turned out

Like Pilate expected.

But as they pushed us along

He spoke to me

One last time.

He told me

That my deliver had come

And he held no offense.

Christian Zombie Short Story... Whaaattt?

I was pleased to enter the following short story in the OHC Writer's Guild Short Story Contest back in the fall.  On a dare I decided to write in an unfamiliar genre.  

Zombie.

Specifically, in my case- Christian Zombie since I'm a Christian.  I don't write anything that doesn't have some sort of Christian theme embedded inside so I was sort of at a loss for a while.  

But then God gave me some things to think about... and this is the story that came from those musings.  I hope you enjoy, I hope at least.. It makes you think.

  The Barren Land

I refuse to leave his body.  I stand guard over him because I fear what they will do to his remains if I do not.  I have barricaded myself inside with him.  I hear the scraping footsteps and the moaning outside and I pull my weapon and wait. They dare not enter, even alone they fear me, as well they should.  When the others come to retrieve him, I will go out and there will be no mercy.

We left behind a country where this disease was unknown to come to this barren land, this wretched and cursed place.  He was the best our fair land could offer; the term "Doctor" would not do him justice.  He was a leader, an artist, an innovator, the creator of things beyond our imaginings.  We chose to call him "Healer" and he was revered and beloved by our people.   It was an honor beyond words then, when I was assigned to his security detail.  I was his personal bodyguard and I had vowed to defend him with my own life.

The journey here was difficult and fraught with peril.  It was a long and arduous voyage, so far from any vestige of civilization but he never complained through our travels.  On more than one occasion I begged him to turn back but he would hear none of it.  He would have allowed me to return had I wanted, but I could not leave him.  I was bound not only by my oath to protect him but by my great love for him.

So I stay.

Because he stayed.

And I will not leave him now.

I will wait until the others come and the war begins.

In truth, I don't even know if it could be called a "war".  They will be wiped out, entirely, with very little effort on our part.  Our weapons far exceed their own and as soon as the order is given we will rain down fire on this place until it is utterly obliterated.

I will feel no remorse.  These monsters deserve it.

Because he came to help them. He came to cure them.

And they killed him in return.

His life in exchange for the whole of them? Every last one that draws breath; it was not, it is not a fair trade. He was the brightest and best our land had to offer and he insisted he come himself.  If he could stop the sickness before it spread to other lands... perhaps if we could stop it here, he insisted, there would be hope.  We had to stop it here, before it came to our shores.

He was convinced that there was hope for these things, these savage beasts that now occupy this land.   They once possessed knowledge and goodness.  Now, I shudder to even call them "Human".  Since the sickness turned them, they are closer to death than life.  They are rotting, stinking corpses in a state of constant decay.  They have no intellect compared to us.  They are unthinking, unreasoning, violent brutes.

The living dead. I shudder even now to think of such a thing.

He came to help them! To save the young ones! The unfairness of it hits me again and I grip my weapon until my fingers ache and my body shakes with rage.

The young ones.  That was why he came here, moved as he was by the images of these little ones suffering in such a wretched place.  It would have been better, if the sickness had made the adults barren as well as inhuman, but such is the complexity of the disease they carry.  They are driven by their yearnings, like all living things, to procreate and so the sickness is passed on in the blood.  Though, through our research we have found that the sickness lies dormant for a time, years perhaps, before it strikes and gnaws it's way through their minds and bodies.

The Healer thought that the young ones could be saved.  There was a time after his arrival when his optimism swayed me.  If a cure could be found before the age that the disease took them completely into its grasp... perhaps there would be some hope.

He had still tried his best, however to cure the adults.  I am still not convinced that through his efforts there will prove to be a total cure.  He had a degree of success with a few though they are not what could be considered "totally cured".  Their bodies are still wasted and brutish but not as volatile as those who have not been treated.  In their own way, they were devoted to him until the mob came, thirsty for his blood.

Then they ran like frightened rabbits.

Those he had worked to cure... Even now they are hiding somewhere.  If the order is given I will have no qualms about killing them myself.  They betrayed him.  They don't deserve to live.

None of them.  

He spent his days traveling from one village to another to help them.  Even though I warned against it so many times, touching them, speaking comfort to them as they suffered.  When we arrived they would flock to him, mumbling and moaning and reaching out for him.  I could never recognize their sounds as any sort of language.  Nevertheless he, in his infinite patience, had found a way to communicate with them.  Even though he used the simplest terms he could manage, many still could not understand many of his words.

They did, however understand one thing.

He could help them.  

Even in their diseased condition they could see that he wasn't like them.

He wasn't dying.

Those who hadn't been completely taken by the disease clamored to him, pressing against him, eager to touch him.  They crowded against him, as if by merely being in his presence could save them.  Countless times he was almost  trampled by the careless throngs.  Often I feared for his life and found it necessary to create a diversion for him and in the chaos that ensued he was able to escape.  He would laugh about it then, indefatigably saying that was a close call.  But he would press forward, no matter how close the call, no matter how bad the sickness in the town where we journeyed next.

He never fell ill, though.

No matter the hardships we endured.  Lack of hygiene, and simple comforts of home, lack of food and rest, exposure to disease...he never succumbed to it himself.

As time wore on he became convinced that the cure would be found not by him, but in him.  Perhaps, within his own blood.  He tried to warn me that finding a cure might demand his own life as forfeit.

I promised I would never let that happen.

He never got the chance to find out though.  The crowds called out to him for help that day, and he had compassion on them.  They pressed in on all sides until I was separated for him.  It was then that they turned vicious.  He was swept along by the crowd to a place unknown to me.

They tore into him like the animals they are.  They left him, the Healer, the only one who could help them to suffer and die alone.

It was hours later that I found him.

Or what was left of him.

He was barely recognizable to me.

Some of those that he helped brought him to this small cave and they stayed there with him until the darkness came and their fear drove them away.  I barricaded myself inside with his body and I have been waiting since then.  I do not know for how long, time means nothing in a place of such grief.  I am sure that it is almost morning and I know that the news would have gotten to our country.  Our communications are not hampered by the distance and I know the others will arrive soon.

The sound of commotion outside alerts me and I stand in expectation.  The males scream in fear then there is silence.  Then the blinding light of full morning permeates the darkness of this tomb.  It overtakes me, overwhelming me at first and I am unable to see for several seconds.  I hold my hand in front of my face and when my eyes adjust I look into the face of my commander.

I am ashamed.  I have failed.  I drop my head in defeat.

A smile is not the response I expect.  It is almost as bright as the morning sun and he laughs at me.

"You did not fail, faithful friend.  The mission was, in fact, a success."

A success?  How could it have been a success?  I shake my head.  How can he say that when the body of our beloved lies cold and dead just behind us?  I have a thousand questions but he hasn't given me permission to speak.  He takes his place by my side and we stand at attention.

Two females approach us, trembling with fear.  I recognize them as some that he made well.

Traitors! I want to scream though I know they cannot understand me.  You left him to die! Why have you come back now?

I grind my teeth and reach for my weapon but my commander stops me with a wave of his hand.

"Why do you seek the living among the dead?" He asks and his voice shakes the very stones around us and their eyes grow wide in amazement and fear.   I am equally astounded that he can communicate with them.


He steps aside and holds out his hand.

There is no body.  The grave clothes lie empty behind me.  I look up in amazement as my commander unfurls his wings. The radiance around him grows ever brighter in the darkness.

 "He is not here;" his voice booms all around us.  "He has risen! Come, see the place where they laid him!"



The Lenten Season is winding down.  Take a moment and think about the sacrifice of our Healer. Rejoice in his Resurrection and the joy that is found in the fact that though Him, this sickness of sin has been defeated.  Happy Easter, Y'all... Blessings!