Happy (early) Father's Day

            As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him. Psalm 103:13, NIV

             

           That’s a difficult statement for those of us who had less than healthy relationships with our less than godly fathers. My dad’s slogan was, “Stop crying before I give you something to cry about.” When I was twelve, my parents divorced, due to my father’s long history of infidelity. Although he had unlimited visitation and lived about a half hour away, I only saw my dad a few times a year.

            I thank God for providing me with different images of fatherhood.

            Mr. Roberts, my spiritual father, encouraged my first wobbly steps as a believer, prayed for me, and chauffeured me to any Christian youth event in northern New Jersey.

            My father-in-law was a comical and infuriating grandfather, sneaking chocolate to my son who hadn’t eaten his Easter dinner. My favorite memory of him is how he carried my sons in his arms, serenading them with all the verses of “Pop Goes the Weasel” and “It Is No Secret What God Can Do.” Once he ran half a block in his socks, carrying my oldest to see a train up close.

            My younger brother Tim matured from an entertaining uncle to an involved father, once cooking a double batch of that awful boxed macaroni and cheese that kids love so much, and serving it to his boys and mine.

            My husband Gene sobbed with relief after locating our preschool son, momentarily missing at a boardwalk amusement pier. Early in his fathering career, Gene learned to diagnose ear infections, using his own otoscope to peer into tiny ear canals. Much later, he mastered college financial aid applications. Even with the boys grown, Gene remains the go-to person for health issues and malfunctioning cars.             

            Those are just a few snapshots of good fathering, and I have many more in my album. Thanks to these men, I can better envision the compassion of Father God. 

           Is there a man in your life who has shown you the character of God? Wish him a Happy Father's Day from me.

My Brush with Dance

            In a Secret Place devotional, Norma Vera writes about attending a dance recital where a toddler—not part of the class—danced in the aisle throughout the event, oblivious to everything but the music. 

            Reading that reminded me of my own brush(es) with dance.

            One December, a bunch of us packed a borrowed church van—which by the way, had no heat—and drove to Philly for a performance of the Young Messiah. The "Hallelujah Chorus" overwhelmed me as a dancer, garbed in layers of floaty white, twirled to the joyful music. I wanted to be that woman, unreservedly worshiping God.

            Several years later at a women’s conference, I leaped at the opportunity to participate in a worship dance class. Our instructor taught us simple motions to accompany a powerful, encouraging song. (Simple, but unfamiliar to my muscles. I could barely walk or move my arms afterward.) On Sunday morning I experienced my Young Messiah moment as we danced to the Lord in the worship service. 

            Pure joy.

            People don’t dance in my church. If we did, someone would call 9-1-1. So I’d not repeated that experience until I left the United States with my students and my co-chaperones.

            In a Jamaican church, I encountered the dancing grannies. One especially looked like an old-fashioned, reserved grandmotherly type with her graying hair and conservative dark green skirt and jacket. But when the music started, watch out! Those grannies pulled as out of our seats, and soon we were all awkwardly dancing in the aisles. No way could we match their moves, though. Not even the seventeen-year-olds.

            I’ve danced in that same Jamaican church three times now (and Grandma always wears the same dark green suit), but when I’m stateside I worship in a stately (spelled b-o-r-i-n-g) fashion. 

            However, a few years ago, Donna Bridge of Kingdom Kidz taught me to use puppets in a ministry team. To my surprise, my puppets are not at all reserved in expressing their praise to God. They clap, lift their hands, and dance exuberantly…while behind the curtain I tap my feet and move to the music. 

Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name. Psalm 142:7, NIV

The Amazing Apostle

Reading comic books as a child, I learned the source of Superman’s strength: He was born on the planet Krypton which orbited a red sun. When he came to Earth, our yellow sun gave him superpowers. I followed his adventures on our black and white television as George Reeves flew around in ill-fitting leotards, and years later in Technicolor on the big screen as Christopher Reeve sported a more expensive and better tailored costume.

As a teen, I discovered Spiderman comics. Though an ordinary human, Peter Parker gained amazing strength when a radioactive spider bit him. I watched his animated series with my younger brother—it might have been in color, but we still had a black and white TV—and the catchy theme song still bounces around in my brain:

Spiderman, Spiderman, friendly neighborhood Spiderman…

Is he strong? Listen, Bud. He’s got radioactive blood…

Good rhyming poetry sticks with a person.

Of course I saw the Tobey Maguire movies, and I plan to see the newest incarnation of the Amazing Spiderman, starring Andrew Garfield. (Who is he?)

I also admire heroes other than those in comic books. I enjoy reading the apostles’ adventures in Acts. I marvel at Paul, who seems to be a New Testament superhero.

What gave Paul the power to preach and plant churches, heal the sick and raise the dead, survive shipwrecks and beatings, and write for the bestselling book of all time?

More astounding than the sun’s color or a spider’s venom, Paul’s strength came from his weakness.

At first Paul struggled against a limitation, which he called “a thorn in the flesh,” until Jesus assured him, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT).” Paul described that power as the force that raised Christ from the grave—talk about superpowers!—and Paul declared it’s available to every believer (Ephesians 1:19 – 20).

With Christ’s muscle, instead of reading about superheroes, I can be one. And so can you. What heroic deeds are scheduled for today? Listen to a friend. Smile at a stranger. Meet a need. Love an enemy. Keep my mouth shut. The Bible is bursting with ideas for superheroes.

But let’s just wear our regular clothes, okay?

“Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the LORD Almighty.  Zechariah 4:6, NIV

Happy Anniversary, Blog!

Today is the one year (plus one day) anniversary of my blog. In a shamefully lazy (but hopefully clever) move, I am re-posting my first ever blog post, "July 4th means never having to say your highness." Since last Independence Day, we've experienced one more British royal spectacle, the diamond anniversary of the queen. While I enjoyed watching the adoring Brits responding to the queen's little hand wave on the telly, I still have to say, "Uh, no." As Russell Brand says, we're getting ready to elect a new king here in America, and as flawed as the process and the two candidates are, I think we'll stick with them for the foreseeable future.

JULY 4th MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY "YOUR HIGHNESS"
(a summer rerun)

With William and Kate on our side of the pond, the media rushes to remind us of the proper way to address royalty. “Your Majesty” has fallen out of style, so begin with “Your Royal Highness” and drop back to a respectful Ma’am or Sir.

Uh, no.

Methinks we fought a war about this a couple of hundred years ago. Unlike Canada and more than four dozen other nations, we severed our ties with British royalty when John Hancock, president of the Continental Congress, signed his name large enough for King George to read without his spectacles.

Now we’re just friends with Britain. Good friends. Very good friends that saved their, um, tushies during two world wars.

So if you run into Willie and Kate, you have my permission to address them as equals:  

Dude!

Hey youse guys!

How are youinz doing?

Or whatever passes for friendly in your corner of these independent United States of America.

Happy 4th of July. May all your princesses be Disney.

Waddle Time

            The childhood me was painfully thin. Mom would tear up watching me walk off to school, my legs like two pick-up sticks in my colored tights. When I was in junior high, Mom promised me a new wardrobe if I added to my 85 pounds. She dragged me to a doctor, who prescribed an iron tonic with a not surprisingly rusted flavor. My brother suggested if the potion worked, Mom should buy the doctor a new wardrobe.

            A decade later, newly married and on the Pill, my girth swelled to 105 pounds, giving a snug fit to my previously loose size 4 1/2 engagement ring.

            Penny was even skinnier than I, proudly possessing several extra inches of height. She looked more classy than emaciated, owing to her stylish hairdo, impeccable southern girl makeup, and chic wardrobe. She worked as a secretary, while I manned a desk in acquisitions in the same seminary library in the mid 1970s. We were earning our PhT—Putting Hubby Through.

            Each evening by the time she’d worked eight hours, retrieved her adorable toddler from day care, and fixed supper for her good-looking husband (southern girls don’t cook; they fix meals), she had no appetite. She told me her husband would urge her, “Eat a little! It’s good!” as he appreciatively wolfed down his meal.

            All the other library wives worried as Penny remained skinnier than I. But Penny had a vision for the future.

            “Someday, Roberta,” she told me, a faraway look in her eyes and a smile playing on her thin lips, “years from now, we’ll run into each other somewhere. And we’ll both be so fat that we’ll waddle toward each other…”

            “And bounce off each other when we embrace…” I added hopefully.

            “And we’ll go out for lunch. And we’ll have to sit at a table…”

            “Because we won’t be able to fit in a booth!” I encouraged her.

            We continued to fantasize about our future as plus-size women: Comfortably cushioned laps for grandchildren. Elastic waistbands. Bras that were functional rather than decorative.

            Decades have passed, and I haven’t yet run into Penny. However, now that four pregnancies and menopause have run over me, I am living her dream.

            It’s waddle time.

            My celery stalk figure has morphed into the dreaded apple, complete with visceral fat. Visceral! What does that even mean? It means my abdominal organs are cushioned with blobs of fat, giving me the appearance of late second trimester pregnancy, although my last baby just turned twenty-two. The dictionary rudely suggests “visceral” exudes “coarse, base, earthy, or crude emotions.”

            Well, you would, too, if you had to look in the mirror and see that.

            On the other hand, pear-shaped women carry subcutaneous fat on their hips, derrieres, and thighs. Subcutaneous—do you hear the “cute” in “sub-cute-aneous”? These women are praised in rap songs about “booty.” What’s more, their cute fat poses few health threats, while my visceral fat has me shopping for a plus-size coffin.

            To postpone my demise and guarantee my survivors won’t have to hire extra pallbearers, I’ve begun the Pare-Your-Apple-to-the-Core diet and fitness plan. A medical doctor, whose qualifications include publishing a book and selling it to my local library, promises losing two inches from my waistline will decrease my risk of death from heart attack and stroke, improve my mood, and bring peace to the Middle East.

            What waistline?

            This doctor—whose book jacket photo reveals she is neither an apple nor a pear, but a string bean—discourages weighing portions and counting calories. Instead, she divides proteins, carbs, and fats into Elite, Better, Good, and Wasted Calories. My life is now an all-you-can-eat-Elite-food buffet. Drench those legumes with tofu dressing!

            I’m having a bit of trouble mastering these categories, since my previous experience classifying foods was limited to milk vs. dark chocolate. Whole wheat toast is Elite…unless you put Good jelly on it, and then it’s Better…I think.

            The great thing is, this diet allows me to eat whatever I want one day each week. So, while I used to make poor choices every day, now I only get Wasted on Sundays.

            As I stir vanilla soy milk into my coffee, I nostalgically remember my half and half addiction…just last week. (I’m wearing a patch.) I raise my mug to Penny, who was even skinnier than I.

            If you run into her, let her know her fat friend is looking for her.

            (Thank you, Linda Au, humor writer, for your helpful edits. Penny is a fictitious name for a real woman...a very skinny real woman.)