TooL...

Sunday morning I walked through the outer garage door and saw a balloon dragging a long ribbon resting against the car in my driveway. The first thought entering my mind was someone’s trash had come into my yard. The second thought, as I took the ribbon in hand, was to move it away from the car so that the balloon could find its way into my neighbor’s yard and out of my zone of irritation. I let go of the ribbon and expected the balloon to fly away but it did not move. “Well,” I said, “the ribbon is holding you back.”

This balloon that had found its resting point in my space was expensive, one of those $2.98 balloons from Party City or Balloon Heaven or some place like that. Its’ translucent white skin was decorated with fancy white hearts; I’m saying that this trash had been the guest of honor at someone’s baby shower or wedding. Looking at the long pink ribbon I counted to be six feet long you can see knots where other balloons had been tied before. For some reason this balloon had not enjoyed the unknown fate of the others who had been bound to this same ribbon. Perhaps if the other balloons were still together, they would have been better able to carry the weight of the ribbon between the three of them but as it was, all the weight was left for this one lost guest of honor to carry…and it was too much.

Still irritated, I remembered the knife in my pocket and walked back to the balloon, cut the long pink ribbon at five feet and 9 inches, and then I just let the guest of honor “go.” I watched as the balloon, now much stronger and able to carry the lesser weight, lift up into the air at an angle, rising slowly but steadily. As I backed out of the garage with the family in the truck, I looked again and checked the new heights being reached. Having risen much higher now and having cleared the trees and power lines it was headed south as it reached for higher air.

Why didn’t I grab a Mark’s-a-lot® and write a message of hope for the next person to find the balloon to read? I wondered. But I have come to realize that sometimes not all messages are written out in succinct form nor appear in a form that I am expecting.

Why did I put the knife in my pocket that morning? Would there be some boxes to open at church…no I don’t think so.

Was the knife a tool waiting to be used at just the right time? Does a tool become a tool by nature or is it in the using of the intended nature that makes it a tool?

Why was I so quick to try to let the trash find itself in someone else’s yard? Was it from the late nights of the weekend irritation that blurred my senses?

What if I carried my tools with me everyday so that when its purpose was needed it would not inflict harm but instead lessen the burden that was not intended to be carried alone? Would that make a difference in my life by clearing out my yard or would the difference benefit someone besides me?

I wonder about that…

Promptings for this week...

A reply email from a coworker contained an animated graphic that read “Thank You” as it spun around in a circle. As I looked, Abba said to send back, “You are a good man, but use his native language.” An accurate Google search provided a link to an English to Urdu translation so I typed in the phrase and clicked the transliterate option. It gave me the phrase in hand written Urdu (Pakistani) that I could not read, let alone pronounce. I copy/pasted the handwritten Urdu and sent it to my guy. For all I knew, the free translation page may have conjured up a string of curse words. 30 minutes later when I was with this man in a meeting he asked how I was able to write that into the email. I said that I have my ways then he turned to three more managers and said, “Do you know what this man did?” as he pointed at me, “He wrote in my language, “You are a good person.” A chain reaction was set off, not only in his mind but also, in the three people standing next to us.

Why go to the trouble to speak a blessing into the life of this man in the language of his heart?

Why does Abba go to the trouble to get my attention by speaking to my heart?

Wendy's...

I want to pay for the guy behind me…

Two intense days of training at school had my butt seated for 7.5 hours each day for two days straight. I think the information we were given was intended for a three day session but was forced into two days for some reason. Although it gave me information overload, it was just what I needed and at just the right time. By Friday afternoon I was mentally “full” when I reached home and the yard was calling out to be mowed. I said hello to Beth and Corban, changed clothes, and fired up the lawn mower.

An hour or so when I finished the yard work I was hot and still not hungry for supper but when 11:30 pm showed on the clock I jumped in the truck and headed to Wendy’s because, well, they are open late. The drive thru line was both long and slow. A minute later I watched a man ride up behind me on a Honda Goldwing. I thought the man looked familiar but a few more glances in the side view mirror and I realized that wasn’t the question that was being asked. The question was, “Why don’t you pay for this guy’s meal?” I didn’t take into account that he might be buying for a family of six and stuff the sacks into his saddlebags but I didn’t really care about that. One thing I have noticed is that when I stop following Abba’s voice I not only miss out on the great opportunity to serve but I turn my face away from Him.

It makes no sense to buy food for a complete stranger who I will not be speaking to nor will I most likely see anytime soon. But in this moment it was the faithful thing to do. I was taking a chance. I paid with cash – no debit card tracing on this deal.

I wondered what was going on in the night manager’s mind. I had just paid for a person’s meal but that was the easy part. Now the night manager had to figure out a way to tell the motorcycle man. And the motorcycle man had to accept the free supper since there was no one to pay back.

So, who was this prompting for? Was it for me? Was it for the night manager at Wendy’s? Was it for the motorcycle man?

The only thing that I think that I know is this: Being faithful to the voice was able to set into motion a chain reaction of events of which there may be no end.

What do you do with the promptings in your life?

A Desert Sage...

Do you see me?

For some reason, through a process that has developed over the years, I seem to hear God most while mowing the yard. There is clarity to thoughts that surface during the process. So as I walked by the front porch where the dusty green leafed Desert Sage was planted a few years ago, it asked, “Do you see me? Do you see what I am doing?” I passed on the question but the next time I walked by, and the mower was off, the locust in the large Red Oak tsk, tsk’d me as if they were reminding me to respond to God’s prodding question. So I took another look at this bush, planted in a not so great place and tried to see what it was asking of me.

The Desert Sage in my front yard is actually planted in an area of clay about 12”x24” at the front of the garage, just next to the walk up to the front porch. It is surrounded by concrete and the room it has to grow is small. When it was planted I dug a deep hole, put the roots in the hole, and then covered it with top soil. I chose this plant for this location due to its drought resistant nature and ability for full sun. I thought that being surrounded by concrete in the North Texas summer was not conducive to healthy growth. Yet this plant has survived here, in this spot where it was planted a few years ago. It is slightly larger now though not as large as the huge shrub size one that is at the Chic-fil-a drive through near my home. I wonder if mine is not so big because of where it is planted? I wonder what would happen if I transplanted it to open ground with a deeper root growth area?

For weeks on end during the dry summer months the dusty green leafed sage fulfills its purpose of providing color and breaking up the monotony of brick and by filling a hole surrounded by concrete. But on the rare occasions when rain visits this Desert Sage, well, look at it now. The dusty green is filled with bright purple flowers adding another color and beauty to what was plain. Now when people walk by it draws their eye. Still it fills its stated purpose in the place where it finds itself planted. Still it resists drought by not giving up its nature for the momentary rain fall that unlocks the purple flowers. The flowers are there for a few days until the soil grows dry again. They promise to return when the time is right.

I wonder what the Desert Sage asked me to see about myself when it asked me to look at its nature and location?

The Handshake...

“You left me hangin’ Mr. B, that’s wrong…”

I was standing in the empty hallway near my office and engaged in a quiet conversation with a 30 something year old male student about his relationship between him and his wife. Just then a class down the hallway went on break and one of my daily hand shakers headed toward us. Now, I am looking into the face of the man as I speak to him some words of hope when from the side comes this hand, extended into our conversation. I looked briefly at the hand shaker, nodded, then turned back to the man I was conversing with and continued speaking. I felt it as the hand shaker walked away, his hand left hanging in the air, untouched. I also heard him say, “You left me hangin’ Mr. B, that’s wrong…” In the blink of an eye the smile and enthusiasm left this guy as he hung his head and walked on down the hallway. We were still speaking when the hand shaker walked by us again, his face showing pain. He didn’t offer his hand this time.

I wasn’t trying to be mean, disrespectful, or even teach the guy a lesson. I was trying to give my undivided attention to this one man who is in pain from his relational hell that he is living. He noticed that I didn’t shake the man’s hand and as more students began to fill the hallways he let me end our 40 minute conversation so I could take care of other needs. My first steps were not back to my desk or to another part of the school. Instead my first steps were toward the classroom where the guy that I, “left hangin’” retreated into. I stopped at the door, stuck my head in the room and caught his eye at the back of the room. He was not smiling and his usual happiness had left him. He also did not immediately jump up and come to the door. But as another student asked me for help and I pointed her in the right direction, I held my stand and looked back to his eyes. He got up and came outside the room where I handed him a bus pass. I apologized for doing him wrong. He repeated how I hurt him. I apologized again and then cautiously took a step further and explained to him why I had given my undivided attention to that student just as I am in this moment to him. As he accepted my apology I looked into his watery eyes and said, “You are a good man.” A painful smile formed and he thanked me and went back into class after I had shaken his hand again.

This man with a family, unemployed, who rides the local bus to school every day and has to ask for a bus pass to help out when he has little money, was not looking for just a hand shake I would venture to say. But what he was looking for, he did not immediately receive and certainly not in the same manner to which he had become accustomed.

What was he looking for?

This morning as I head back in to school, I wonder how he will greet me in the hallway…