Fortune Cookie Faith

“Your troubles will cease and fortune will smile upon you.”

That’s what my fortune cookie said.

At first, I was excited. I saw myself in a hammock gently swaying in the warm summer breeze between two palm trees on a sandy white beach somewhere overlooking crystal clear water sipping a cold drink from a pineapple. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided that this would-be blessing could cause me more harm than good.

My dream bubble burst.

I thought if all of my troubles ceased, how would I mentally and spiritually grow? And if I couldn’t mentally and spiritually grow, how could fortune smile upon me? Hmm.

Pondering this, my mind wandered back to a time when I heard a wise man once say, “If you don’t have a problem (or more loosely interpreted ‘troubles’), you should get down on your knees and ask God what He’s got against you.” Interesting train of thought, wouldn’t you say? (This wise man was on his way to becoming a billionaire, married to his first wife.) He asked if everything came easy to you and me, would we appreciate what we have? Would be strive for more? Would we become bored with life? Would we be the people we are today if we didn’t have trouble in our past? And how would we treat others if we ourselves had no trouble?

They say that God never puts more on us than we can bear. I often feel He overestimates our tolerance level, don’t you? Your ‘troubles’ may be perceived to be greater than mine and mine greater than someone else’s, but through it all, here we are. I am beginning to embrace the idea that God is not as concerned with our comfort level as He is with our spiritual growth. Of course, He is not in the business of beating us down, but rather growing us up. In fact, the Bible goes so far as to say that we should consider it pure joy when we face trials of many kinds because the testing of our faith develops perseverance and perseverance develops maturity. (James 1:2-4 NIV)

This begs the question then of how much testing does one need to go through to develop the kind of perseverance that will lead to God’s type of maturity? I suppose one way to find out is to look in the mirror. Do you see more of Jesus and less of yourself than you did the day before? It can be a painful process, but an admirable goal and trouble might just be the catalyst that brings you closer to His image and farther from your own. Makes your head spin just thinking about it, doesn’t it?

Oh, by the way, that same wise gentleman who suggested we get down on our knees if we don’t have ‘trouble’ went on to say that when ‘trouble’ does come our way, we should be thankful for it.

Uh huh.

I’ve kept that tiny piece of paper with my fortune written on it. It’s tucked under the corner of the electrical outlet plate on the wall in my bathroom near my mirror. It’s not in my direct line of sight, but my eyes can find it when I need a gentle reminder that the testing I am going through is developing my perseverance and that perseverance is developing God-like maturity in me.

And about that part of scripture that talks about “considering it pure joy when ‘troubles’ do come,” well…I’m still working on that!

“Good”

The sunrise was spectacular this morning! The few low-lying clouds that stretched across the eastern sky looked as though they were made of white, fluffy, jumbo-sized cotton balls all bound together by marshmallow cream set on fire by God Himself. With the sunlight curtained by these beautiful clouds I didn’t have to drive staring blindly into the sun, steering by braille as I normally would at this time of day. Above all of the road noise, I heard that Wee Small Voice encourage me to turn off the radio and pray for everyone who came to mind. Immediately, I thought of Laurel, my new supervisor, who has MS. As I prayed I became one with Nature while barreling toward Fort Worth on I-20 at 72 miles per hour.

Tranquility filled my soul until my Zen-like state was interrupted by a woman who drove onto the freeway while talking on her cell phone. When I slowed down to allow her to pass, she slowed down too. When I accelerated in an attempt to get around her so that I could cross three lanes of traffic necessary for me to exit, she sped up. I don’t believe she intentionally tried to get in my way. Nevertheless, I missed my exit and was forced to take the next one. In my frustration I called her a ‘name’. What can I say? It just came out. And although I cursed the air, I didn’t stay frustrated for long. I think it’s because I now work with Laurel. I see her limp into work (or ride in on a motorized chair) and limp out of work to her ‘handicap’ van. I see her face flush to a bright pink because of her disability after a full day of work with no lunch break. But I do not hear her complain. In fact, my teeth hurt just being around her because she’s so sweet. She’s so soft spoken that I have to hold my breath, stay perfectly still, and read her lips to be able to decipher every word she says. I think I’ve even seen a halo appear above her head in the late afternoon sun when it is shining in through her office window at just the right angle much like one can see a rainbow after the rain.

Yesterday she rode into the office in her motorized chair, arriving just about an hour late. After a bit, she walked into my office with two files that I thought she wanted me to review. When she sat down at my desk and asked if I had a tissue, my first thought was she might be coming down with a cold. (She’s more susceptible to illness than I am.) After handing her the tissue box, she took two tissues and told me that she might become emotional because she had left her husband the night before, that she has been in an abusive marriage – one she just had to get out of. I know the look on my face revealed my total confusion and shock because I had no clue. The question I had to ask myself was ‘who would be abusive to this woman?’ I just couldn’t imagine anyone being mean to her, much less her husband.

They say that bad things happen to good people. If that’s the case, then I don’t want to be perceived as being ‘good’. Now that I have thought more about it, I’m not sorry that I cursed that woman and her cell phone this morning. After all, God will forgive me, right? Besides, I promised my son that I would jump out of a perfectly good airplane with him when he graduates from high school this spring. The last thing I need is for my parachute to not open.

Honestly, I do try to be a good person most of the time. You may not be able to see a halo hovering over my head in the late afternoon sunlight, but I would dare you to compare me with any of the saints – past, present, or future – just as long as you allow me to sit in my car alone in the garage when you do the comparison. I can be incredibly “good” there.

I Dream of Jeannie Genie Bottle

My daughter relayed a true story to me that she had heard in her 8^th grade English class about a dying old man and his caring neighbor. The old man, we’ll call him “Ed”, had family, but they were estranged at the time of his terminal illness. Knowing that his days were numbered, “Ed” asked his neighbor, my daughter’s English teacher, to help him plan his funeral and to oversee the care of his remains. He wanted his body to be cremated. Out of compassion for her neighbor, my daughter’s English teacher did just that. What she did not realize, however, was that her neighbor believed ‘overseeing the care of his remains’ meant that he would be moving in with her and her family permanently after the funeral. He bequeathed his urn to her in his will! Not knowing what else to do with “Ed”, my daughter’s English teacher decided to place his urn on her baby grand piano because “Ed” always liked music when he was alive. This story made me think about my own mortality and wonder who would be ‘overseeing the care of my remains’ after I go to heaven. Here’s my suggestion:

When I die, I want my body to be cremated, but unlike my husband who wants his ashes quietly released in the air on a gentle breeze somewhere – anywhere – as long as it is within the great state of Texas – I want my ashes to be stored in an urn that looks like the “I Dream of Jeannie” genie bottle. (I always thought that round, pink couch inside the bottle was so cool.) Then, I want my urn to be bequeathed to my two children so they have joint custody of me for one year.

I want my children to throw a party for me on my birthday and invite all of my friends still living for a sleepover afterwards. I’d like a gift from Santa Claus, (no coal please), even though I won’t do any chores around the house. I want them to take my urn to my grandchildren’s soccer games, dance recitals, and band concerts, driving from place-to-place at break neck speed trying to see if they can arrive at those various destinations on time, in one piece, still sane. And, I double dog dare them to do so without raising their voices. (I wasn’t very good at that.) I want a weekly trip to the mall with enough spending money to buy four new pairs of shoes each time I go. (A girl cannot have too many shoes.) And, finally, I want to go on vacation with each of my children and their families separately to some tropical paradise that has an endless white sandy beach. (It would be the first time ever that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting sunburn.)

The bottom line is I want payback for labor and delivery, taxi service, secret Santa assignments, and other various and sundry motherly duties I’ve performed for them over the years. Sound selfish? Maybe. But what if they had to work together to plan my birthday party? What if they had to work out a visitation schedule for me – 6 months on my son’s fireplace mantle and 6 months on my daughter’s? Maybe – just maybe – it would force them to actually use words when communicating with each other rather than the eye roll she gives him now at age 14 or the jeers he gives her at 17. What if all that collaboration would cause them to stop and think about all the good things their father and I have done for them so they, in turn, will do likewise for their children rather than remembering every single thing we’ve done wrong over the years (Good grief!)

And after that year – after they are quite tired of hauling my ashes around in that genie bottle – I’d like my children to scatter my ashes next to my husband’s. If I should pass before he does, which is a distinct possibility, I want my ashes to be spread among the tomatoes in Aunt Alma’s garden just as long as my daughter promises me that she will not let my husband marry a 20-something, ditzy blonde who looks great in a bikini. If that seems probable, I want my ashes to stay in that genie bottle and be put on my husband’s fireplace mantle as a constant reminder that he owes me too!