You never get used to culture shock

“Wow! Isn’t that beautiful!” I exclaimed, with an overdone tone of exuberance, as we left the high-altitude, sun-scorched Mojave Desert and began our long descent toward Los Angeles, with the snow-capped peak of Mount Baldy still to our west. I was trying to speak a positive word to weary spirits that had grown increasingly negative as our journey progressed. We had been traveling through mile after mile of rolling desert, each bend in the road producing what seemed like the same monotonous scene: stark hills, with an occasional Joshua tree or cactus, and vapors rising from the hot pavement.

In front of our home in Stillwater, MN

Our family was moving from the home we had built seven years earlier in Stillwater, Minnesota, a beautiful, historic town on the banks of the St. Croix River separating Minnesota from Wisconsin, to a rental duplex unit we had never seen in Temple City, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. After sensing, together with me, that God was leading us in another direction, my husband James had resigned his position as a marketing communications supervisor at 3M in St. Paul to attend Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. It wasn’t an easy decision. Moving to the West Coast meant leaving security, family members and the Midwest, where we had always lived. In addition, our sons, Kevin and Kyle, soon to begin grades 7 and 5, would need to change schools and leave friends. My first warning of the difficult transition ahead came in a phone conversation about housing with a woman at the seminary.

“What is your address?” she queried. When I said we lived on Hidden Valley Lane in Stillwater, Minnesota, she replied, “Wow! Are you in for culture shock!”

At the time, I dismissed her comment, thinking she was just enamored by the picturesque name of our street. Now, as we got closer to our destination, I wondered if she might be right. We had enjoyed seeing Mount Rushmore, and a few other spots along the way had caught our boys’ interest, but the further west we came, the quieter they became, and I sensed the negative vibes.

“This would be easier if we didn’t have kids,” I told myself.

It did feel good, however, to be out of the desert and see some green trees, even if they were much shorter than trees back home. As we came over a ridge, the great expanse of the Los Angeles Basin lay below, filled with houses that stretched for miles like wall-to-wall carpeting. Except for an occasional palm tree poking up its bushy head, there was little to focus one’s eyes on. A depressing, brownish-colored cloud hung above the trees and extended far to the western horizon, where it ended abruptly and gave way to the sun. As we got closer to Los Angeles, the smog increased. It had a sweet, oily smell that we could taste.

“Welcome to L.A.!” I thought.

“Look at the palm trees!” I said to the boys, hoping to trigger some enthusiasm.

“The ocean is over there,” my husband contributed, as he pointed westward.

We could smell and taste the smog.

Suburban streets took us past row after row of houses that all seemed the same and pedestrians who didn’t look at all like we were used to seeing in the Upper Midwest. This was definitely not home! Finally, we arrived in Pasadena. James went into the seminary’s housing office to retrieve the key for our new residence in nearby Temple City, while the boys and I sat in the hot car, waiting in silence. Upon his return, we continued on to our destination.

A long, concrete drive led to the house, which was set back in the middle of a city block, between several other houses. There was no front lawn, only a large cement pad for parking cars. The house was a nice stucco ranch with two units. Ours, the largest, had a two-car garage, two bedrooms and a spacious kitchen that let out to a patio area, which was the size of a small room and surrounded by a block fence.

The inside of the house was in good condition, although the walls were in need of fresh paint. My husband made a quick phone call to the landlord, who agreed to supply paint, if we did the work. Since our furniture wouldn’t arrive for another two days, there was time to complete the job, but we were tired and depressed. The idea of painting five rooms was like contemplating climbing Mount Everest.

“We have to do it,” James declared, “unless you want to live with it like this.”

Hotel in Arcadia, CA, where we awaited our furniture.

Not wanting to settle for dingy walls, we returned to our hotel and made plans to awake early the next morning and get to work, despite our discouragement. After a good night’s sleep, we picked up paint from a nearby hardware store and headed back to our new home.

On the way, we drove past men who were carrying chickens. A little further down the street, we saw where they were headed. A small crowd, gathered in a driveway, were standing in a circle, presumably in hopes of winning some money in a cockfight.

We proceeded on past the famous Santa Anita Race Track. It was exciting to see the beautiful palm trees, the sprawling green lawn and the carefully groomed dirt track where the horses raced. Despite the visual feast, my stomach was upset and I ached all over, like I had been hit by a semi.

“Must be symptoms of culture shock,” I thought.

It was hard to imagine ever feeling at home in this environment. The trip from Minnesota to California had lasted forever and, after arriving, I had told my husband that I never wanted to take that drive again. Now, I would gladly travel those long, tedious miles, if it meant we could go home.

No time to wallow in pity, however, if we were to be ready when our belongings arrived. Working through the morning, we found ways for the boys to help whenever possible. Unfortunately, kid-appropriate tasks were few and the boys hung around like sticky flies. With no friends and without their bikes to entertain them, they were, obviously, bored.

At noon, we took a break and drove around the neighborhood, searching for a place to buy lunch. Three blocks down, on the other side of a large, dry, concrete-lined channel called the Los Angeles River—it sure didn’t compare to the St. Croix—we found a Weinerschnitzel fast-food restaurant, where we bought hot dogs and sodas.

“Sodas?” Kevin questioned. “We call it pop in Minnesota.”

At Zody’s, a department store similar to Wal-Mart, we picked up some cleaning supplies and headed toward the checkout.

Surrounded by people who spoke to each other and the cashier in Spanish, it was obvious we were in a predominantly Hispanic community. In Minnesota and Wisconsin, in the early 1980s, one rarely heard people speaking a language other than English.

Mulling over what we had just seen of our new world, we went back to the duplex, finished painting and cleaning, and then returned to the hotel, exhausted. The next day, the truck arrived with our furniture, and we helped the movers unload. The boys met some neighbor kids and began showing signs of feeling more content with their surroundings. This would be our first night in our new home, and our own beds were appealing after several nights of sleeping in hotels.

It seemed like we had been asleep for only a short time when we heard, “Caw! Caw! Caw!” Startled, I catapulted out of bed into the early-morning light.

“What’s that?” I questioned.

“I don’t know,” responded my husband, as he jumped into his pants and headed to the bedroom door. The boys were running down the hall toward the back door and the source of the horrific sound. Looking over the patio wall into the sky above our neighbor’s house, we saw a large flock of green parrots landing in a eucalyptus tree.

Parrots! Maybe this place isn't so bad, after all.

“Cool! There must be at least 30 birds!” exclaimed Kyle. “It’s like living in the tropics. Maybe this place isn’t so bad, after all.”

His words were encouraging to parents who felt guilty for asking two kids to make unwelcome adjustments. It was the first indication that things would be OK and, as the days and weeks progressed, they were. We gradually adapted to our surroundings. Trips to the beach, Disney Land and Knott’s Berry Farm, and drives up to Mount Wilson and Big Bear were enjoyable and, at least temporarily, distracted us from our loneliness. My husband was enjoying his classes, I liked my job and the children had friends who were of other races and from different cultures, an invaluable experience that would benefit them greatly later in life. Even so, we missed the seasons, particularly the fall leaves and the winter snow. We all wanted to go home!

Two years after moving to California, we returned to Minnesota. Back in our own environment, however, we were surprised to find that we were no longer the same people. We had seen and experienced things that our friends had not experienced and did not understand, and we longed to return to California.

That never happened but, three years later, my husband accepted a new job and we moved our family cross-country again, this time to the East Coast, to Long Island, New York. Once again, we moved to a house we had not previously seen and, once again, our sons became quieter and quieter as we neared our destination. I thought this move would be easier. We had done a major move before and knew what to expect. I was wrong.

New England-type scenery normally would impress me.

Reminiscent of five years earlier, we found ourselves again standing in an empty house with our furniture in transit and no food in the cupboards. This time, as we headed out to find a place to eat, we drove through beautiful residential streets in quaint New England-type communities that normally would have impressed me, but I took little notice. The rock in the pit of my stomach made me feel like vomiting. “If only we could turn around and go back to our real home in Minnesota!” I complained. That, of course, was not possible. We would have to live with our decision and stick it out. We did, things got better and we became New Yorkers.

I eventually adapted and became a New Yorker.

Six years later, we returned to Minnesota, this time to a little cabin in the woods, where my husband wrote a book and where I assisted my brother in his business. Again, as much as we wanted to come back to our home area, we experienced culture shock. People in Minnesota’s north woods do not think or act like East Coast city folk, and living in the woods is much quieter than living in a city, so we had to re-adapt to Midwestern ways.

One lesson I have learned from our moves is that a person experiences culture shock not only when transitioning to a new culture, but also when returning to his or her home environment. Each move we made was extremely difficult. Looking back, however, I would not have wanted to miss any of them. Even though I am keenly aware of the challenges in making such moves, given the opportunity, I would do it again. My mind has been opened to new ways of viewing and doing things, and I will never be the same. More than other life experiences, these major transitions have greatly impacted my openness to change and to God's leading. In fact, just this morning, I told my husband, "If an opportunity comes along and we sense God's prompting, I'd move anywhere."

Update: At the writing of this article, I did not know that, just three months later, we would be ordering a house to be built for us in Arizona. Years earlier, shortly after moving to California, we received a letter from our pastor's wife back in Minnesota. She wrote, "Isn't this following God exciting?" I agree!

Copyright © 2007

Portion preceding the update was written as an assignment for an English class, Regent University, Virginia Beach, VA.

A lesson from Aunt Lillie

I used to work as a client relations representative for a nationwide company. Assigned to three sales representatives, I entered orders into the computer system and, from that point on, was the customer-relations contact. Since our clients were businesses, customer dissatisfaction with the product or service could cost our company thousands of dollars. Employee training was given, but was insufficient for acquiring the knowledge needed to readily excel. Time management and recall of details was a major part of the job description and, if a customer or sales rep registered a complaint, the client relations person frequently bore the blame, even if the perceived error wasn’t his or her fault.

It was a stressful work environment! Many employees, unable to make the grade, were let go after a few weeks, months or even years with the company. The shoe usually dropped on Fridays. Often, I would return from lunch to find the door lock’s security codes changed, thus requiring me to knock to gain admittance. Another colleague had fallen—gone, never to be seen again.

During my first four months on the job, I lived with constant fear and anxiety. Often, I felt stress-caused pain in nerve endings across my shoulders and down my arms. My little granddaughter lived next door, and playing with her in the evenings helped alleviate the stress, but it provided only momentary reprieve from the growing anxiety within me. One day, as I was about to leave work, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. This job was not good for my health! I packed up all my belongings and took them home, just in case I decided not to return the next day.

That night, before bed, my husband and I prayed about the situation, as we had done other nights, and I went to sleep. When I awoke, I decided to give the job one more chance. That morning, when I walked into the office, things were different. I was confident. I was at peace.

Lillie, a few years before her death in 2003

That experience reminded me of advice I heard from my husband’s aunt, Lillie. As a single woman, she had courageously traveled alone by ship, halfway around the world, to Liberia, West Africa, to serve as a missionary. Some years earlier, I was in attendance when Lillie gave an illustrated sermon, based on Hebrews 10:35, about confidence. To make her point, she threw a ball out into the audience and loudly commanded, “Do NOT throw away your confidence!” Over the years, I had, from time to time, thought of Lillie’s admonition, but had not done so during my present employment situation.

After recalling Lilllie’s advice, I realized that, even though my negative work environment was still a problem, it was not my main problem. I had thrown away my confidence! Somehow, after prayer and while I slept, God helped me change my attitude and retrieve my confidence.

From then on, things went well for me on the job, that is, until a few months later, when a sales representative who had been difficult to work with reported record end-of-month sales. When my boss asked why I had not processed all those sales, which totaled thousands of dollars, I informed her that the rep had only sent me paperwork for a few sales that month. As she turned and walked away, it was clear I was in danger of losing my job. Immediately, I called my husband and asked him to pray.

Within minutes, I recalled that, just a week earlier, my boss had mentioned to me she had been talking with this same rep at a party and he had informed her that he had recently made a lot of sales. He also told her I was doing a great job. Because I had not received paperwork documenting those sales, I thought his comments were strange. Maybe the paperwork was just delayed, but complimenting me to my boss? That was out of character! The incident raised a cautionary flag in my mind and prompted me to send an e-mail to my three sales reps, listing all sales I had processed that month and urging them to send me, before the monthly deadline, paperwork for sales they wanted credited to their accounts. And I had made sure I kept the email, in case I would ever need it.

Quickly, I forwarded that week-old e-mail to my boss. While I waited for her response, I continued to follow Aunt Lillie’s advice and not throw away my confidence. When my boss finally called me into her office, it was to inform me that my email had prompted her to contact the companies to whom the rep claimed he had made sales and she had learned that most of the reported sales had not occurred. The rep's plan was to report the sales to Accounting and blame me for failure to process the supporting documentation in hopes of getting the commission and making a quick exit out of town, to New York City where his girlfriend had just secured employment. My boss sat at her desk, her face in her hands, totally distraught. Confident, I stood at her side, patting her back, telling her everything would be OK.

Several months later, I resigned my position to move to another state, and my co-workers gave me a surprise going-away party. Although the purpose of the event was to say goodbye, it was also an opportunity for staff members to celebrate the fact that a colleague was actually leaving on his or her own accord. Over the past year, all other employees who had left the company had been dismissed. I’m convinced that, if I had not regained my confidence and protected myself by keeping thorough documentation, I would have been among them.


“So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded” (Hebrews 10:35, KJV).

Copyright © 2011

It’s a raining rain

The past two weeks have been challenging and stressful. Recently, my husband’s company changed its e-mail protocol and, to be compatible, he had to purchase and install new Microsoft Office software. There was one hurdle after another, and he spent most of Thursday, Friday and Saturday of the first week overcoming them, much of that time in phone conversations with Microsoft’s technical support people.

We had planned to take the four days following Labor Day as vacation but, when he discovered on Monday—Labor Day—that the out-of-office reply function wasn’t working properly, he spent a portion of that day trying to resolve the issue. Since the previous week’s computer problems had already set him back in what he hoped to accomplish, he decided to use the rest of his vacation to catch up on the backlog.

He made progress Tuesday and Wednesday but, on Thursday morning, discovered we had lost Internet access. After spending more time on the phone with tech people, he learned that the cause of the problem was the computer’s router, so we spent part of the day driving to a nearby town to purchase a replacement. With the new router installed, Friday was a successful workday. Nice vacation!

One day this week, a song my mother used to sing to me, usually when it was raining, came to mind. It occurred to me that its lyrics have more meaning than I previously realized; that they applied, perhaps, to our present frustrations:

What’s the use of my complaining when it’s raining, raining, raining?
God has sent the rain, so let it be, he knows what is best for you and me.
It's a raining rain, it's a raining rain, hear it patter on the windowpane.
It’s a raining rain, it’s a raining rain, and it will never rain the same rain again.

The Bible tells us that God works all things together for the good of those who love and follow him (Romans 8:28). So, why should I get uptight and anxious when things don’t go my way? No need to complain. I just need to relax, sit back and let it rain, because God has everything under control.

Funny how things change. When I was a young girl and my mother sang that song to me on a rainy day, it sometimes annoyed me. This week, the song brought peace and comfort.


Copyright © 2010

Eating worms

 Sitting on the floor, off by myself in a corner of the room, I sang:

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,

I think I'll go eat worms! Big fat juicy ones,

Ensie weensy squeensy ones,

See how they wiggle and squirm!

A dark cloud was encompassing me and I was in a foul mood. I don’t recall the circumstances that triggered my funk but I knew my sour attitude was wrong, even though I was just a young girl. During my growing-up years, I would occasionally surrender to debilitating bouts of negativity. Wallowing in despondency, I willingly listened to Satan’s discouraging lies.

As an adult, I am sometimes tempted to return to that state, but I know it’s a place I don’t want to go. When I am assailed with such thoughts, I often rehearse the following in my mind: Satan is defeated. The victory has been won. “Thanks be to God who always causes [me] to triumph” (2 Cor. 2:14, NIV).

I have learned that, with God’s help, I can fight the demon of self-pity by clothing myself in a “garment of praise” that lifts my “spirit of despair” (Isaiah 61:3). I can let the peace of Christ rule in my heart and practice thankfulness by singing with gratitude “psalms, hymns and spiritual songs” (Col. 3:15-16).

On my desk is a motto that says, “Attitude is everything.” It reminds me that, whatever is happening in my life, I can choose my attitude. Instead of singing about eating worms, I renew my spirit by singing praises to God! As Jeff and Sheri Easter sing, “Jesus is with me, so I’ll claim the victory, over and over again.”


Copyright © 2010

Poop happens

A few days ago, I wasn’t watching where I was going and stepped in dog poop. I felt the warm mush ooze under my bare foot and, without looking, immediately knew what I had done, even before the smell reached my nostrils. Standing on my other foot, I yelled in utter disgust for my husband to come rescue me. He quickly arrived and removed the majority of the mess off my foot, and I proceeded to the bathroom for a good foot washing.

The unpleasant incident pushed my Recall button: I was 5 years old and my mother had just dressed me up real pretty in a new blouse and skirt she had recently sewn. We were going on a family outing, and I went outside to wait for our departure. As I waited, a little neighbor girl stopped by, just to hang out. We played for a short while, then, all of a sudden and with no warning, my friend picked up a stick, dipped it in nearby dog poop and smeared it down the front of my nice new white blouse. Shocked, hurt and angry, I ran into our house, crying. As my mother consoled me, she washed my face, pulled the dirty shirt off and replaced it with a clean one. She then undertook the unpleasant task of contacting the girl’s parents to inform them of what their little, jealous “angel” had done. As for me, it didn’t take long to recover from the trauma, and I went on to face many other unpleasant experiences common to young girls.

In mulling over these two incidents in my mind—one past, the other present—I thought, “There must be a spiritual application here.” And, sure enough, as I am apt to do, I came up with one.

As we walk through life in this downfallen, sinful world, we occasionally step in crud, because we don’t pay attention to where we are going, or we sin. Other times, we are just standing around minding our own business and, unexpectedly, someone picks up a stick and smears the “poop” of our culture all over us. How do we get rid of the crap and stench? Run crying to Jesus, who washes us clean, removes the filthy rags, replaces them with new ones and heals our spirits. Renewed, we get back in the game of life, until next time.

“Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow” (Psalm 51:7, NIV).

Copyright © 2010

Squirrel wisdom

One of the activities we enjoy at our summer home is watching the squirrels that live on our property. They have feelings. They exhibit joy—they love chasing each other up and down trees—and they get angry. Ever been scolded by a squirrel? I have. They also experience grief.

Several years ago, my husband and I were going to a theatrical production with friends. As our group approached the theater, we observed a squirrel that was very upset, clearly in panic mode. We quickly saw the cause of his concern. A vehicle had struck his companion, who now lay, deceased, in the middle of the street. Chirping hysterically, distraught over the loss of his friend—perhaps a family member—he was inconsolable and continued to express his grief as we proceeded to our destination.

Early this week, I heard great commotion outside. Looking out our office window, I saw two squirrels having, what appeared to be, a disagreement. I don’t know what they were arguing about, but they were definitely making their opinions known. Evidently, they used an effective communication technique because, in no time, they had made peace and were back to chasing each other, having a great time.

I think marriage counselor Jimmy Evans would approve of our squirrels’ conflict-resolution skills. “We need to learn how to approach one another when we are angry,” he writes. “This is such a critical lesson for us to learn because uncontrolled or unrighteous anger can be so destructive. … Today’s anger is very manageable. Yesterday’s anger is dangerous, because it has fermented.”

Copyright © 2010

Photo by  Tim Seed

Joseph, the chicken

Each year, in early spring, my father would order baby chicks to raise, for butchering in the fall. I mentioned in a previous post that my mother was a “pioneer woman.” For example, when it came time to butcher the chickens, she would find a block of wood and pound two nails spaced just right so a chicken’s neck could be placed between them. Mom would take an axe and, one by one, chop off the chickens’ heads. She would then dip the decapitated chickens in scalding water, pluck their feathers, singe off the pin feathers, clean them inside and out, can the meat in jars, and store the jars in our cellar for use throughout the winter months.

My Dad
I learned a lot from him
about chickens AND people.

One year, when the chicks were half-grown, I entered the chicken coop and saw that a young rooster had blood covering one side of his neck. Further inspection revealed that a large area down the side of his neck was completely raw and feather-free. The poor chicken was barely alive! My dad removed the rooster from the coop, and we kept the fowl in our house while we nursed him back to health. The injury to his neck left a scar in the shape of the letter “J,” so I named him Joseph.

Joseph eventually recovered his physical health, but the “J” remained. He became a family pet and never returned to the chicken coop. He would walk up my arm to sit on my shoulder and, when my dad was cultivating the garden, Joseph would follow him and the rototiller up and down each row. That rooster was amazing!

Unfortunately, what Joseph experienced in the chicken coop is not uncommon in the chicken world. A chicken introduced to a flock may be viciously attacked by poultry with more seniority. Or, one chicken may see light glistening on the feathers of a colleague and, instinctively, peck at it. If the pecks are repeated often enough, they draw blood and other chickens will join in. Before long, the chicken being picked on will be injured, maybe even die.

I have often thought about how chicken-coop dynamics occurs in the human world—between spouses, siblings or friends. One person starts pecking on another, picking at every little flaw, real or imagined. Over time, the pecks increase in frequency and strength until blood is drawn. Often, others join in. The victim is wounded and scars remain that last a lifetime. Sometimes, the wound is so severe the person experiences emotional—even physical—death. We often hear of hen-pecked husbands, but there are also rooster-pecked wives, and parent-pecked, sibling-pecked and classmate-pecked children.

It is hard to understand why we humans adopt the ways of chickens, and I don’t want to be a participant in such hurtful behavior. Lord, help me bring healing, not wounds, and life, not death, to others.

Photo by Simon Howden

Copyright © 2010

The man who showed me grace

I don’t remember how old I was but I think I was around 11 the summer I traveled 1,300 miles with my sister, her husband and their baby to visit my brother-in-law’s parents in Montana. The only inhabitants of an unincorporated town high in Glacier Park, they owned a small general store with a post office, a horse stable and a few cabins.

While there, I slept in an upstairs bedroom, above the store and post office. One morning, while others were getting ready for the day, I waited in the store below. As I meandered around the small area that contained food and other items visitors to Glacier Park might find useful, I noted some hairpins—bobby pins, we called them, back then. Impulsively, I grabbed a packet from the shelf and put it in my pocket. I’m sure they weren’t missed—at least nothing was said—and I took them home with me in my suitcase.

For a long time, perhaps several months, those bobby pins weighed heavily on my conscience and I frequently fought feelings of guilt and shame. Finally, unable to stand the self-condemnation any longer, I told my mother about my offense. At her suggestion, I sent a letter of confession, together with 50 cents for the hairpins, to my brother-in-law’s dad and went on with my life, putting the incident behind me. Looking back on it, I don’t remember if he responded to my confession.

However, when I learned some time later, that he would be passing through our area with my sister and her family, and stopping by our house for a visit, I was concerned. He was a cowboy type, who reminded me of Ben Cartwright on TV’s “Bonanza.” Nice but, from my childhood perspective, also burly and intimidating. What if he said something to me about the incident? What would I say in return? What if he made a joke about my thievery, humiliating me in front of the whole family? Once again, I began to experience anxiety and feelings of guilt over my sin.

The dreaded day of his arrival came, and I recall slowly descending the stairs from the upper story of our house, fear gripping my heart. I opened the door at the bottom of the stairway to see, standing in the entry, his larger-than-life frame and wanted to disappear, to be anywhere else. I needn’t have worried. Acknowledging my presence, he continued the conversation in progress and, throughout the entire visit, never said a thing about my crime. I was so relieved. He was giving me grace!

We often hear about prominent people who “fall from grace,” but most members of the secular media do not understand the theological definition of grace, which is unmerited favor. I did not deserve grace from this Montana “cowboy,” but he granted it to me, anyway. He’s in heaven now, but I will always remember the grace he showed me. As a young girl, I saw in this man the likeness of God who, when we confess our sin and ask for forgiveness, extends grace and mercy—even when we don’t deserve it—and forgets the transgression ever happened.

"I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more” (Isaiah 43:25).

Copyright © 2010

This old house

About 15 years ago, we purchased my husband’s childhood home from his mother. For the past 14 years, we have been renovating the house, which was built in the 1880s. My husband has done much of the work himself, with some assistance from me.

A year after moving into the house, we hired two men to re-shingle the roof. They removed multiple layers of old shingles, covered the roof boards with plywood and installed new shingles. It was a definite improvement, but accented the fact that the rest of the house needed to be repaired and painted.Based on information in This Old House magazine, we purchased a Paint Shaver, specifically designed to remove lead-based paint. The grinder’s metal blades, rotating at high speed, chipped away the contaminated paint, while an industrial-strength vacuum collected it. Atop two-story-high scaffolding, my husband began the task of removing all the paint from the house’s eaves. Later, he removed the paint from the first-story clapboard siding. (The upper level, which is covered with cedar shakes, did not require shaving.) It was a labor-intensive task. Over the course of more than a century, successive layers of paint had hardened in the sun to an alligator-skin-like surface that resisted removal.

Removing the paint left the wood in a rough condition that required sanding, and that was just the beginning. Siding had to be repaired and, in some cases, replaced. Windows—both primary and storm—had to be reglazed and readied for painting. Only when a particular section of the house was fully prepped could it be painted, first with primer and then two topcoats. Working evenings and weekends in the spring, summer and fall, it took us two years, and not until the end of the second fall were we able to sit back and admire the completed project. It was worth it. Our old house had been transformed. It was beautiful!

One day, while we were painting, a woman stopped by and said, “I have been watching your progress on the house. This is definitely a work of love!” She was right.

The work is not finished, however; there is plenty to be done on the inside, as well as on the garage. It is a daunting task that never seems to end. Progress has been made, but there is still a long list of jobs before us. Since it is our summer home and we do the work ourselves, fitting it in between other demands on our schedule, we will probably be working on the project for years to come. I often jokingly complain, “We will be doing this till the day we die!”

In restoring this old house, I am frequently reminded of the similarities between our project and the renovation Jesus Christ does in a believer. He purchased us by dying on the cross. When we accept his gift of eternal life, he moves into our worn, tattered and broken dwelling and begins restoration, scraping away old paint, repairing cracks and applying new paint. Gradually, he renovates us, transforming us into something beautiful. This process, too, is a work of love and will take a lifetime.

Copyright © 2010

The perfect stranger

                            
A few years ago, I watched “The Perfect Stranger,” a powerful movie based on the book, Dinner With a Perfect Stranger, written by David Gregory. The story follows a woman as she transitions from doubt to belief after encountering “the most unforgettable man she would ever meet.” After building a conversational relationship with him that both charms and challenges her, she learns he is none other than Jesus Christ, and the experience changes her hopeless, ruined life to one of joy, peace and purpose.

It made me think about the hurdle many people face when confronted with the promise of eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ. How do you believe in and have a relationship with someone people say is alive but you cannot see? How do you know he is alive?

Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary defines faith as “firm belief in something for which there is no proof.” That’s Webster’s definition of faith, but Christians do not believe in something for which there is no proof. We have historical evidence and the testimony of many witnesses. Luke, a physician who set out to record “an orderly account” of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, reported that Jesus “gave many convincing proofs that he was alive” (Acts 1: 3, NIV), and Luke’s friend, Paul, the apostle, reported that Jesus appeared to more than 500 eyewitnesses at one time (I Corinthians 15:6).

Like the woman in the movie, we, too, can see Jesus. We see him in the countless men and women whose lives he has changed. But there's no substitute for a personal encounter with Jesus Christ. That's reason enough to believe.


Copyright © 2010

Born on the Fourth of July

My mother was born in Spirit Lake, Idaho on July 4, 1911. Her strong, no-nonsense personality intimidated some but those close to her knew she had a great sense of humor and a heart of gold. Although her time in history was not during America’s colonial period or its expansion westward, my mom was a pioneer woman. Her ability to make do and endure hardship was amazing!

Starting days by firing up a small stove in her kitchen with wood she often split herself, she worked from early morning to night, washing clothes in an old wringer washing machine; planting, maintaining and harvesting a huge garden; canning and freezing produce; sewing and mending clothes for her seven children; and making quilts. Amidst her busy schedule, she frequently found time and energy to host guests for Sunday dinner. Almost every weekend, when their children were in college, my parents welcomed numerous students into our home. Typically, the crew would arrive on Friday night and my mom would clean, cook and entertain the group until they left Sunday evening. I am still trying to figure out how my parents were able to finance hosting so many people on their meager income.

Over the course of her life, my mom influenced many to become followers of Jesus Christ and, through her letter writing and prayers, encouraged others along the journey. Her children were dependent on her prayers. When I found myself in difficulty, I often prayed that God would impress my mom to pray for me. I knew she had a connection with God, and He answered her prayers.

Although she may have done so, I do not remember my mother actually saying the words, “I love you.” But that has never mattered to me, because everything she did and said shouted that fact. There was no doubt! My mother loved me. I am a strong proponent of parents telling their children that they love them but, in analyzing my relationship with my mother, I am reminded that love is more than a noun—it is a verb.

I love you, Mom. You were a real firecracker!

Copyright © 2010

Be careful, little tongue, what you say

A professor for a university course I took a few years ago asked students to write a response to the following question: Why should words be important to followers of Christ? Ever since, I have been more conscious of the words I speak and more aware of the word choices of others.

There is great power in the words we say. “The tongue has the power of life and death” (Proverbs 18:21, NIV). When we speak negative, hurtful words into the lives of others, our words produce death and destruction, but “pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Proverbs 16:24, NIV).

Parents who call their children hurtful names or pronounce negative predictions in their presence will reap the words they sow. “In every home, it’s easy to sling around words without thinking,” writes author Joy Burgess. “The thing is, words can have long-lasting effects, especially on your children. The words you use with your children can either build them up or destroy their self-esteem.”

Glen Williams, director of E-Home Fellowship, Inc., defines verbal abuse as any language that causes harm. “Criticism, cursing, recounting past offenses, expressing negative expectations, yelling, expressing distrust—all are forms of verbal abuse,” says Williams. “Many have made their child a loser by calling him so. … All parents beware. Careless words can cause serious harm to children. Careless words can harm a spouse, as well.”

“I have known many couples who begin every serious confrontation with threats of divorce or by calling their spouses terrible names," writes Jimmy Evans, marriage counselor and director of Marriage Today. “Remember this, words are nuclear and eternal. ... People who don't understand this damage each other and ruin their chances at happiness.”

When I was a child, we used to sing, “Be careful, little tongue, what you say.” Regrettably, I have not always followed that advice. As a follower of Christ, I want the words I speak to communicate life, not death. I want to build up my spouse, children and friends, not knock them down. “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer” (Psalm 19:14, NIV).

Copyright © 2010

A bag of sugar-coated gumdrops

Recently, my husband and I were waiting in line at a building supply store. The woman in front of us was checking out her purchases. In her cart was her daughter, 3- or 4 years old, who was crying and screaming because she wanted to get out of the cart. After some resistance, the mom, understandably embarrassed by the commotion her little tyrant was causing, removed the girl from the cart and placed her on the floor. The child immediately took off and, in no time, was out of sight. The mother helplessly called the girl to come back but, because she was in the middle of her transaction, did not pursue the child. A short time later, the girl returned with a large bag of sugar-coated gumdrops and gave it to her mother, who proceeded to purchase the candy. The girl was all smiles as the two exited the store.

I couldn’t believe it! The little girl had not only won the battle, she had been rewarded for her rebellion. It was evident that the child was in control and the adult was not, and that an already established pattern had just been reinforced.

I don’t claim to have all the answers to this woman’s dilemma. It must be extremely difficult to parent in today’s politically correct culture where, if a parent disciplines his or her child in a way that seems too severe to a bystander, the parent risks being turned over to authorities for child abuse. Child abuse is definitely unacceptable, but political correctness (PC) has gone too far when a parent must refrain from appropriate discipline out of fear.

Such PCness does not protect children, it harms them. I shudder to think what the future holds for the child we saw in the store, and for her mother. With lack of discipline, where will the girl be at age 10, 15 or 18? Barring a miracle, the rebellious behavior established in her preschool years will follow her into adulthood and lead to numerous lifelong problems.

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:11).


Copyright © 2010

Saddle up your horses. We've got a trail to blaze!

I just returned from the funeral of my nephew, who died in a tragic accident, and, once again, have been prompted to think more deeply about life and death. My nephew was a charismatic man who embraced life and lived it with joy and enthusiasm. I believe in the blessed hope, that those who are followers of Jesus go to heaven but, initially, his passing overwhelmed me with a sense of fatalism. How could someone so vibrant and full of life suddenly be dead, gone? Why? When I woke up the morning after the accident, I didn't want to get out of bed. I felt incredible heaviness and depression, and told myself life is too painful, too hard.

Each day, my husband and I read several passages from the Bible and, that day we read, "The path of the wise leads to life above; they leave the grave behind" (Proverbs 15:24). It was a reminder that my nephew, a follower of Christ, was not actually dead. He is in heaven, still alive! He is gone from this earth, for sure, but lives on. If we, too, accept the free gift of salvation and follow Christ, we will live eternally. Such hope puts a whole different perspective on the passing of a loved one.

On the day of the funeral, Steven Curtis Chapman's song "The Great Adventure" kept going through my mind and it occurred to me that the lyrics describe the life of my nephew. Afterward, I learned from my son that, when he worked with my nephew in the early 1990s, "The Great Adventure" was one of my nephew's favorite songs.

Life is a great adventure, a gift from God to be embraced with enthusiasm. The task for those of us still on this earth is not to allow grief or hardship to stop us, but to do as my nephew did: Live life to the hilt, doing our utmost to follow Christ into the glorious unknown and the exciting adventures he has planned for us.

The Great Adventure

Started out this morning in the usual way. Chasing thoughts inside my head of all I had to do today.
Another time around the circle, try to make it better than the last.
I opened up the Bible, and I read about me. Said I'd been a prisoner and God's grace had set me free.
And somewhere between the pages, it hit me like a lightning bolt.
I saw a big frontier in front of me, and I heard somebody say, "Let's go!"


(chorus)
Saddle up your horses. We've got a trail to blaze! Through the wild blue yonder of God's amazing grace.
Let's follow our leader into the glorious unknown. This is a life like no other ... this is The Great Adventure!


(bridge)
Come on, get ready for the ride of your life. Gonna leave long-faced religion in a cloud of dust behind.
And discover all the new horizons just waiting to be explored. This is what we were created for.


(chorus)
Saddle up your horses. We've got a trail to blaze! Through the wild blue yonder of God's amazing grace.
Let's follow our leader into the glorious unknown. This is a life like no other ... this is The Great Adventure!


We'll travel over, over mountains so high. We'll go through valleys below.
Still, through it all, we'll find that this is the greatest journey that the human heart will ever see.
The love of God will take us far beyond our wildest dreams.

Yeah ... O, saddle up your horses ... come on, get ready to ride!


(chorus)
Saddle up your horses. We've got a trail to blaze! Through the wild blue yonder of God's amazing grace.
Let's follow our leader into the glorious unknown. This is a life like no other ... this is The Great Adventure!

Copyright © 2010