The TV ad played on as I hurriedly took a sip of my coffee. It is MLK Day and I couldn’t wait to go out in the garage and take advantage of the day off to tackle my once-a-year cleanup. Except…
The picture of the great hero, Martin Luther King, on the TV monitor caught my eye and made me pause. Every single time I see his picture something stirs within me – painful, inspiring, convicting.
My heart aches when I consider the great price this modern-day martyr paid for the cause he so passionately gave his life to: His wife lost her husband. Her little children lost their daddy. A nation lost a great leader.
Thinking about what he could’ve accomplished, if only given the chance to live past 39, makes my head spin. Why is it that some good people are taken from us so early in life?
With the recent tragedy here in Arizona, which shook the whole nation to its core, I asked myself the same question over and over again. Why does God allow these things to happen?
I took another sip of my coffee, a lot more slowly this time.
Jesus’ words recorded on John 12:24 came to mind, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”
The tragic loss of precious lives – especially young lives, like Jesus, Rev. King and Christina Green, the 9-year-old who wanted to meet Congresswoman Giffords and was shot while waiting her turn to shake her hand – they startle us, like a sharp slap on the ear, and make us think about our own lives and values, what drives us and what’s truly important.
Lives lived well inspire us. But when they cease – so abruptly and in such terrible manner – their passing is like a pebble thrown into a lake, creating ripples that grow bigger and wider until they reach the shore.
The tragedy in Tucson has created such ripple effect, which has reached the hearts of individuals, families, schools, cities, governments, nations…
During his 33 years on this earth, Jesus transformed the world. But His death gave us a chance to experience a new and abundant life.
And Martin Luther King’s voice and message has spoken louder and clearer after death – just like the seed buried on the ground, producing fruit and reproducing far beyond its small self.
Though I don’t understand why, I truly believe that certain things happen for a reason that goes beyond what we humans can comprehend, and that God can transform a great evil and use it for a greater good.
My small tribute today is to share my thoughts with you, dear friends, as we reflect together on the powerful and positive aspects of lives lived well.
Long live their legacy!
Monday, January 17, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
While I Waited
I checked my watch one more time. Five-Twenty. Unbelievable! My daughter’s special present – a lovely silver bracelet and a last-minute item in her wish list – was supposed to have been engraved and ready for pick-up an hour ago.
It was Christmas Eve. My husband and kids were waiting in our truck at the mall’s crowded parking lot. They had dropped me off by the main door. Plan was I’d dash in, get the prized gift, text hubby to drive to the curve, dash out as the crowds allowed, hop in the truck, and drive to church for the 5:30 service.
No problem.
Except, when I got to the store I encountered a long line at the un-manned pick up counter. That’s ok, I told myself, we still have time. So I waited, halfway patiently. But as minutes ticked away, shoppers’ once friendly faces turned tight with frustration.
“What is going on?” the pretty blonde ahead of me asked out loud.
“I’ve been here for almost two hours”, someone else demanded.
“Me too!”
“This is ridiculous” said the lady that stood behind me.
My phone began to buzz. “Mom, we’re sick of waiting.” “Are you ever going to get out of there?” “We’re going to be late for church, Ana.” Now, my head was buzzing.
I noticed that my right knee shook unceasingly and that my feet hurt. I was wearing my cute pumps for I wanted to look good for church and for our traditional fancy dinner with friends, after service.
But now it didn’t look like we would make it to church on time, and if we went to the 7:00 service, our dinner plans would be ruined. Thinking about this made me absolutely furious. Why in the world did these people give you a pick up time if they were going to make you wait in line forever?
Finally, a young woman appeared at the counter. “I’m so sorry, everyone,” she apologized, “but one of our engraving machines broke, so we’re running a little behind.” And then, like a teenage child you call to do chores, she magically disappeared.
I saw red. A little! I turned around and asked the lady behind me to save my spot in line. Then I marched to the pick-up counter, stumping my feet and pumping my fists, readying for battle.
Watch it, Ana.
I didn’t want to watch it. I just wanted answers. And I wanted my bracelet. And I wanted it now!
Love is patient. Love is kind.
I knew that. God knew I work hard to keep myself in check when I’m around clients, or my family, or church people. But this particular instance didn’t count. These were extenuating circumstances. An injustice had been committed, and I was soooo tired, having stayed up late the night before, wrapping presents. Besides, I didn’t know a soul at this sorry store, so who cared if I lost it a little.
The young clerk reappeared. “Excuse me!” I yelled, not bothering to hide my irritation as I made my way to the counter.
She turned around, eyes and mouth wide open.
Oh, don’t give me that look! Don’t you know I am the victim here?
“Excuse me!” I repeated, using the same tone. “I need to know when my order will be ready. You guys promised it’d be ready at 4:30, and now I’m going to be late for church!”
The young woman looked at me for a few seconds. I could see weariness in her puffy eyes. She looked at the crowd.
“I know how frustrated you all must be,” she pleaded, “but please remember these are circumstances beyond our control. Our engravers are working as hard as they can to get your orders ready.
“And, ma’am,” she said, turning to look at me, “I’m only a seasonal worker here. There is nothing else I can do. And remember, this is Christmas. We should all be happier and a little more patient with one another.”
“That’s the spirit!” the pretty blonde ahead of me yelled.
“Yeah, you’re right!”
“We can wait! It’s Christmas time!”
Oh, God.
Wishing I could shrivel down to one little prune, I slogged back to my spot in the line. I looked around the store and thought, what if one day I welcome one of these people at my church? Would they remember me – the jerk that harassed that sweet young clerk on Christmas Eve?
I looked down at the floor and quietly asked God for forgiveness, for not heading to His warning to keep my temper in check and for being a lousy example of Christian love. “And, Lord,” I dared asking, “would you mind hurrying my order a bit? I really don’t want to miss service.”
I know. Some things never change.
Imagine my surprise when I heard my name being called from the counter. This time I wore a sheepish smile on my reddened face.
“Thank you," said the clerk. "And, once again, we’re very sorry to’ve made you wait so long.”
I should’ve been the one to apologize, but all I could do was croak a weak, “It’s ok.”
Like I said, some things never change.
Before leaving the store, I stopped by the pretty blonde that once stood ahead of me, and I said, “I want you attitude.”
“Me, too,” she responded jovially, “I’m usually not like this. But it’s Christmas.”
She smiled. I smiled back.
Then I texted Hubby as I swerved passed the hordes of Holiday shoppers, “Meet me at the curve by the Food Court. I’m ready.”
This time, I was.
It was Christmas Eve. My husband and kids were waiting in our truck at the mall’s crowded parking lot. They had dropped me off by the main door. Plan was I’d dash in, get the prized gift, text hubby to drive to the curve, dash out as the crowds allowed, hop in the truck, and drive to church for the 5:30 service.
No problem.
Except, when I got to the store I encountered a long line at the un-manned pick up counter. That’s ok, I told myself, we still have time. So I waited, halfway patiently. But as minutes ticked away, shoppers’ once friendly faces turned tight with frustration.
“What is going on?” the pretty blonde ahead of me asked out loud.
“I’ve been here for almost two hours”, someone else demanded.
“Me too!”
“This is ridiculous” said the lady that stood behind me.
My phone began to buzz. “Mom, we’re sick of waiting.” “Are you ever going to get out of there?” “We’re going to be late for church, Ana.” Now, my head was buzzing.
I noticed that my right knee shook unceasingly and that my feet hurt. I was wearing my cute pumps for I wanted to look good for church and for our traditional fancy dinner with friends, after service.
But now it didn’t look like we would make it to church on time, and if we went to the 7:00 service, our dinner plans would be ruined. Thinking about this made me absolutely furious. Why in the world did these people give you a pick up time if they were going to make you wait in line forever?
Finally, a young woman appeared at the counter. “I’m so sorry, everyone,” she apologized, “but one of our engraving machines broke, so we’re running a little behind.” And then, like a teenage child you call to do chores, she magically disappeared.
I saw red. A little! I turned around and asked the lady behind me to save my spot in line. Then I marched to the pick-up counter, stumping my feet and pumping my fists, readying for battle.
Watch it, Ana.
I didn’t want to watch it. I just wanted answers. And I wanted my bracelet. And I wanted it now!
Love is patient. Love is kind.
I knew that. God knew I work hard to keep myself in check when I’m around clients, or my family, or church people. But this particular instance didn’t count. These were extenuating circumstances. An injustice had been committed, and I was soooo tired, having stayed up late the night before, wrapping presents. Besides, I didn’t know a soul at this sorry store, so who cared if I lost it a little.
The young clerk reappeared. “Excuse me!” I yelled, not bothering to hide my irritation as I made my way to the counter.
She turned around, eyes and mouth wide open.
Oh, don’t give me that look! Don’t you know I am the victim here?
“Excuse me!” I repeated, using the same tone. “I need to know when my order will be ready. You guys promised it’d be ready at 4:30, and now I’m going to be late for church!”
The young woman looked at me for a few seconds. I could see weariness in her puffy eyes. She looked at the crowd.
“I know how frustrated you all must be,” she pleaded, “but please remember these are circumstances beyond our control. Our engravers are working as hard as they can to get your orders ready.
“And, ma’am,” she said, turning to look at me, “I’m only a seasonal worker here. There is nothing else I can do. And remember, this is Christmas. We should all be happier and a little more patient with one another.”
“That’s the spirit!” the pretty blonde ahead of me yelled.
“Yeah, you’re right!”
“We can wait! It’s Christmas time!”
Oh, God.
Wishing I could shrivel down to one little prune, I slogged back to my spot in the line. I looked around the store and thought, what if one day I welcome one of these people at my church? Would they remember me – the jerk that harassed that sweet young clerk on Christmas Eve?
I looked down at the floor and quietly asked God for forgiveness, for not heading to His warning to keep my temper in check and for being a lousy example of Christian love. “And, Lord,” I dared asking, “would you mind hurrying my order a bit? I really don’t want to miss service.”
I know. Some things never change.
Imagine my surprise when I heard my name being called from the counter. This time I wore a sheepish smile on my reddened face.
“Thank you," said the clerk. "And, once again, we’re very sorry to’ve made you wait so long.”
I should’ve been the one to apologize, but all I could do was croak a weak, “It’s ok.”
Like I said, some things never change.
Before leaving the store, I stopped by the pretty blonde that once stood ahead of me, and I said, “I want you attitude.”
“Me, too,” she responded jovially, “I’m usually not like this. But it’s Christmas.”
She smiled. I smiled back.
Then I texted Hubby as I swerved passed the hordes of Holiday shoppers, “Meet me at the curve by the Food Court. I’m ready.”
This time, I was.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Gifts
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. (James 1:17, NIV)
What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?
Traditions vary from culture to culture and from family to family. In my country, Guatemala, children and adults alike enjoy putting together “nacimientos” – colorful nativity scenes made up of tiny houses, moss and figurines. In Mexico they celebrate with lively “posadas,” and here in the US we love to bake cookies and decorate our homes with hundreds of twinkling lights, inflatable Santas and giant snowmen.
Though the manner in which we celebrate varies extensively, the Reason does not: God the Father gave His Son so that mankind could have life, abundant and eternal. Plenty a reason to rejoice!
There is one element of every tradition that is always present – no matter what side of the Globe one lives at – and that is music. Choirs sing sweet carols. Happy melodies liven up friendly gatherings. Favorite songs play on radio stations, filling our hearts with both joy and melancholy.
For me, listening to Christmas music is one of my favorite traditions.
I love to bake and decorate my home while playing my most beloved songs. And while commuting, I shake my shoulders and bob my head unashamed as I belt out at full volume, Feliz Navidad!
The other morning, as I drove to work, I silenced the radio and stopped singing for a minute to thank the Lord for this wonderful Season. This is indeed a very special time for me and my family.
Then I heard, This is my gift to you.
“I know, Lord,” I replied. “ I’m very grateful for your Son’s birth, such a precious gift.”
No, Ana. The music is.
At first, these words seem a bit contradictory. Musicians use their gifts to compose their songs, I reasoned, and then they present them to God and to the world as love offering of joy and gratitude.
But Who gave them these gifts in the first place?
My heart about burst as I pondered the answer and the image that played in my mind’s eye. When my children were little, I used to take them to the store to buy presents for the family. Even though they chose the gifts they wanted to give, I was the one who paid for them.
Memories of tiny pudgy hands excitedly handing those presents to their loved ones on Christmas morning helped me understand that – ultimately – every good gift comes from God.
Even Christmas music.
It is my wish that this blessed Season you too will discover that God is the Creator and the Giver of all gifts. And it is my prayer that His love will fill your heart with joy, your home with warmth, and your mind with peace.
What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?
Traditions vary from culture to culture and from family to family. In my country, Guatemala, children and adults alike enjoy putting together “nacimientos” – colorful nativity scenes made up of tiny houses, moss and figurines. In Mexico they celebrate with lively “posadas,” and here in the US we love to bake cookies and decorate our homes with hundreds of twinkling lights, inflatable Santas and giant snowmen.
Though the manner in which we celebrate varies extensively, the Reason does not: God the Father gave His Son so that mankind could have life, abundant and eternal. Plenty a reason to rejoice!
There is one element of every tradition that is always present – no matter what side of the Globe one lives at – and that is music. Choirs sing sweet carols. Happy melodies liven up friendly gatherings. Favorite songs play on radio stations, filling our hearts with both joy and melancholy.
For me, listening to Christmas music is one of my favorite traditions.
I love to bake and decorate my home while playing my most beloved songs. And while commuting, I shake my shoulders and bob my head unashamed as I belt out at full volume, Feliz Navidad!
The other morning, as I drove to work, I silenced the radio and stopped singing for a minute to thank the Lord for this wonderful Season. This is indeed a very special time for me and my family.
Then I heard, This is my gift to you.
“I know, Lord,” I replied. “ I’m very grateful for your Son’s birth, such a precious gift.”
No, Ana. The music is.
At first, these words seem a bit contradictory. Musicians use their gifts to compose their songs, I reasoned, and then they present them to God and to the world as love offering of joy and gratitude.
But Who gave them these gifts in the first place?
My heart about burst as I pondered the answer and the image that played in my mind’s eye. When my children were little, I used to take them to the store to buy presents for the family. Even though they chose the gifts they wanted to give, I was the one who paid for them.
Memories of tiny pudgy hands excitedly handing those presents to their loved ones on Christmas morning helped me understand that – ultimately – every good gift comes from God.
Even Christmas music.
It is my wish that this blessed Season you too will discover that God is the Creator and the Giver of all gifts. And it is my prayer that His love will fill your heart with joy, your home with warmth, and your mind with peace.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Gratitude
How grateful are you?
I have to confess that when my children were young, gratitude was something I struggled with. I knew how lucky I was to have a home, a loving husband and beautiful, albeit rambunctious, children. But I was too busy, felt too tired to stop and give thanks.
From the moment my second child was born, I felt as if someone had thrown me in the middle of a gigantic vortex – with dirty dishes and laundry, small toys and big messes, diapers and mismatched socks swirling around me – and I couldn’t get out of it.
I was so caught up in the moment, striving to keep up, that I missed it.
A decade later, I felt as if the storm had finally spit me up, living me in the middle of my living room floor – dazed, somewhat bruised, and totally perplex – wondering where in the world had all those years gone.
Around this time, my daughter Gracie was a sophomore in High School. For months she had been asking me to help her paint her room. We’ll do it during Summer break, I had promised, but summer came and went, as well as fall, without a chance for me to tackle this project.
After Christmas I decided it was time to drop the excuses. Excited, mother and daughter went to Home Depot for paint, brushes and a bit of inspiration. And so we got started.
With each rhythmical stroke of our paintbrushes a realization seeped into my mind: The girl painting next to me was no longer a child. I paused for a moment to take a long look at my daughter. Birthday parties, scraped knees, dance rehearsals, and school projects played in my mind’s eye in fast-forward. Where was I when all of this happened?
Unaware of my swirling emotions, Gracie talked to me about her dreams, a boy she had a crush on, and the fact that this might be the last time we painted her room.
Closing my eyes, I pictured us painting the walls of an empty apartment – hers.
I realized that year after year I had dutifully gone through the motions of motherhood, facing the gradual changes completely unaware of what was going on around me. There were new outfits, bigger shoes, new teachers, new school years – yet everything felt the same.
Until this day.
Are you ok, Mom? Gracie asked, looking puzzled.
Yes, yes, I lied. I was just a little distracted.
No, I wasn’t! I had never been more aware than at that moment. Aware of the fact that one day a new school year will not come, and my children will buy their own clothes, feed their own families, paint their own homes.
I did the math: I only had a couple more years before Gracie went to college, perhaps in a different city or at another state. Ronnie would start High School the following year, and Nick two years later. Six years max. I was not going to miss it this time!
But, how? I couldn’t change the pace of life, with its inevitable busyness and demands. I couldn’t do anything to keep my children from growing older. I couldn’t make time stop, or slow down, or even go back – as badly as wanted to – just because I had suddenly realized it was slipping from my fingers faster than running water.
How, Lord? I pleaded.
He answered.
I couldn’t change my circumstances, but I sure could change my perception. In His great mercy, God opened my eyes – right in the middle of a painting project – to see that each moment and each day with my family wasn’t something to endure or to try to hang on to, but something I could savor, a gift to enjoy and be grateful for.
That is the beauty of gratitude. It changes your *perspective. It frees you to truly live and to love, to be happy, a lot more aware, and at peace.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for each one of you and for God’s many blessings – among them, the blessing of gratitude.
Happy Thanksgiving Day!
Ana
*To read more about perspective, please go to: "A New Perspective"
I have to confess that when my children were young, gratitude was something I struggled with. I knew how lucky I was to have a home, a loving husband and beautiful, albeit rambunctious, children. But I was too busy, felt too tired to stop and give thanks.
From the moment my second child was born, I felt as if someone had thrown me in the middle of a gigantic vortex – with dirty dishes and laundry, small toys and big messes, diapers and mismatched socks swirling around me – and I couldn’t get out of it.
I was so caught up in the moment, striving to keep up, that I missed it.
A decade later, I felt as if the storm had finally spit me up, living me in the middle of my living room floor – dazed, somewhat bruised, and totally perplex – wondering where in the world had all those years gone.
Around this time, my daughter Gracie was a sophomore in High School. For months she had been asking me to help her paint her room. We’ll do it during Summer break, I had promised, but summer came and went, as well as fall, without a chance for me to tackle this project.
After Christmas I decided it was time to drop the excuses. Excited, mother and daughter went to Home Depot for paint, brushes and a bit of inspiration. And so we got started.
With each rhythmical stroke of our paintbrushes a realization seeped into my mind: The girl painting next to me was no longer a child. I paused for a moment to take a long look at my daughter. Birthday parties, scraped knees, dance rehearsals, and school projects played in my mind’s eye in fast-forward. Where was I when all of this happened?
Unaware of my swirling emotions, Gracie talked to me about her dreams, a boy she had a crush on, and the fact that this might be the last time we painted her room.
Closing my eyes, I pictured us painting the walls of an empty apartment – hers.
I realized that year after year I had dutifully gone through the motions of motherhood, facing the gradual changes completely unaware of what was going on around me. There were new outfits, bigger shoes, new teachers, new school years – yet everything felt the same.
Until this day.
Are you ok, Mom? Gracie asked, looking puzzled.
Yes, yes, I lied. I was just a little distracted.
No, I wasn’t! I had never been more aware than at that moment. Aware of the fact that one day a new school year will not come, and my children will buy their own clothes, feed their own families, paint their own homes.
I did the math: I only had a couple more years before Gracie went to college, perhaps in a different city or at another state. Ronnie would start High School the following year, and Nick two years later. Six years max. I was not going to miss it this time!
But, how? I couldn’t change the pace of life, with its inevitable busyness and demands. I couldn’t do anything to keep my children from growing older. I couldn’t make time stop, or slow down, or even go back – as badly as wanted to – just because I had suddenly realized it was slipping from my fingers faster than running water.
How, Lord? I pleaded.
He answered.
I couldn’t change my circumstances, but I sure could change my perception. In His great mercy, God opened my eyes – right in the middle of a painting project – to see that each moment and each day with my family wasn’t something to endure or to try to hang on to, but something I could savor, a gift to enjoy and be grateful for.
That is the beauty of gratitude. It changes your *perspective. It frees you to truly live and to love, to be happy, a lot more aware, and at peace.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for each one of you and for God’s many blessings – among them, the blessing of gratitude.
Happy Thanksgiving Day!
Ana
*To read more about perspective, please go to: "A New Perspective"
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Gift That Kept on Giving
It was a bad-news, good-news type of day.
It began with a look at the pile of bills lying on my kitchen table, followed by a glance at my bank account balance.
Bad news.
I plunged on a chair and sighed heavily, “Oh, Lord, You’ve never let me down, and I’m grateful for all You’ve given me. But look at all these bills! Would you please send more work my way? I could really use a little extra.”
The phone rang. It was one of the agencies I work for. I was needed for a hearing at Superior Court, but had to be there ASAP. Excellent news!
I changed into my work clothes, brushed my teeth and hair, grabbed my purse and keys, and was out the door in less than 10 minutes. Traffic on the freeway was sparse, so I reached my destination with time to spare (well, almost). Oh, how I love it when things go my way!
I zipped into the underground parking lot, whistling a happy tune, but came to a sudden halt when I read the big, black-and-white sign at the entrance. “Only cash and check accepted.” Oh, oh.
At that particular moment, I didn’t have my checkbook with me, and the contents in my wallet consisted of a few coins and a one-dollar bill. Not nearly enough to cover for parking.
That on itself wouldn’t have been much of problem. Except I was already scheduled for another assignment shortly after completing this one, and I probably wasn’t going to have enough time in between jobs to search for an ATM.
As I rushed toward the court building, I reckoned that if God had blessed me with this last-minute job, He would help me figure out a way to come up with the parking fee and still make it on time for my next assignment.
The hearing lasted a bit longer than anticipated. I hastily made my way through the hordes of people walking through the court’s hallways. What to do, what to do, what to do? There had to be an ATM around somewhere, maybe I could stop at a café and beg for cash back?
Fat chance.
Suddenly, a familiar face came into focus. It was my friend Ramon, who also works as a free-lance court interpreter. Poor Ramon, the last time I ran into him at job site, I gave him a hug and left a big lipstick mark on his shirt collar. “Tell Kathy, it was me,” I had told him as a way of consolation. But I don’t think that help him much. Especially since he had to wear the stained shirt for the rest of the workday.
This time, as I drew near, Ramon uncharacteristically stuck his hand out (you gotta remember, a kiss and a hug between Latin friends is the traditional salutation – we’re very loving that way) and he said, “I would hug you, Ana, but I just walked into the building, and I’m all sweaty.” Yeah, summers in Arizona are a bear, but I suspected that the lipstick incident might’ve had something to do with his formality.
Suddenly, amongst the low-murmurs and noises and throngs of people, I heard a halleluiah chorus, as I realized that the answer to my prayers was standing right in front of me!
“Ramon! Do you have a few dollars to spare?”
The look of perplexity in his face made me sputter, “I-I-I’m sorry, but my car’s in the parking garage across the street… and I only have a dollar… and if I don’t leave right away, I’ll be late for my next assignment.”
I am positive that my rating in Ramon’s you-are-an-idiot-o-meter shot up by several degrees. Still, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a 20-dollar bill.
“Oh, my gosh, Ramon, I only need a few dollars!”
“It’s ok. Take it.”
“But, am I leaving you without any money? Are you going to have enough for lunch or something?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said dismissively, “and go! Or you’ll be late.”
Once again, he offered his hand, but I was so happy that I gave him a big hug and a kiss… right on the shoulder. I tried to rub the stain off in a hurry – unsuccessfully – before running out the door, while shouting, “You should really try to stay away from me!”
“Believe me, I’m trying,” I think I heard him say faintly.
I ran down the street, waving my 20-dollar bill like a little girl waves a school paper with her first A+ as she makes her way home. When I reached the street corner, I waited impatiently for the light to turn so I could cross the intersection.
A woman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey, Sister, do you have a dollar to spare? I haven’t had lunch yet.”
I pulled out my one-dollar bill and gladly handed it to her. Being able to help this woman, was great news indeed!
I slowed down my pace, just a little, and made my way to the parking garage, thinking about God’s faithfulness and my friend’s generosity, and whistling a happy tune.
It began with a look at the pile of bills lying on my kitchen table, followed by a glance at my bank account balance.
Bad news.
I plunged on a chair and sighed heavily, “Oh, Lord, You’ve never let me down, and I’m grateful for all You’ve given me. But look at all these bills! Would you please send more work my way? I could really use a little extra.”
The phone rang. It was one of the agencies I work for. I was needed for a hearing at Superior Court, but had to be there ASAP. Excellent news!
I changed into my work clothes, brushed my teeth and hair, grabbed my purse and keys, and was out the door in less than 10 minutes. Traffic on the freeway was sparse, so I reached my destination with time to spare (well, almost). Oh, how I love it when things go my way!
I zipped into the underground parking lot, whistling a happy tune, but came to a sudden halt when I read the big, black-and-white sign at the entrance. “Only cash and check accepted.” Oh, oh.
At that particular moment, I didn’t have my checkbook with me, and the contents in my wallet consisted of a few coins and a one-dollar bill. Not nearly enough to cover for parking.
That on itself wouldn’t have been much of problem. Except I was already scheduled for another assignment shortly after completing this one, and I probably wasn’t going to have enough time in between jobs to search for an ATM.
As I rushed toward the court building, I reckoned that if God had blessed me with this last-minute job, He would help me figure out a way to come up with the parking fee and still make it on time for my next assignment.
The hearing lasted a bit longer than anticipated. I hastily made my way through the hordes of people walking through the court’s hallways. What to do, what to do, what to do? There had to be an ATM around somewhere, maybe I could stop at a café and beg for cash back?
Fat chance.
Suddenly, a familiar face came into focus. It was my friend Ramon, who also works as a free-lance court interpreter. Poor Ramon, the last time I ran into him at job site, I gave him a hug and left a big lipstick mark on his shirt collar. “Tell Kathy, it was me,” I had told him as a way of consolation. But I don’t think that help him much. Especially since he had to wear the stained shirt for the rest of the workday.
This time, as I drew near, Ramon uncharacteristically stuck his hand out (you gotta remember, a kiss and a hug between Latin friends is the traditional salutation – we’re very loving that way) and he said, “I would hug you, Ana, but I just walked into the building, and I’m all sweaty.” Yeah, summers in Arizona are a bear, but I suspected that the lipstick incident might’ve had something to do with his formality.
Suddenly, amongst the low-murmurs and noises and throngs of people, I heard a halleluiah chorus, as I realized that the answer to my prayers was standing right in front of me!
“Ramon! Do you have a few dollars to spare?”
The look of perplexity in his face made me sputter, “I-I-I’m sorry, but my car’s in the parking garage across the street… and I only have a dollar… and if I don’t leave right away, I’ll be late for my next assignment.”
I am positive that my rating in Ramon’s you-are-an-idiot-o-meter shot up by several degrees. Still, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a 20-dollar bill.
“Oh, my gosh, Ramon, I only need a few dollars!”
“It’s ok. Take it.”
“But, am I leaving you without any money? Are you going to have enough for lunch or something?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said dismissively, “and go! Or you’ll be late.”
Once again, he offered his hand, but I was so happy that I gave him a big hug and a kiss… right on the shoulder. I tried to rub the stain off in a hurry – unsuccessfully – before running out the door, while shouting, “You should really try to stay away from me!”
“Believe me, I’m trying,” I think I heard him say faintly.
I ran down the street, waving my 20-dollar bill like a little girl waves a school paper with her first A+ as she makes her way home. When I reached the street corner, I waited impatiently for the light to turn so I could cross the intersection.
A woman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey, Sister, do you have a dollar to spare? I haven’t had lunch yet.”
I pulled out my one-dollar bill and gladly handed it to her. Being able to help this woman, was great news indeed!
I slowed down my pace, just a little, and made my way to the parking garage, thinking about God’s faithfulness and my friend’s generosity, and whistling a happy tune.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Toy Story, My Story
When’s the last time you had a good cry?
In honor of Father’s Day, my kids and I took my husband to see Toy Story 3. We entered the theater and, suddenly, a magical transformation took place: The lights dimmed, and we were no longer there, but back at our living room. We were a young family, again, huddled together on our big comfy couch, ready for movie time. What fun!
We were instructed to put on our 3-D glasses, and the featured film began to play. In this movie, Andy is a teenager getting ready to move out of the house and go to college. Like a sweet memory, short clips of a young Andy playing with his beloved toys appeared. An invisible fist began to squeeze my throat tightly.
Old clips of my own began to play on my mind’s eye, as if on a thick emotional fog:
Gracie as a 3-year-old sitting on her daddy’s lap while laughing at Rex, Mr. Potato Head, Slinky and Hamm’s hysterical lines, or squeezing Daddy’s big hand when Sid threatened to blow up more toys.
Ronnie sitting on our old, pink and gray couch in front of the TV at our little house in Kansas, sucking tirelessly on his binky, arms folded over his round belly and legs spread out on the seat, so short they barely reached the edge. He wouldn’t utter a sound or move a muscle, except during the funny parts, when he would pluck the well-worn pacifier with one hand and point with the other at the screen to say something only his big sister could decipher.
The movie played on, pulling me in and out of my reverie. I’d chuckle loudly here and there and would be ok for a while, until something flung me back to another day from the past. Like in the scene when a little boy runs across a Sunny Side Preschool’s classroom, while being chased by his classmates. He wore a blue cape and flapped his arms like a bird that was about to take flight.
The new scene that played in my mind featured me, as a young, frenzied mother. Two of my young kids were finally in school, but my youngest – Nick – was only a preschooler. The three-times-a week, two-and-a-half hour program didn’t give me much of a brake. In those early days, my neighbor Marlene and I took turns caring for our kids in order to give each other a brief but necessary respite.
One day in particular, I was trying to clean the kitchen. Nick and Ryan, my friend’s son, were four years old and were supposed to be playing in the family room. Except – as I suddenly realized with alarm – I hadn’t heard them lately. A youthful, high-pitch voice caused me to bolt toward the stairs.
“Ok, Ryan,” it said persuasively, “to infinity…!”
I reached the bottom of the stairway just in time. I saw Ryan standing on a stool (God only knows how and when they got it there), near a ledge that’s about 15-feet high, with a superman cape tied around his neck and arms spread out like Buzz Lightyear’s. Nick was standing right behind him. He had his king-for-a-day crown on, the one he got at Preschool for his fourth birthday. His right hand held a Star Wars lightsaber, poised against Ryan’s back, like Captain Crook’s sword on Wendy’s, pushing her to jump off the plank.
Aware that the wrong reaction would startle the daring pair, I forced my voice to sound calm and firmly said, “Don’t think that’s a good idea, boys.”
Mercifully, Ryan stepped down from the stool and away from certain death. Nick scurried in a hurry, looking for a place to hide away from me and from a similar fate (that is, certain death, but not by accident.)
Grace elbowed me. “You’re snoring, Mom!” she whispered forcefully, which startled me. I took a long gulp of soda, sat up, and told my sleepy self to focus on the story, which got my mind back on track and on the movie, where I wanted it to be.
No more trips down memory lane, please.
Randy Newman’s scores played on. The music was great; the scenes got funnier and funnier by the minute. The writers and animators are geniuses, I thought. I laughed with the audience and held my breath at the peak of suspense. How would the toys get out of this pickle? What would happen in the end?
What’s going to happen to my family now that my kids are turning into adults?
Andy appeared on the screen. He was a young man now, who needed to decide what to do with his toys before leaving for college. The tightness around my throat came back, but ten times stronger. My eyes burned. I was so grateful for the big Miami Vice-looking glasses on top of my nose. I furtively wiped the tears away. Didn’t want my kids to tell me, “Gosh, Mom, you always cry!” But there was little I could do to stop the flow.
Toy Story is a part of our family’s history; it is our story. Like Andy’s family, ours has moved, has added and lost a couple of good toys, has grown up, has had to say good-bye.
Fifteen years ago, I went to a movie theater to watch Toy Story 1 for the first time, grateful for a chance to enjoy an 80-minute breather. Like a young girl who bumps into a perfect stranger, one who’ll later become her life’s companion, I had watched the film unaware that it’d become a part of me and of my family.
We were so young back then (Nick hadn’t even been born.) We were so full of dreams… and so clueless.
And here we were, again, taken aback and by surprise by the same familiar characters. Unaware of the emotions this movie would stir, seeing our life story played out on the big screen, wondering how does time fly so quickly.
The movie ended and we left the building quietly.
Gracie broke the silence. “Man, that was a good movie!” she said as we walked through the parking lot. “I almost started crying when I saw Andy pack his stuff up… It was… it was just like me.”
“Yes, yes”, we all answered, shaking our heads very slowly. That was all we could manage. I wanted to touch my daughter’s arm and tell her how proud I am of her, but I really didn’t want to start crying again.
We got in the car, and Ronnie, who – like the first movie – is fifteen now, couldn’t help it anymore. He started bawling as if someone dear had just died. Gracie rubbed his arm, but didn’t say anything either.
“Oh, Ronnie”, I blurted, always the mom, trying to make things better, “I didn’t throw your Buzz and Woody dolls away. They are tucked safely on the shelf above your closet.”
“I know, I know,” he responded. “I’m just sad, Mom.”
“That movie was a tear-jerker, that’s for sure, Son,” Ron said, squinting a little bit.
Yes, it was. But I guess we all needed a good cry.
In honor of Father’s Day, my kids and I took my husband to see Toy Story 3. We entered the theater and, suddenly, a magical transformation took place: The lights dimmed, and we were no longer there, but back at our living room. We were a young family, again, huddled together on our big comfy couch, ready for movie time. What fun!
We were instructed to put on our 3-D glasses, and the featured film began to play. In this movie, Andy is a teenager getting ready to move out of the house and go to college. Like a sweet memory, short clips of a young Andy playing with his beloved toys appeared. An invisible fist began to squeeze my throat tightly.
Old clips of my own began to play on my mind’s eye, as if on a thick emotional fog:
Gracie as a 3-year-old sitting on her daddy’s lap while laughing at Rex, Mr. Potato Head, Slinky and Hamm’s hysterical lines, or squeezing Daddy’s big hand when Sid threatened to blow up more toys.
Ronnie sitting on our old, pink and gray couch in front of the TV at our little house in Kansas, sucking tirelessly on his binky, arms folded over his round belly and legs spread out on the seat, so short they barely reached the edge. He wouldn’t utter a sound or move a muscle, except during the funny parts, when he would pluck the well-worn pacifier with one hand and point with the other at the screen to say something only his big sister could decipher.
The movie played on, pulling me in and out of my reverie. I’d chuckle loudly here and there and would be ok for a while, until something flung me back to another day from the past. Like in the scene when a little boy runs across a Sunny Side Preschool’s classroom, while being chased by his classmates. He wore a blue cape and flapped his arms like a bird that was about to take flight.
The new scene that played in my mind featured me, as a young, frenzied mother. Two of my young kids were finally in school, but my youngest – Nick – was only a preschooler. The three-times-a week, two-and-a-half hour program didn’t give me much of a brake. In those early days, my neighbor Marlene and I took turns caring for our kids in order to give each other a brief but necessary respite.
One day in particular, I was trying to clean the kitchen. Nick and Ryan, my friend’s son, were four years old and were supposed to be playing in the family room. Except – as I suddenly realized with alarm – I hadn’t heard them lately. A youthful, high-pitch voice caused me to bolt toward the stairs.
“Ok, Ryan,” it said persuasively, “to infinity…!”
I reached the bottom of the stairway just in time. I saw Ryan standing on a stool (God only knows how and when they got it there), near a ledge that’s about 15-feet high, with a superman cape tied around his neck and arms spread out like Buzz Lightyear’s. Nick was standing right behind him. He had his king-for-a-day crown on, the one he got at Preschool for his fourth birthday. His right hand held a Star Wars lightsaber, poised against Ryan’s back, like Captain Crook’s sword on Wendy’s, pushing her to jump off the plank.
Aware that the wrong reaction would startle the daring pair, I forced my voice to sound calm and firmly said, “Don’t think that’s a good idea, boys.”
Mercifully, Ryan stepped down from the stool and away from certain death. Nick scurried in a hurry, looking for a place to hide away from me and from a similar fate (that is, certain death, but not by accident.)
Grace elbowed me. “You’re snoring, Mom!” she whispered forcefully, which startled me. I took a long gulp of soda, sat up, and told my sleepy self to focus on the story, which got my mind back on track and on the movie, where I wanted it to be.
No more trips down memory lane, please.
Randy Newman’s scores played on. The music was great; the scenes got funnier and funnier by the minute. The writers and animators are geniuses, I thought. I laughed with the audience and held my breath at the peak of suspense. How would the toys get out of this pickle? What would happen in the end?
What’s going to happen to my family now that my kids are turning into adults?
Andy appeared on the screen. He was a young man now, who needed to decide what to do with his toys before leaving for college. The tightness around my throat came back, but ten times stronger. My eyes burned. I was so grateful for the big Miami Vice-looking glasses on top of my nose. I furtively wiped the tears away. Didn’t want my kids to tell me, “Gosh, Mom, you always cry!” But there was little I could do to stop the flow.
Toy Story is a part of our family’s history; it is our story. Like Andy’s family, ours has moved, has added and lost a couple of good toys, has grown up, has had to say good-bye.
Fifteen years ago, I went to a movie theater to watch Toy Story 1 for the first time, grateful for a chance to enjoy an 80-minute breather. Like a young girl who bumps into a perfect stranger, one who’ll later become her life’s companion, I had watched the film unaware that it’d become a part of me and of my family.
We were so young back then (Nick hadn’t even been born.) We were so full of dreams… and so clueless.
And here we were, again, taken aback and by surprise by the same familiar characters. Unaware of the emotions this movie would stir, seeing our life story played out on the big screen, wondering how does time fly so quickly.
The movie ended and we left the building quietly.
Gracie broke the silence. “Man, that was a good movie!” she said as we walked through the parking lot. “I almost started crying when I saw Andy pack his stuff up… It was… it was just like me.”
“Yes, yes”, we all answered, shaking our heads very slowly. That was all we could manage. I wanted to touch my daughter’s arm and tell her how proud I am of her, but I really didn’t want to start crying again.
We got in the car, and Ronnie, who – like the first movie – is fifteen now, couldn’t help it anymore. He started bawling as if someone dear had just died. Gracie rubbed his arm, but didn’t say anything either.
“Oh, Ronnie”, I blurted, always the mom, trying to make things better, “I didn’t throw your Buzz and Woody dolls away. They are tucked safely on the shelf above your closet.”
“I know, I know,” he responded. “I’m just sad, Mom.”
“That movie was a tear-jerker, that’s for sure, Son,” Ron said, squinting a little bit.
Yes, it was. But I guess we all needed a good cry.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
I Got My Worm!
This morning, I got a worm in the mail. And I couldn’t have been happier or more grateful.
Let me explain: Last Sunday my Pastor, Brian Anderson, taught a lesson about trust from Matthew 6, which he titled: “The Lesson of the Bird”.
“You all know that birds don’t worry about their next meal”, he said, though I’m mostly paraphrasing. “All they know is that they need a worm, so they look for one. But they don’t fret or suffer from high blood pressure or stomach ulcers, thinking about their next meal.”
I laughed at the amusing analogy, but at the same time I felt that oh-so-familiar Holy Spirit tug at my heart. I’m not really a worrier, but I do have a tendency to try to make things happen instead of trusting God to take care of me and mine. As Pastor Brian continued with his teaching, he encouraged us to do some soul searching to find out where our trust laid and to consider making drastic changes, if we felt led to do so.
My husband Ron and I got ourselves in a financial pickle a few years ago. We purchased a big piece of land we were supposed to “flip” almost immediately and make loads of money, so that we could pay off our house, retire and live merrily for the rest of our lives. (Well, maybe we would’ve not been able to retire early, but we would’ve made enough the pay off our house.)
Unfortunately, by the time title of the property was transferred to our names, the housing market and the economy collapsed. Arizona was one of the states hit the hardest. Soon we discovered that the land would remain in our names for a long, long time.
A second mortgage with the ensuing property taxes couldn’t be covered with Ron’s paycheck. A stay-at-home mom who dabbled in translation work just for extra money, I had to find full-time work and soon! But God faithfully provided. Through a friend, I found work as an interpreter, and continued doing translation work from home.
It’s been tough learning to juggle work, marriage, home, ministry and three very active children – coupled with my health and low-energy issues. But the toughest part has been surrendering our debt to God. Truth is no matter how hard I work, I’m not going to be able to get rid of it as soon as I want to. It’s going to take time, diligence, and – honestly – the Lord’s intervention.
But I have to keep on trusting. I don’t want debt to be the focus of my existence. The only way I can live at peace, continue to work hard and enjoy life and everything that it offers is by focusing on God’s goodness and by depending on Him to provide what I need.
So this morning, when I checked our bank account online and realized we only had $34 to make it with for the rest of the week, I had to take a deep breath and remember Pastor Brian’s teaching. Ron and I are committed not to use our credit cards unless we have to. God would provide somehow, and I needed to “chill” – like my teenage daughter often tells me.
“Ron, go check out the mailbox,” I asked.
“Are you expecting a pay check?” he asked in reply, looking hopeful.
“No, but you never know. Maybe God will provide a worm for these hungry birds,” I chuckled, somewhat nervously.
Picture my delight when I saw my handsome husband walk into our kitchen, waving a check with his hand. It was a refund for an insurance overpayment we weren’t expecting: $71 magnificent dollars. Not enough to quit working, but surely enough to make it until the next paycheck arrives.
And plenty of encouragement for this fretful heart.
Have you asked God for your worm today?
Ana
Let me explain: Last Sunday my Pastor, Brian Anderson, taught a lesson about trust from Matthew 6, which he titled: “The Lesson of the Bird”.
“You all know that birds don’t worry about their next meal”, he said, though I’m mostly paraphrasing. “All they know is that they need a worm, so they look for one. But they don’t fret or suffer from high blood pressure or stomach ulcers, thinking about their next meal.”
I laughed at the amusing analogy, but at the same time I felt that oh-so-familiar Holy Spirit tug at my heart. I’m not really a worrier, but I do have a tendency to try to make things happen instead of trusting God to take care of me and mine. As Pastor Brian continued with his teaching, he encouraged us to do some soul searching to find out where our trust laid and to consider making drastic changes, if we felt led to do so.
My husband Ron and I got ourselves in a financial pickle a few years ago. We purchased a big piece of land we were supposed to “flip” almost immediately and make loads of money, so that we could pay off our house, retire and live merrily for the rest of our lives. (Well, maybe we would’ve not been able to retire early, but we would’ve made enough the pay off our house.)
Unfortunately, by the time title of the property was transferred to our names, the housing market and the economy collapsed. Arizona was one of the states hit the hardest. Soon we discovered that the land would remain in our names for a long, long time.
A second mortgage with the ensuing property taxes couldn’t be covered with Ron’s paycheck. A stay-at-home mom who dabbled in translation work just for extra money, I had to find full-time work and soon! But God faithfully provided. Through a friend, I found work as an interpreter, and continued doing translation work from home.
It’s been tough learning to juggle work, marriage, home, ministry and three very active children – coupled with my health and low-energy issues. But the toughest part has been surrendering our debt to God. Truth is no matter how hard I work, I’m not going to be able to get rid of it as soon as I want to. It’s going to take time, diligence, and – honestly – the Lord’s intervention.
But I have to keep on trusting. I don’t want debt to be the focus of my existence. The only way I can live at peace, continue to work hard and enjoy life and everything that it offers is by focusing on God’s goodness and by depending on Him to provide what I need.
So this morning, when I checked our bank account online and realized we only had $34 to make it with for the rest of the week, I had to take a deep breath and remember Pastor Brian’s teaching. Ron and I are committed not to use our credit cards unless we have to. God would provide somehow, and I needed to “chill” – like my teenage daughter often tells me.
“Ron, go check out the mailbox,” I asked.
“Are you expecting a pay check?” he asked in reply, looking hopeful.
“No, but you never know. Maybe God will provide a worm for these hungry birds,” I chuckled, somewhat nervously.
Picture my delight when I saw my handsome husband walk into our kitchen, waving a check with his hand. It was a refund for an insurance overpayment we weren’t expecting: $71 magnificent dollars. Not enough to quit working, but surely enough to make it until the next paycheck arrives.
And plenty of encouragement for this fretful heart.
25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" (Matthew 6, NVI)
Have you asked God for your worm today?
Ana
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