A Mother in Israel

Deborah_blog

Now Deborah, a prophet, the wife of Lappidoth, was leading Israel at that time. Judges 4:4 NIV

Deborah had her own palm tree (seriously); the “Palm of Deborah” the Bible calls it.

Like Gideon and Samson, she was one of the Judges of Israel in that kind of nasty period between Joshua and King David (1200 B.C.-ish). Judges were Israel’s leaders, both legally and militarily—powerful, but still a few clicks down from royalty.

However, what I find most interesting—and appropriate for this week—was that Deborah was also a self-identified mother. In her own words:

I, Deborah, arose … a mother in Israel. Judges 5:7 NIV

What she arose to do was a lot of hand-holding of her military guy, Barak. (Jabin, king of Canaan, had been putting the whoop on the Israelites for 20 years and it was time to put the kibosh on that) But Barak, the big ol’ sissy, wouldn’t go to war without her, so she climbed out from under her palm, tucked her tunic, donned her combat boots, and got that snowflake to stop trembling and start trampling.

What a woman—during the day she held court under her palm tree, making the rowdy Israelites behave and leading their rag-tag army in battle, and at night she wiped snotty noses and picked up after the kids. She was the first Biblical mother who worked outside the home.

And if you read Judges 4-5, you’ll see that her work was definitely never done—just like most moms. ‘Cause while Dunkin’ is great to get Americans up and at it, I think what the country actually runs on is working moms.

And verily I say to thee—I don’t know many moms who don’t work. Maybe that work doesn’t include a cubicle and a retirement plan, but whether it’s in the boardroom or the bathroom, the bottom line is still given a tremendous boost.

Come to think of it, I know a bunch of near-moms—aunts and besties and sitters and the like—who are as much moms to the kids in their charge as the bio ones. If you’re part of that village helping raise a kid, you’re a mom in my book.

So thank you to each of you for making the world a kinder, gentler, and much nicer smelling place. I wouldn’t want to live here without you. As Solomon says…

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Proverbs 31:30 NIV

Exactly. Happy Mother’s Day to you all.

• • •

So what happened to Deborah? After defeating the enemy army…

…the hand of the Israelites pressed harder and harder against Jabin king of Canaan until they destroyed him (ouch). Judges 4:24 NIV

Then the land had peace forty years. Judges 5:31 NIV

IOW…Mama kicked Canaanite keister and took names. (You go, girl.)

• • •

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She had maroon hair

She Had Maroon Hair

She had maroon hair.

That’s not a judgment call or anything—just a fact. It fit her, actually. None of the other breakfast crowd in the restaurant seemed to notice or care. (Which, in a small town in Central Florida where the median age is about 137, heavily right-leaning, I found progressive.)

She was efficient and pleasant in a strictly-business kind of way. She had that carefully-rehearsed, sing-songy spiel with just the right inflection, kind of like one of those Disney World ride operators: “Please gather ALL your PERSONAL beLONGings and take small CHILDren by the HAND. And enjoy YOUR day at the MAGIC Kingdom!”

“What can I get you to DRI-nk?”

“Coffee.”

In her wake I heard, “I’ll be right BACK with THAT,” as she sped away to fetch me a cuppa. (Actually, my own private potta.)

I didn’t catch her name, although my credit card receipt says it was “April.” April took my order, delivered it, and deposited my check plate-side after confirming I didn’t want any pie. (Pie for breakfast? Apparently it’s a thing.)

She also checked on me mid-meal, mouth full of eggs, feta cheese, and cremini mushrooms. I just smiled, mouth closed, and nodded my approval.

She never really made eye contact. (I’m not dinging her for that, as she had a restaurant full of 137-year-olds wanting more decaf and syrup.) I always let the server set the tone for how involved or not our interaction will be, and April was working the crowd from an attentive—but a tad impersonal—position.

Basically, she wasn’t interested in chatting anybody up.

How do you break through that? As Christians—specifically, old, white, male Christians—how do we connect with the Aprils of the world? How do we share some semblance of the gospel in a situation that absolutely does NOT lend itself to doing so? How do we—between bites of omelet—do what Jesus would have done?

I gave her a big tip—I like to do that and can afford to do so, but that’s not enough. My natural inclination is typically to throw money at the situation—send Bibles, send people on mission trips, send somebody else’s kids to church camp. All good things to do, but what about April, she of the maroon hair? Unless she’s an undercover cop pretending to be a server to try and bust a pancake smuggling ring, I’m sure she appreciated a few extra dollars, but what good will that do when she passes from this life to the next? You can’t tip the guy to get in. It’s all about who you know.

I know delightful, Godly, caring brethren and sisteren who have been witnessing to people all their lives—successfully—always armed with little cards to give out and million dollar bills with Bible verses on the back and red dots to put on their watch or glasses…gimmicky things. And I know the Holy Spirit is the one who rises above our tawdry gimmicks and softens hearts and opens people to the gospel message.

And, no doubt, I’m cynical, but it just reminds me of the people who stand out on the street corners with their portable microphone and speaker and yell until they’re hoarse or wave signs getting people to honk for Jesus. I don’t for one minute doubt their hearts and their passion for the Lord, but does anyone listen? Are hearts truly transformed?

Or is there a better way?

Jesus was deliberate in everything He did, but he didn’t stand on the corner and yell at people, hoping some of it would stick. Jesus’ ministry wasn’t a spectacle. In fact, if the crowds got too big he would say weird things that would scare a bunch of them off, things like the fact that they would have to eat His flesh and drink his blood. (“That’s it—I’m outta here.”) Only those who truly wanted what He had to offer would stay.

Jesus would have connected with April; He would have figured it out.

He would have made eye contact and offered her living water. (Or maybe living coffee…) He would have invited himself to her salon to watch her get her hair colored. He would have timed it just right to NOT have a mouth full of food when she stopped by, whereupon He would have told her how much he enjoyed the omelet and let her know without any doubt that He loved her, all in one fell swoop.

But that’s Jesus. His life wasn’t, like, you know…an example…or, you know, anything like that…

Ummm…actually, it was.

And He didn’t leave us any outs. To paraphrase Acts 1:8 He said: “You will be my witnesses… EVERYWHERE!” not “…everywhere EXCEPT at restaurants when your waitress has maroon hair and looks busy.” So that’s where I’m stumped. WWJD? How do you NOT scare a millennial off with your tracts and your “Jesus Loves You” and still make a connection between them and the risen Savior?

Jesus met people where they were. He sat down by a well and asked for a drink and an entire village was transformed.

I can’t give April living water—only one person can do that. But I have to find a way to point her to the SOURCE of living water…

• • •

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The Donkey

An “I Am the Clay” Vignette*

Mary-Joseph_Donkey

It was a pleasant, late fall day in the Samarian hill country. The main road was lined with men, women, children, the rich, the poor—each heading south, each on his or her way to take part in a government-ordered census.

Most seemed to be traveling in large groups of family and neighbors, with the exception of the young couple with the donkey traveling alone. (They had waited until most everyone in their own village had left, so as to keep from answering too many questions.)

She—Mary, very expectant—rode comfortably on the back of the donkey (Levi, she had named him; a good-natured jab at her younger brother with the same name) while he, Joseph, led the way.

Like us, Levi’s task was to carry the unborn Savior and, in effect, the good news He would bring—the gospel—to “all Judea and Samaria, and (our task, not Levi’s) to the ends of the earth.”

Unlike us, though, Levi wasn’t aware of that; after all, he was only a donkey. He didn’t know the one he was carrying was Immanuel—“God with us”—the one the prophet Isaiah had written about 700 years earlier.

Still, he faithfully carried out the task assigned to him.

The question is—are we? Are we faithfully carrying out the task assigned to us? Do we see it our calling to carry the light of the gospel to every corner of a dark world? Or are we content to leave that baby in the manger? Content to shop and feast and sing of the angels and the shepherds, the star and the wise men, the manger and the stable, and then pack it up and store it in the attic until next year?

That’s not why He came. He didn’t come to be the centerpiece of our Christmas pageant or the “reason for the season.” He came—His words, once He was old enough to speak them—“that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.”

Not just life, but abundant life.

One day, after He was grown, He said that “life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.” (Luke 12:16 NIV) He also said that “everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.” (Matthew 19:29 NIV)

The abundant life He came to give isn’t found in things or people or events—even events inspired by His birth. It’s found in Him, who He is. And one day, He told us who He is…

…He said He is “the life.” (John 14:6 NIV)

The life.”

As one who has been given “the life,” how can I not do as “the life” said and carry His good news to “the ends of the earth”?

Good question.

Levi faithfully carried out the task assigned to him…

Are we…?


*A brief written piece about a person or event. Or a donkey.

• • •

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I am not ashamed

From “The Lizard Lounge” Series on I Am the Clay

clothesline [klohz-lahyn] noun 1. a strong, narrow rope, cord, wire, etc., usually
stretched between two poles on which clean laundry is hung to dry. 2. A way to cut
your power bill AND your waistline in half. (“in half” may be exaggerating a bit…)

IMG_0967

Other than hitting a lick or two at writing a book, it was quiet here at the “Lizard Lounge” this past summer. (If you’re new to “I Am the Clay,” take a second and follow that link to find out where that name came from. You can also click here for the whole series.) That’s either a good thing or a bad thing, as it quite possibly means I haven’t done diddly squat around here—except for the laundry. (Those are my clothes in the picture above.) All is not lost, though—the most mundane activities can often inspire a blog post.

Who knew my earthly home could teach me so much about the journey toward my heavenly one…?

• • •

I have a clothesline—and use it regularly instead of the clothes dryer. (I also wash dishes by hand and don’t use a dishwasher—on purpose.) So there.

Oh, I hear you thinking, What are you, some kind of hippy, tree-hugging, off-the-grid, antiestablishment, pinko commie liberal prepper? If God had intended us to NOT use the clothes dryer He wouldn’t have created Bounce fabric softener sheets. And don’t get me started on the dishwasher thing…

(Hey, now—that’s uncalled for.) Hear me out. Consider this:

  • Clothes dryers use a la-hot of electricity.
  • Hanging out the laundry burns calories. (not pointing fingers or anything, but…)
  • You can’t beat that fresh (and free) great-outdoors smell.

So there are more reasons TO use a clothesline than to NOT use one. Especially for me.

And now for the rest of the story…

We got power

We got power

We had a hurricane down here recently. Maybe you heard.

Even as I write this, many Floridians are still reeling from the loss. (If you haven’t yet taken that much-anticipated vacation to Key West, you may have missed your chance.) Depending on what part of the state you’re from, Irma’s impact ranged from devastating to merely annoying. For the most part, up here in the middle it was mostly just annoying; with that annoyment mostly due to power outages; with those power outages mostly due to tree limbs being ripped off and hurled into power lines by 100 mph winds.

I’m sure there is a perfectly logical reason (or not) why so many humongous, spreading, live oak trees—of which Florida is rife—tend to grow intertwined with power lines. Did we not think this through? Often you’ll see where the power company has come and cut the middle out of a tall oak tree so that it looks like a big ol’ “Y” with a power line running through it. In addition to looking like something out of Dr. Seuss’s Whoville, it’s just a power outage waiting for a brisk breeze.

And now for the rest of the story…

Indelible

An “I Am the Clay” Vignette*

Indelible

“Ink”—slang for tattoos. Ink is actually an appropriate moniker for tattoos, as ink, in most cases, is indelible…permanent…un-erasable—like tattoos.

The most inked human I know is one I affectionately call “my boy.” He’s tattooed from the neck down—or so he says, as there are a couple of private spots I haven’t seen (and ain’t asking about and don’t wanna). Tattoos are kind of like indelible reminders of wear and tear from the past.

And he’s definitely got a past—drug use and abuse, civil disobedience, jail time. But that past also includes marrying a beautiful wife who kept his family—their family—together while his drug use ran its course.

And then one day there was an encounter with Almighty God, delivery from his demons, a sure and certain moment of salvation.

And now for the rest of the story…

Bold

An “I Am the Clay” Vignette*

Bold 1

…the righteous are as bold as a lion. Proverbs 28:1 NIV

“Can I try this one in a size 10?”

“Yes, sir—let me get that for you.”

The Thom McAnn Shoes clerk disappeared through the curtain to the stock room to retrieve a pair of black wingtips for my daddy, while we—my daddy, my mother, and I—sat at the back of the store and waited.

It was 1972, the heyday of the Gateway Shopping Center in Decatur, Alabama, just before the shopping mall explosion. Besides the shoe store, there was a Woolworths, complete with a snack counter that served huge banana splits; a Quick Chek grocery store where they let my granny buy cigarettes with food stamps; a Sears and Roebuck, also in its heyday; and a movie theater with two screens. (A few years later, I saw the original Star Wars there 11 times.)

Decatur was a small town back then and people were, for the most part, respectful.

For the most part…

And now for the rest of the story…

Seedy

From the I Am the Clay “Story” Series

coffee10

A farmer went out to sow his seed… Matthew 13:3-8 NIV

“Ally?”

“Oh my goodness—Jess? Hey!” Ally stood up from her small table and gave her high-school friend a hug. “What are you doing back in town?”

“I’m here for the women’s conference this weekend at the New Life Center at Calvary Memorial.”

“It’s so good to see you!” Ally motioned to an extra chair. “Please—join me.”

Jess sat down. “I thought I might run into you at the conference, but this will give us a chance to catch up.”

“What are you having? Cappuccino? Latte?”

“A cup of tea would be great.”

Ally flagged down the server. “Evie? Can I get a tea for my friend, hon?” She turned to Jess. “How about the mango/peach tea? It’s amazing.”

“Sure.” Jess turned to the server. “Mango/peach it is. Thanks.” She looked around the small restaurant. “This is really cute. I don’t think it was here the last time I was in town. Didn’t it used to be a gas station?”

And now for the rest of the story…

Turn, turn, turn

turn turn turn
Being born and raised in Alabama and a long-time resident of Florida, I’ve heard all the redneck and hurricane jokes. Some of the rest of y’all got some good some good local jokes, too, though. Here are a few of my favorites:

  • You know you’re a Californian if the fastest part of your commute is down your driveway.
  • Top sign you’re a New Yorker #4: You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multi-lingual.
  • Q: What do a divorce in Arkansas, a tornado in Kansas, and a hurricane in Texas have in common? A: Somebody’s fixin’ to lose them a trailer.

In the years I’ve lived in Florida, I’ve come to appreciate all of ours, especially the ones that have to do with the climate. Por ejemplo:

You’re a true Floridian if…

…you judge a good parking place, not based on distance from the store, but on its proximity to shade.
…you consider anything under 70 as “chilly” and anything under 95 as “just a little warm.”
…you’re on a first name basis with the Hurricane list. They aren’t Hurricane Charley, Hurricane Frances, etc., but Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Jeanne.
…you’ve worn shorts and used the A/C on Christmas.

I can especially attest to the last two. I actually washed my car wearing my swimsuit one New Year’s Day. (I was wearing the swimsuit, not the car…)

And now for the rest of the story…

Mama

An “I Am the Clay” Vignette*

Mama

She is clothed with strength and dignity… Proverbs 31:25

She leaves her afghan folded up in the pew at church where she and my daddy have sat as long as I can remember—second pew on the right, facing the pulpit. (The Epistle side, if you’re an Episcopalian.) The men keep it way too cold in there for the women, so emergency afghans and blankets dot the church.

She loves me fiercely, as I do her. When I called them the morning I became a Christian, she shouted. Baptists don’t do much shouting. (Or hand-raising. Too prissy.) Mama did that morning.

While she’s sat in the same pew for all those years, she’s not the same person. She’s grown spiritually the past several years. Now that I’m a Christian, many of our phone conversations end up as deep theological discussions. She’s had to up her game.

I send her books and CDs and she reads my blog. I like to get off into hypothesizing on the organic fluidity of justification and the timing of the rapture. She says I challenge her. (That may just be a nice way of saying I’m full of myself.)

She’s become quite strong—stronger than I think she ever imagined being. She stood up to a car salesman last week and drove out of there with exactly what she wanted at the price she wanted. I knew she had it in her.

But that strength goes a lot deeper—it lives somewhere down about where the Holy Spirit lives. I wouldn’t mess with her.

She’s my mama. I’m proud of her and wouldn’t wanna be anybody else’s son.

Well, God’s son, of course—but she’s happy to share…


*A brief written piece about a person or event.

• • •

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