Immediately, my brain whirled with the scenarios. The dog had rabies. Never mind that she’d been up to date on her shots from the moment we got her and had been inside, basically all day. She’d gone mad and didn’t recognize me. She wouldn’t protect me even if she had to. But the more real and probable scenario? Someone was outside, trying to get inside. There was a prowler or intruder, and she was reacting.

Luckily, my dad lived nearby. I called him, anxiously explaining that “there’s something wrong with the dog” and “I’m afraid someone is outside.” I think I rambled on for a few more seconds, but the line was dead. He’d already come to my rescue.

About one minute later, I see headlights in my front yard, my dad driving his truck right through the grass and around the house. He came running up to my door, scrambling up the stairs, a gun in one hand, with a look of frazzled, adrenaline-charged concern. I felt instantly relieved. But then I saw the blood running down both of his legs. His shins were torn up, literally streaming with blood. Had someone attacked him? I wondered.

Quickly, I got him inside and got some towels to stop the bleeding. After we’d both calmed down a bit, he explained. When I called, he’d gone into severe alarm mode, taking off like a race horse, grabbing his handgun and dashing out the door in the dark. He’d miscalculated the location of some large barrel planters that were sitting by the garage door, running square into them, ramming his shins into the boards, sailing over them and landing with a roll on the ground, gun still in hand. How he managed to not fire that gun and injure himself even more severely is beyond me. My dad had a singular focus: To make sure I was safe, to help me. As I sat there cleaning his wounds, I couldn’t help but feel both incredibly loved and yet, guilty for causing all the trouble.

When we found out what was truly going on, I felt even worse. Turns out, the dog had found an open container of paint thinner in the garage and had inhaled the fumes. The darn dog was high. I had called out the posse for a doggie under the influence. There was no prowler. Boy, talk about feeling stupid. I apologized over and over, but my dad reassured me: He was going to make sure I was ok, no matter what. And I had done the right thing.

I have learned a lot from my dad over the years. He had a habit of tackling projects with abandon—jumping willy nilly into them without much of a plan, but a singular focus in mind. Fix it. Get R Done. Often, he suffered the consequences of that reckless determination. He was always sporting some new cut or bruise, and I’d ask, “What did you get into this time?” He taught me that having passion was a good thing, but you might need a good helmet.

Above all, I learned what love really means. Again and again, throughout my life, my dad has been the kind of person who is fearless when it comes to helping people. This characteristic—though noble in itself—has sometimes been interpreted as overreaching or attempting to control situations. But I interpret it differently. It’s love—when you aren’t afraid to get in the middle of someone’s mess. When I was a teenager, he routinely followed my friends and me around town to make sure we were staying out of trouble. Once, I was at a friend’s drinking party, and my dad showed up, knocked on the door and walked right in and hauled my booty home. He was forever—as they say—all up in my business. And, I never, ever resented it. It made me feel loved. And many times, it saved me from making a really bad choice.

In the final session of Beth Moore’s study of James, Mercy Triumphs, she addresses the concept of boundaries when attempting to help people. She gives two very good reasons why we don’t often get involved. First, it’s not pretty, the messes people are in. Secondly, we are at risk. She recalls Galatians 6:1: “Brothers and sisters, if someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted.” Once we step inside another person’s world, we are vulnerable to sin, as well—we may be tempted to indulge, give worldly advice, or judge. We may put ourselves or our families in danger. We may enable instead of help.

And yet God can and will use us to help others who are suffering the consequences of sin. Moore says, “God watches for someone willing to bring him or her back,” pointing out that sometimes, we are that person, and sometimes we are not. Discernment in this matter must be steeped in prayer and the Word. Moore calls for us to have “generous boundaries” with others.

Did my dad stop to pray and discern every time he stepped into my business? Most likely not. He simply acted in love. Oh that we could all see what God sees, innately—to simply know when we are called, specifically, to help someone within our reach. Oh that we were all so moved by love, to jump in with passion, with our whole hearts, ready to make it right again. Oh, that we were all so fearless, to embrace the blessing of generous boundaries.

“My brothers and sisters, if one of you should wander from the truth and someone should bring that person back, remember this: Whoever turns a sinner from the error of their way will save them from death and cover over a multitude of sins.” (James 5:19).

Pain is inevitable. When you do something you think you cannot do, you will experience pain, because you are fighting the human desire to give up. There might be emotional pain involved as you lose some part of yourself, such as long-held beliefs and perceptions about yourself or others. When the fight is over, and the strength has been put to the test, you will be changed. You will be looking at your life with a completely new perspective. And that can be scary. When I held on to an important relationship, I gave up my dignity and pride and allowed God to use me, even if I looked like a fool. And believe me, looking like a fool is painful. More than I care to elaborate on. What I gained was a closer relationship with God—who would be, rightfully, the center of any relationship I have. From that point on, I realized the reality of commitment: If God is the center, no earthly circumstance really matters. This is where you learn about perseverance. You keep your eyes on God, and keep holding on, even after the initial fight is won, and the pain has taken its toll.

The birth of my first child was an emergency c-section, and a horrible, scary experience. At one point during the delivery, the anesthetic from my spinal block had crept all the way up to my neck, immobilizing my arms, and slowing down my ability to breathe. I was literally fighting for every breath. While I went into severe panic mode, my doctor attempted to calm me, giving me specific instructions about how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I felt I was near death. I hung on every word she was saying. I had to get through it—the effects of the anesthesia were not going to go away. I was stuck with it. Emotionally and psychologically, I was in pain. I was afraid. But, I kept breathing, somehow. Lying in the recovery room afterwards, I cried and cried because I was convinced I’d never have another child. I could never go through something like that again; therefore, I was done. While I lay there waiting to see my son, there was a moment I will never forget. The nurses were on either side of me, trying to adjust something, and I felt a sudden jolt of inexplicable pain—nothing before or since could compare to it. The anesthesia had begun to wear off; I was feeling the effects of having my stomach sliced open. Believe me when I tell you: It was mind blowing. My sole thought was “Man, I’m hurt.” I begged for pain meds. Soon, I was back to some degree of normal. I cried more because the certainty of my never having another child was looming rather large. I had been through a frightening, life-changing event. And it hurt. Add to that mix the emotional mixed bag associated with not having had a “normal” labor and delivery (and feeling like a failure, as a woman, for having had a c-section) and you’ve got some injuries to attend to. I felt I’d lost my identity—I’d lost the picture in my mind of what it would be like. I’d lost hope that I’d have another child.

But then something happened. When I held my son for the first time, everything changed. I had lost something, yes—but, to quote myself, from my last blog: “I gained a whole lot more.” There, in my arms, was the product of my pain—right there, in flesh and blood. This—this lovely little creature—was living proof that I could do impossible things. This trumped pain, absolutely.

I had another child, of course, and I even had another c-section, an experience, in itself, that was infinitely more positive than the first, in a myriad of ways. I didn’t endure the breathing problems, or the same incision pain, or the self-criticism. I had accomplished what I thought I couldn’t, and the reward was immeasurable.

Throughout the Bible, you will find that great pain is described as a woman in labor. But pain, as we know, brings forth great things. In Matthew 24, Jesus predicts the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and describes how his kingdom will be established. He foretells wars and ruin, telling his disciples, “All these are the beginning of birth pains” (Matthew 24:8). Yes, it will be painful, but the end result is gonna be good.

Nothing great is accomplished without a measure of pain—be it emotional, psychological, or physical. To go through life with the deliberate intent to avoid it is to miss the good stuff on the other side. We are stronger than we give ourselves credit for. And we can do this. Even in the pain of life, something wonderful and meaningful exists. Let us stand in awe of it.

“At this my body is racked with pain, pangs seize me, like those of a woman in labor; I am staggered by what I hear, I am bewildered by what I see” (Isaiah 21:3).

I accomplished things in that class that I never thought possible. Me, the kid who was afraid to even ask a legitimate question in class, actually got up and delivered a dramatic performance of Goldilocks and the Three Bears—by myself—in character. What? Who? It was a defining moment. I could do impossible things.

The subject came up in Bible study recently: How will I persevere under trial? Can I persevere under trial? When the tough stuff comes, will I be prepared? Will I be strong enough? I admitted, this was one of my greatest fears. When faced with something really hard, I won’t be able to handle it. I will just crumple under the weight of fear, despair, heartbreak.

One of the ladies in my group—a kind, older lady with way more experience than me—looked at me very directly and proceeded to tell me how many of her family members she has lost, how many of her friends she had watched die of terrible diseases, how many heartaches she, personally has endured, explaining that you don’t know your strength until you get there. “And you know what?” She added. “You aren’t strong enough. But He is.”

As much as I dislike the thought that I am weak, it is the absolute Truth. I am so weak. The bad stuff accosts me with its “what-ifs” every day. And yet, I know, with some degree of certainty, that God will provide me with what I need to get through it. It will probably seem unnatural, impossible, and incomprehensible. It will not make sense, when that strength is revealed to me.

When I was in college, I was going through the produce section of a grocery store one day when a young girl came in—probably in her twenties. She had no legs from the hip down, and she was simply propelling herself across the floor with her hands. I remember distinctly the thought… God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle. And yet, I glanced at her, thinking… How? Why? I mean, what would be the point? First of all, why did she choose that method of travel, as opposed to a wheelchair, like most people? The whole scene baffled me completely. I ended up writing a poem about it later, touching on some other vivid stories I’d heard over the years, one of which was told by my junior high biology teacher, about a man who was baling hay and got a glove hooked on a moving part of the baler and forced himself to hold fast to the seat of the tractor as the machine took his arm. I remember being dumbfounded by that story. In my poem, I considered the question of strength…how someone might choose to do one thing or another. What if that man had simply given up and let himself be pulled into the baler? Where did this superhuman strength come from? And how do I tap into it?

The concluding lines from my poem:

Like the distanced
sensation of amputated limbs—
this was the strength I wanted to live for—
the quiet, uncalculated endurance—a mind
that stiffens to hold on to itself
when the world wants to take,
take.

The fact is that the world will take. It will disappoint, destroy and hurt us—if we let it. But someone’s got our back. And we have a choice, to let that strength in—to realize it, to own it, and to perform. We have to believe it’s there.

While my adventure in speech class is a silly example to illustrate a very serious, complex idea, the fundamental principle is the same: We don’t know how strong we are until we have to do it. If someone would have said I’d stand up in front of a group of my peers and act like Goldilocks, I’d have said they were crazy. But a small part of me believed in myself and I just held on and rode it out. It was one of the most disciplining times of my life.

As Beth Moore says in her study of James, “Trials are disciplines we do not choose.” And sometimes, those are the most powerful, life changing ones. We do not choose them, but they are ours and we can either roll up our sleeves and hang on, or we can let them go. It is those times that we hang on—even when everything within us says not to—that we learn the most.

I was once thoroughly betrayed by someone I loved. The relationship was in severe danger. My glove was caught in a baler and I wanted to just let go and let it pull me in, but I chose—I chose—to hold on, to find even a flicker of that inexplicable strength, and let it do its work in me. The outcome? I lost part of myself, but I gained a whole lot more.

I can do all things, through Christ who strengthens me. Phillipians 4:13.

I lost my wedding ring once. When I noticed it wasn’t in the usual spots, I panicked. After a search that included the refrigerator and the trash (yes, you could say it was thorough), I called my husband at work to ask him if he knew where it might be (as if) and also to warn him that I’d probably lost it. He was, thankfully, unruffled, and we went on about our day—or, at least, he did. I continued to fret and search. Finally, I decided that it was just gone. It was done. I started planning how we would replace it. Hours later, something possessed me to get down on my hands and knees and look under the dresser. When I didn’t immediate see it, I got the flashlight. There, in the corner, where the two pieces of wood on the base came together, I found it. It was completely hidden from the eye, and would have stayed hidden had I not reached my hand into that corner. I was, of course, overcome with relief. All was not lost.

In Moore’s accompanying video segment to the study of James, she tells a rather riveting story about her parents. As a young girl, she recalls feeling torn because she never saw her parents express love for each other. She grew up not knowing if they really loved each other. When her mother died, her father remarried and had, what she describes as “seven beautiful years” with his new wife. Upon her father’s death, Moore describes visiting their gravesite, simply looking at the stones, thinking, that was simply done and over with, there was no fixing it. Whatever was broken in her parents’ relationship could not be fixed. It was taken, broken, to the grave. Some months, later, Moore’s stepmother contacted her to say that she had something to give her that was her father’s: A letter she’d found in his wallet. The letter was from Moore’s mother, dated some fifty years earlier, telling her father how much she loved him and how proud of him she was. For Moore, this was the ultimate healing moment. Not only had her mother loved her father, she tells us, but he had “carried her love with him until the day he died,” thus confirming that whatever she’d perceived as broken between them, had not been severed. The love was there; she just hadn’t seen it.

The power of the Resurrection, according to Moore, brings wisdom and healing to things that we’ve long ago counted as over and done. When Jesus appeared to James—who had been an unbeliever—he represented a second chance. James would now have a chance to believe. No matter what we have done or how we may have denied truth, it comes back to us—it calls us back.

Just when you think it’s over, it’s just beginning.

Have you ever counted something as lost and it reappears? Have you ever given up on someone who suddenly surprised you? Have you ever found some detail about a lost loved one’s life that changed yours or gave you peace? Have you ever felt you’d done something so bad, so unforgivable, then been shown mercy?

As I’m writing this, I realize that my opening story about the ring isn’t quite good enough. It’s not grand and “big” enough to reflect the concepts that are swimming around in my head. It’s a very worldly example to explain a spiritual concept—and I’m not sure that’s appropriate. However, it speaks to the very real concept of loss—and how loss can be final in the worldly sense, but spiritually, loss is far more vast and meaningful than we can comprehend. And it’s not over. It never is—on this side of eternity. When the end is forever, we begin to understand that loss is impermanent. If we can begin to grasp this concept in the world, we are close to healing.

How often in life have I lost something only to miss the conclusion, the far reaching implications of eternity? How often have I missed the Resurrection? The mercy? The wisdom? How many times have I remained in my loss instead of looking deeper for its meaning? I pray that I would not miss the Resurrection. That I would not miss those times when God reaches His deliberate hand into both the important and seemingly insignificant places in my life. I don’t want to miss a thing.

Dear Lord, thank you for the resurrected Jesus, that we may find healing in all our brokenness, however small. Help us to remember that you know every corner of our hearts and to recognize when your deliberate hand is at work—to realize that when the door is closed on the dark tomb of circumstance, our hearts, or our minds, all is not lost. Deliver us to beginnings from endings, to wisdom from doubt.

I don’t remember how that story turned out. I have no idea if she was able to salvage any bread from that project. I can’t say whether my friend ever learned how to make bread properly. All I remember is that it was a funny story. And it’s significant now only because it popped into my mind after I ran across a compelling quote about excess in Beth Moore’s study of the book of James:

“Use it or abuse it. Several sources suggested that the sin of hoarding is more than just having. It’s having without using. The wickedness accelerates in the waste. In part, hoarding means withholding what we don’t even use from others who’d treasure it.”

Most of us became familiar with the popular connotation of the term hoarding via these t.v. shows that exploit people with real problems, those for whom (presumably) hoarding is a coping mechanism for some unnamed psychological conflict. Usually, these programs depict the most wretched, dismal environments imaginable—places that have been literally deemed unhealthy and unlivable. But what about those who hoard possessions and wealth?

I hear this phrase constantly: We have so much. (Not everyone, of course—to assume so would be ignorant). But we are blessed with much. Often, we have too much. So much that it overflows. It overflows and we don’t know what to do with it. Use it? Cram it in a container somewhere? Toss it and start over? Give it to someone who might need it? Where do we begin?

I’m not a big pet peeve person, but I do have one that’s relevant here: Drawers. I feel that no matter how much I clean out, organize, or get rid of, somehow those drawers keep getting filled. Imagine a house in some mythical place, where there is always an empty drawer, somewhere to stick that thing that’s always in your way—those dozens of things that accost you every day. I think having one, perfectly empty drawer would be my idea of heaven.

My drawers are crammed full. I can barely shut some of them. I’d venture to say that I don’t need 50% of what’s in them. But yet, I keep filling them up. Why?

I was recently called to help my brother with a family matter involving the estate of my aunt, who was moved into a nursing home last year. Financial and legal red tape was forcing a liquidation of everything she owned, and the family came in to start the laborious process of sifting through years of accumulated possessions. After mere minutes in that house, it was apparent that there was not an empty drawer in sight.

Indeed, we were dealing with…dare I say it? It bordered on hoarding.

I think all of us knew my aunt, in her whippier days, enjoyed her things. She collected teacups and vintage glassware, trinkets and knick knacks—things that a lot of people collect. But none of us were truly prepared for what we discovered there. As we delved deeper, we found, for example, entire drawerfuls of fancy paper napkins, placemats and plates, still in the packages, an army of lipsticks, perfumes, and all manner of hairsprays, lotions and concoctions. Enough towels (mostly unused) that, when stacked, covered an entire full size bed, two foot high. Rugs and sheets and blankets—should I mention that there were twelve fleece throws—yes twelve—brand new, still in the package? That there were upwards of two dozen unworn designer t-shirts, hanging in her closet (among scores of others articles of clothing)? Are you ready for the ultimate OMG moment? Some of the t-shirts were not only duplicate, but triplicate, in color and style. In other words, she had, in some cases, three of the same shirt? Boxes of brand new shoes that had never seen pavement. For what?

I am blown away by the multitude of beautiful, wonderful things in life. The new shoes, the sweet smelling perfumes, the precious heirlooms that sit in china cabinets. They are wonderful to have—to have the means to acquire. But I pray the Lord would reign not just over my inner life, but my outer life in the same measure.

I remember getting ready to move once when I was about thirty. At the time, my life was uncertain. My first husband and I had divorced. It wasn’t clear what I’d be doing, or where I’d be in the next few years. But, I’d gotten a decent job, and I was moving. A good friend of mine told me, in all his somewhat Zen inspired wisdom that it was best not to acquire things you don’t immediately need, because you will just have to lug them around with you. And isn’t it infinitely better—if you are on the move—to not be burdened down by things?

Oh yes, it is. I moved five times in five years. I know all about packing dozens of heavy college textbooks into boxes and lugging them up and down stairs. But, yet, I did it.

My mother is my aunt’s (her sister) polar opposite when it comes to things. She has made it her personal mission, I’m convinced, to create the most minimalist environment possible in her immediate space. I figured out early on (around the time I left for college) that I better take anything I might want with me, because the next time I went home, it might not be there. My mother got rid of everything, as soon as it wasn’t needed any more. I have no idea what happened to my roller skates. My Barbies. What the heck happened to my baton? I want to know these things, but it doesn’t matter now. The reality that my mother was the anti-hoarder settled in around the time she got rid of all the family pictures. But, that’s another story.

The point? I guess it goes back to “Use it or Abuse It.” And, I suppose, in my mother’s case: If you’re not using it, ignore the possibility that someone in your immediate circle might want it and get rid of it anyway. See, there are extremes in both hoarding and minimalism. Lord, I hope I am somewhere in the happy middle.

A happy middle, where I can put just the right amount of yeast in the mix. A happy middle where I have enough bread for dinner, and a few extra to fill a small section of my freezer. I can’t say that I’m necessarily low maintenance, that I don’t ask for much. That would be self-deceptive. Of course I do. We all do. But I hope that I can recognize when the dough—either by rich blessing, or miscalculation–has overflowed.

Reblogged from Good Sense:

Oh that we could retain that youthful audacity in the face of life’s trip wires—invisible, self-created or otherwise. Most of us go through life afraid to fail, afraid to attempt something that will not garner praise and accolades from our peers—and, more importantly, from those who are seasoned members of whatever “club” we are wanting to break into—whether it’s writing a book, running a marathon, building a stellar investment portfolio, or knitting a sweater. We want recognition for all our hard work, don’t we? Some validation that yes, we have done this—but not only that, it’s good.

Well, it’s more than probable that I wasn’t the best dancer of my generation, or of that particular dance floor, for that matter. In fact, it’s a 100% certainty. But it didn’t stop me from doing it. I can still dance badly in my living room and somehow, experience the exuberance of having just performed on a stage, in front of an enormous, adoring crowd. Isn’t is a miraculous gift that God gives us, to love ourselves, to love what we do?

I ran across the following question once—I can’t remember where: “What would you attempt for God if you knew you would not fail?”

Indeed. What would you attempt—period—in life, if you knew you would not fail? What would you attempt for God? For others? For yourself? For the world? Sit down and make a list. It might surprise you. Yours might contain silly, frivolous things like, say, changing your hair color. It might be to sing an entire song in front of an audience of people–Or, maybe things like starting a business without fear of failure, donating a large sum of money without fear of financial strain, telling someone you love how you feel without fear of rejection. What would you do if failure was simply not an option?

Is it possible to live our lives with such a mentality? Can we set out to attain our goals and dreams without, ultimately, fear of failure? Most certainly, yes. We can have faith in our abilities, our resources, our resolve. Will those things eliminate failure? No. Failures will always happen. Sometimes we will win and sometimes, we won’t. The difference is what we do with those failures.

As a writer, I have experienced hundreds of failures—some small, some that made me want to haul my computer, all my files and the contents of desk out to the end of the driveway and set it on fire. My latest project was rejected by small press publishers, major publishers, and agents probably close to 100 times—in the form of either no reply, a form letter, or a nice note simply stating “doesn’t suit our needs at this time.” I understand failure. I get it.

But there are some little words hanging out in the back of my mind. They are my dad’s words. I will never forget them, as long as I live. “You’ve got the world by the tail with a downhill drag.” In other words, you’ve got this. You can do this. And it’s going to be easier than you think.

Maybe. But maybe my dad never tried to walk behind a 50 pound dog, pulling a leash ahead of you, down a hill. Sometimes, the darn thing can take on a life of its own, and suddenly—how did this happen, exactly?—it’s pulling you instead of the other way around. Suddenly, your dream has taken the lead. Good—or bad? Well, that depends. If you want a little bit of exercise, a little challenge, keeping up with the dog is great. But if you’re just not in the mood, well, you’re going to feel exactly as you’d suspect: Pulled. Maybe the dog is someone else’s dream and it seriously needs to heel. Going downhill is easier, of course, but if it’s not your dream, then it’s still going to feel like a struggle.

Did I become a dancer? No. Did I enjoy it, on the journey to discovering what I really needed to do in life? Yes. But, if I’d not tried—if I’d lacked the fundamental courage in life to attempt things—to stare down failure in the face and have words with it, I might not have discovered my true talents. They would have stayed back there, a sad heap on a dance floor. I am reminded of one of my dad’s other truisms: “You always were a bit mischievious.” In other words, I have an agenda, and it may or may not fit in with what you want me to do, or even what you believe I am capable of doing. Yes, under this seemingly serious, quiet facade, lies a stubborn, sometimes defiant kid who just wants to dance, dang it. Leave me alone, already!

Nearly everything in life deserves another stab—or two, or three, or a thousand. Pick your dream. Make sure it’s what you want to do. Don’t let anyone tell you no. See it realized, in your mind, and never stray from it. Put God first. He already knows what you were designed to do anyway. If you’re good at something, that probably means he thinks so, too. I believe that everyone is gifted in something. Some of us find out what that something is, and some of us don’t–because we fall and simply give up. You can’t learn how to dance if you give up. The point is this: Jump up and start dancing again. It will prepare you for what is to come.

Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and he will establish your plans. Proverbs 16:3.
In their hearts, humans plan their course, but the Lord established their steps. Proverbs 16:9.

My own opinion is that adults do this, sometimes. They use their positions of power to intimidate, control, and demean those within their charge. One need only consider the recent Penn State scandal to be reminded just how ugly abuses of power can be.

While not even in the same ballpark as Pen State, I know about trusted adults who take liberties with their power, because I have experienced it myself.

My third year of college, I signed up for a Chaucer class. I have no idea what possessed me to do this. When I picked up the textbook, I thumbed through it and thought there had surely been some mistake. The whole stinking thing was written in a foreign language! What? Did someone expect me to read this? Hello? English major here. On the first day of class, I learned that it was, indeed English—who knew?—but that it was middle English, which basically meant it was one step somewhere between stone tablets and Shakespeare, I think. Anyway, non-technical linguistic definitions aside, I was sunk before I even started.

For reasons, I’m not quite sure, I worked my tail off that semester. I read that middle English, and those positively dumb and ridiculous stories; I took meticulous notes; I highlighted, dog-eared, and otherwise riddled my textbook with all manner of post-its, bookmarks and tears. When it came time for the semester test—which was to memorize—yes, memorize, in middle English, i.e., a foreign language—the first twenty-some-odd lines of the Canterbury Tales, I was ready. I’d written it a hundred times over. I’d read it out loud, whispered it under my breath in the grocery store, played it in my head to the beat of T.Rex playing on my Walkman as I walked, walked, walked, all over campus and beyond, all for the glory of the perfect recitation. For weeks, I ate, slept, and breathed Chaucer. I even had the accents down, thank you.

When test day came, I performed. I nailed it. I was sure to get an “A.” I could feel it. The professor—a short, bald little man with thick round glasses—had other ideas, though. There was to be a pop quiz—a spontaneous reading from the text, just to make sure I’d gotten the lingo. He instructed me to turn to a pre-selected page, and I did so, and began reading. It was going well. I was sailing through it with flying colors. About half way through, the back of my neck started to feel warm. The flush crept up my neck and to my face and I struggled to continue. See, my professor had chosen what could politely be referred to as the “bawdy” parts of Chaucer for me to recite—the surliest, most embarrassing part of the entire Canterbury Tales—apparently, sex and potty jokes were big in Middle English. What was he up to? Why—of all the hundreds upon hundreds of lines of Chaucer—did he choose those? When I came to the end of the assigned section, I nearly gulped for air.

He then proceeded to spew out a layer of praise that would make even the most easygoing, confident person on the planet want to turn and run. You have an extraordinary grasp of the language, you have a master of pronunciation, very impressive—ad nauseum. Which would have been fine, had he not just contributed to quite possibly the most humiliating moment of my life, right there in the sacred halls of Englishdom. But then, the kicker. He said, quite plainly—and arrogantly, I might add—“I suppose you’ve gotten over the fact that you’re pretty by now.”

Excuse me? What the hell? There were so many things wrong with what had just transpired that I couldn’t even begin to list them. First of all, no, I didn’t think I was all that pretty. Secondly, how exactly does one get over being pretty? And finally, what does being pretty—or having come to terms with it, for that matter—have to do with my performance as a student in his class? I wanted to scream. I was pissed—no, I was seething, by the time I left that office. I ended up saying what probably anyone in the same situation would say. Nothing. I simply sucked it up and left without a word.

Do adults sometimes intentionally intimidate? Embarrass? Test? Do they create situations to gauge the limits of their own desires or self-imposed delusions of grandeur? My answer, of course, is, unequivocally, yes. Had I been older, more mature, and not completely out of place in my own skin, I might have reported that professor’s behavior. I might have pointed out, quite eloquently, that I did not have to put up with such treatment. I might have stood up for myself. But I was just a kid, really. And kids sometimes can’t be trusted with their own hearts when they lack the courage or wisdom to know what they need, and what they are worth.

I know now. I will teach my children, particularly my daughter, that those in power are not always right, that she can trust her instinct, and that I will back her up 100% when she is confronted by a situation that pierces her sense of self-worth—whether wounded by the actions of someone she trusts, or some random assault. I will teach her, as written in Proverbs 4:23: Above all else, guard the heart, for it is the wellspring of life.

In the 1920s, an unknown farmer named Wilson Bentley devised a way to photograph the intricate design of snowflakes using his own equipment.  Over several years, he perfected the method, producing some 5,000 photos, going on to garner attention from the scientific community, which honored him as a pioneer in the field of photomicrography. (http://snowflakebentley.com/WBsnowflakes.htm).  Bentley lived a modest life; he certainly didn’t die rich.  You could say his ingenious work was the proverbial labor of love that was the likely origin of the well-known phrase, “No two snowflakes are alike.”

Acording to CalTech researcher Kenneth G. Libbrecht, it is safe to assume no two snowflakes are alike:  “Now when you look at a complex snow crystal, you can often pick out a hundred separate features if you look closely. Since all those features could have grown differently, or ended up in slightly different places…. Thus the number of ways to make a complex snow crystal is absolutely huge. And thus it’s unlikely that any two complex snow crystals, out of all those made over the entire history of the planet, have ever looked completely alike”  (http://www.its.caltech.edu/~atomic/snowcrystals/alike/alike.htm).

 Is this near limitless potential the result of the random molecular activity, or the product of intentional, carefully considered design?  Are complex structures like snowflakes merely nature’s evidence of an intelligent designer?

The term “intelligent design” (ID) has been circulating in scientific communities for years.  With regards to living organisms, the IDEA (the Intelligent Design and Evolution Awareness Center), defines ID thus:  “intelligent design implies that life is here as a result of the purposeful action of an intelligent designer, standing in contrast to Darwinian evolution, which postulates that life exists due to the chance, purposeless, blind forces of nature” (http://www.ideacenter.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/1136).

One way to understand ID is to look at an organism’s CSI (complex and specified information), which basically means that the processes of a natural organism are deliberate and functional.  If an organism uses all its parts to function, if it requires all its parts, it has a high CSI, which basically means it was intelligently designed.  According to Darwinian theory, life is random.  ID says it’s purposeful, all pieces working together in a perfect system.

How do we make the leap from something that is a perfect system to one that is simply unique and beautiful?  If function were the most important gauge of a perfect design, why bother with the beauty and variety that literally abounds in our universe?  If the universe were merely the product of an intelligent designer—rather than God, the author and creator of all things—wouldn’t it be simply boring?  Would we be surrounded with the multitudes and layer upon layer of color, texture, and artistry that is our natural world?  We certainly don’t need snowflakes, much less require them to be so fascinatingly diverse and beautiful.

We have yet to scratch the surface of what God has in store for us.

For example, did you know that the human eye can only perceive about 10 million out of an infinite number of colors?  Because color is affected by light, viewing conditions, and even the particular way each individual sees it, color possibilities are endless. (http://www.cis.rit.edu/fairchild/WhyIsColor/files/ExamplePage.pdf).

There are colors we have never even seen, combinations until the end of time.  Infinite possibilities.

Let me take this a step further.  Did you know that there are as many as 100 million different species of living things on the earth and that science has only identified about 2 million of them (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20109284/).  Further, scientists say that about 99.9% of all species become extinct. (http://nitro.biosci.arizona.edu/courses/eeb105/lectures/extinction/extinction.html).  This suggests that species can die off before we ever discover them.  Species that existed millions of years ago do not exist today, and species exist today that didn’t exist a million years ago.  Further, the process of identifying a new species is a tedious, laborious process.  In fact, scientists don’t even agree on how to define a species, according to the University of Michigan.   While some distinguish according to appearance, others distinguish based solely on biological characteristics  (http://www.globalchange.umich.edu/globalchange1/current/lectures/speciation/speciation.html).

There may be an endless number of “species” on our planet—the creative combinations, endless.

Did God design our world this way, as evidence of his infinite creative genius? I believe so—but He is more than just an intelligent designer…

As much as I like the idea of intelligent design—as a reasonable affront to Darwinism at the suggestion of a creator—it doesn’t quite hit the mark.  God is an inventor, and invention is, by definition, creative—and creativity can be a messy, chaotic and beautiful process.  A beautiful design can be born out of experimentation, playing around with possibility, and it can even be accidental.  While the intention behind creative work is deliberate and purposeful, the end result is not always planned.  That said, let me be clear:  Life is the result of intention and purpose.  It doesn’t just happen.  As a creative force, God knows what He is doing.  But He isn’t just interested in a universe full of efficient machines.  He isn’t simply a designer.  He is a Creator, who loves everything he makes, whether it is perfect or not.  Look into the eyes of a child born with a severe disability and you will see the hand of God.

I have no idea what Snowflake Bentley had in mind when he set out to capture these amazing images, no idea what religious beliefs, if any, he had.  But what’s clear is that he saw the beauty and value in something to which most people would never give a second thought.  I believe this is how we come to know God.  We see him in the small, seemingly insignificant places, and when we look in those places with a more discerning eye—a mind and heart interested in the depth of life—we see the loveliest, most complex masterpiece we have ever seen. If we dare to look, we see that truly, “no two are alike.”  And that is just fine with me.  It just means God’s labor of love never ends.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:10-12

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  Psalm 139:13-15

Fox news recently interviewed Dr. Steven Garner, New York Methodist Hospital Radiology Chair, on the Massachusetts  case, citing several animals that are known to carry rabies, including bats, raccoons, foxes, coyotes, and, surprisingly, domestic cats.  The disease, he points out, is 100% preventable with vaccinations.  Bats, because they are so small and have tiny razor sharp teeth, can actually be inside your home and bite you unawares.  Garner says if a bat is found in your home, unless you can trap the bat and have it tested, you must be vaccinated because “you just don’t know.”  The CDC reports that the most common cause of rabies in humans is from infected bats.  (http://www.cdc.gov/rabies/bats/education/index.html).  While unlikely, exposure to rabies can, and does, happen.  Not only that, but we should be diligent when we come into any sort of contact with them, especially in our homes.

Bats used to have sort of a bad rap, stemming, I guess, from vampire stories and old wives tales.  Then, sometime in the eighties or nineties, bat awareness, education and conservation came on the scene and suddenly, bats were everybody’s best friend.  People were buying bat houses and trying to protect the habitats and reputations of the sorely “misunderstood” critters.

I’m all for conservation.  I love animals.  I believe in humane, respectful treatment of nature.  But I think the bat movement pulled a fast one.  People have always known, I guess, that bats carry rabies, but somehow, I missed the day my school teachers talked about rabies because they were likely too busy talking about how cool bats were.  In college, some friends and I went walking through the infamous “Bat Cave” on some old property just outside of Lebanon, MO.  It didn’t even dawn on us that we were surrounded by—you guessed it—bats.  We had nothing to fear.  Bats were our friends.

I can tell you a short personal bat story that has changed, forever how I feel about them.  For me, this is the real truth about bats:  They are not my friends.  About four years ago, I found my two kids playing with a comatose bat in our yard.  I picked the thing up to get it away from them.   After sending it off for testing through a local veterinarian’s office, we learned it was, in fact, rabid, and that they would have to undergo a series of rabies shots immediately*.  Not only would that, but I, too, have to get the shots because of possible exposure.  In short, we got the shots and recovered with no long-term effects beyond the emotional trauma of the whole experience.  For the skeptics:  Imagine, learning you’ve been exposed to a deadly virus in your own back yard, getting a personal phone call from the Health Department.  A year or two later, on a field trip with my son’s class, while on a nature hike, I noticed some kids huddling around something, talking excitedly amongst themselves.  When I approached, I discovered it was a bat lying on the ground.  Instantly, I went into hyper-bat-alarm mode and bellowed, “Get away from the bat!”  Ironically, on another field trip just a week later, we were at a conservation department watching an educational video about how interesting, cool and misunderstood bats are.  I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Bats may be cool, but they are one of the top carriers of the deadly rabies virus in the U.S.  Don’t get too close to them.”

Somehow, I’d gotten through 40 years of life without learning about the dangers of bats.  Is the bat conservation movement to blame?  Maybe.  Sometimes, the best lessons come through experience.  And though this one isn’t one I’d care to repeat, I now know it’s prudent to keep a safe distance from these creepy critters.   In other words, I’m not leaving the light on for them.  No bats allowed at my house.

*I  must add here that if not for the suggestion by one of our doctors that day, the unthinkable might have happened.  Shortly after finding the bat, we had an appointment at the dermatologist’s office.  Joseph was going on about how it was so cool that he’d found this bat.  The doctor was the one who suggested we send the bat off for testing.  Had we not had that appointment that day, who knows what would have happened?  Joseph possibly got bitten, as he had said the animal “scratched” him.  He was young enough that discerning what really happened was difficult.  The doctor could very well have saved his life that day!