Duct Tape, Name Tags & Restroom Stalls...

There is no doubt in my mind a mere fraction of this story is credible, however it made for interesting conversation during this morning’s drive to elementary school:

Me: Where’s your ID badge?
Pea: In the basket at school.
Me: That’s a good idea, then the badges can stay fresh for the next day.
Pea: But they DON'T! Because there’s this boy who takes scissors and cuts them all in half.
Bug: (a.k.a. my innocent and gullible child) No! How does he do that?
Pea: In the restroom. In the second stall, the one without the lock.
Bug: The stall with all the…bad words... written in pencil?
Pea: Yes, he writes the bad words on the wall everyday and then cuts up name tags!
Bug: Do you have to glue your badge back together?
Pea: (And my little Kentucky girl shines through…) We just use duck tape.
Bug: What color duck tape, the black color or the gray color.
Pea: Gray. Everyone’s ID badge is taped together with gray duck tape and put in a basket.
Bug: I saw D word and the S word in the bathroom!
Me: (Slight panic, but remaining silent to encourage conversation, as the two have forgotten I am in the car at all, let alone driving.)
Pea: Did you see the F word? (shrinks to a whisper) F-U-N-K-Y.
Bug: Funky? Why is that a bad word?
Pea: BECAUSE.
Bug: Well, it’s not as bad as the D word (shrinks to a whisper) You know, D-U-M-B. Or the S word (whisper) S-T-U…I’m not even going to say the rest!
Pea: At least the kid who wrote it gets detention every single day. He has to sit in the classroom. But the bad thing is, he sits near the BASKET.
Bug: The basket of name badges!
Pea: Yes. And it will only be a matter of time before he finds more scissors and starts cutting them in half again!
Bug: (gasp) Maybe this time you can use a different color of duck tape to fix them.

The Writing On The Wall

“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will RESCUE us from your hand, O King. But EVEN IF HE DOES NOT, we want you to know, O King, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
Daniel 3:17From what I’ve been told, one cannot possibly be rescued until one completely gives up. Not give up hope, but rather give up self-effort to save one’s self. My brother spent several summers as a youth camp counselor. He was trained as a lifeguard, among other supervisor and survival skills. I was fascinated to learn a struggling swimmer cannot be rescued. If a lifeguard approaches a drowning victim, and that victim is thrashing her arms and legs about in an attempt to save herself, she cannot be rescued. Only at the point when the sinking swimmer stops her own efforts can she be saved. Once she completely surrenders control of herself to the lifeguard, she can be saved from herself, rescued from the abyss.
Parts of Isaiah overlap chronologically with the book of Daniel. As you know, I’ve been into the books of prophecy lately. And Daniel is a particularly mesmerizing character. He interprets dreams, and supernatural writing on the wall of the palace. So I was reading Daniel the other night, it’s a short book, only a few chapters. I was trying to absorb the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, three Jewish men who were chosen to enter King Nebuchadnezzar’s service after the king captured Jerusalem. When the three refused to worship an idol of gold, they were thrown into a fiery furnace. I’ve heard this story a million times, maybe more. But the reply of the three men never really struck me until now. Their trust in the LORD is so powerful, they proclaim: “Our God CAN save us, but even if He chooses NOT TO rescue us, we will worship Him alone, we refuse to worship any false god”. It’s that last part that hit me. The “even if God does not” rescue us part.
I want to have that kind of trust in the LORD. A faith so powerful I recognize the sovereignty of God’s plans over my plans, and worship Him even when He chooses NOT to rescue me according to my request. I want to stop thrashing about, trying to save myself, and surrender to His rescue, even when that rescue appears nothing like a rescue at all. Even when that rescue involves the world crashing down around me and those I love most.
And so I was pondering these things this past week. Where I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in a dark corner of The Happiest Place On Earth while my husband, the Bug and The Pea were waiting in line for a roller coaster. But that is another essay for another time. And I began to feel, (to know?) that God was not going to deliver me according to my wishes, my pleas. He is able to, but this time, He will choose not to. The rescue will come in the form of a peace, a peace regardless of circumstances. And I so desperately desire to trust my sovereign Lord.
We had a late flight home yesterday, so the four of us spent the morning doing some last minute souvenir shopping. All of a sudden the Pea grabbed my hand and shouted, “LOOK MOMMY!” as she pointed toward the sky. I glanced up to see a small jet writing letters with white condensation cast against the blue heavens. We took a seat on a nearby bench and watched as the pilot finished his thoughts, one puffy letter at a time. JESUS LOVES, he wrote. We continued on to lunch, and headed toward the shuttle for our return trip to the airport. As I climbed on the bus, I took one last look back toward what we were leaving, as we returned to our reality. And in the sky I saw my own writing on the wall, quite literally, as the pilot traced another thought: TRUST JESUS.

Paranoid Parade Preparation & Permanent Pens...

“Even these may forget. Yet, I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands”.
(Isaiah 49:16) Rookie as I am, I was more than a bit concerned that my curious young ‘uns would wander off. After all, this was our first Mardi Gras parade, and there would be LOTS of people there. What if my kids reached out to catch a strand of beads, turned back around, and couldn’t find us?
As such, I prepared a bit differently than I would for our usual outings. Step 1 of Paranoid Parade Preparation: we ALL wore the same thing. All of us donned purple, gold and green tie-dyed T-shirts. (“Yes Officer! She was right here! I just turned away for a second! Her shirt looks like this!” I screech as he eyes the rest of my family in identical apparel.)
Those who know me well realize I’m fond of buying pairs of clothes for trips. Two of everything. Then I dress the kids alike each day of our journey, especially when large crowds are involved. Of course, the Bug & the Pea are so accustomed to the routine, they realize complaining will do no good.
“Yes dear, I know you’d rather wear your leotard and flip-flops, but it’s easier for me to keep track of you if you’re both wearing this purple shirt and skort.”
The kids are well rehearsed, they usually smile and shake their head when folks comment. Sometimes my ploy backfires substantially. For instance, we’re standing in the eternally long line for the public women’s restroom in a rest area.
“Oh look Ethel! Twins!” says the lady bent over the cane, pointing to the Bug & the Pea with a crooked finger.
Ethel smiles and joins in, “Oh, look at the oldest, with that curly hair!”
The Bug replies with her standard, “Oh we’re not twins. Mom just likes to keep track of us.”
The Pea is quick to add, “I am taller, but I am NOT the oldest, I’m the youngest!”
The Bug furls her eyebrows, clinches her fist and punches her sister. Before you know it, we have a knock-down drag out in the rest area restroom in front of shocked, well-meaning strangers. But I digress…
Ornery as the girls are, they are my own. They belong to me, I love them, and I’m in charge of taking care of them. Step 2 as far as Paranoid Parade Preparation involved a permanent Sharpie marker. I gently held the Bug’s squirmy hand in mine and wrote my name and my cell phone number. I figured if they got lost, and panicked, they wouldn’t have to remember who to call and how, because all they needed would already be written on their hand. (The Pea wasn’t satisfied with having my name and number only on her hand. She grabbed the marker and proceeded to scrawl ginormous numbers down both legs and arms until she was an inky mess. “Look Mom! It’s even on my knees!” Oy.)
A few weeks ago, I saw Toy Story I & II for the first time. (I know, I’m really on top of the whole current movie situation, huh?) Toward the end of the sequel, Woody is faced with two astronaut toys that look identical. He tries to figure out which one is the REAL Buzz, his best friend. Buzz thinks fast, and lifts up his plastic boot for Woody to see the inscription: ANDY. Woody and Buzz both belonged to a little boy named Andy, and Andy had marked each toy to identify ownership.
There’s a verse in Isaiah where the LORD is assuring the people of Israel that they are His chosen ones, they belong to Him. They have been disobedient and downright ornery, and they will face the consequences. But the LORD will bless them, comfort them, and renew them. Isaiah, the prophet, predicts the response in chapter 44:5:
“One will say, ‘I belong to the LORD;
…still another will write on his hand, ‘The LORD’s,’
And will take the name Israel.” I love the idea of my name being inscribed in the Lord’s palm, and of me writing the name of the Lord on my own hand. It speaks to love, and belonging, and comfort, and hope in the midst of crisis. How much more powerful than the inked cell phone number of a parent is the engraving of our Sovereign Heavenly Father?
Long story…well, long: we had a lovely time at our first Mardi Gras parade, especially now that we call New Orleans our home. Perfectly safe and sound, separated only as the kids joined forces with newly met friends for jump-roping and a game of tag. And we caught hundreds of strands of beads, candy, and toys tossed from the beautiful floats as they glided down the streets. Amidst the throng of spectators, cheering and laughing and sipping Snow Balls.
And if you, too, were a parade-goer, and were paying extra special attention, you may have noticed two ornery little girls, in purple/green/gold tie-dyed t-shirts, lips bright blue from snow balls, carrying make-shift jump ropes of broken bead strands, covered from head to toe grass and sand from a game of tag, , so many beads around their neck that they could barely hold their head up as they leaped into the air, arms up, begging for more toys.
Those little ones, with permanent marker ink scribbled on their hands?
Well, those were my girls, they belong to me…