Check out new blog!

42 days until I begin my seminary classes and life starts to change around here! I've got a new blog up and running to track the journey at:

onewomaninseminary.blogspot.com

I hope you'll visit and post on the new blog--and please be aware that posting on this blog will be infrequent. But frequent enough to keep you posted on what's going on in our lives.

Cheers!

(There's a fun "women of the Bible" poll on the new blog, and we could use your vote. Please?)

My new bike and The Gift of the Magi

You have heard this tale by O. Henry (aka William Sydney Porter), right? Where a poor couple, Della and Jim, give sacrificially to each other. They have no money, and it is Christmastime. So she cuts off her long, beautiful hair, to buy a platinum fob chain for Jim's family watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy her beautiful tortoise-shell combs she has long admired. 

Tripping over each other, they present their gifts, their hearts overflowing with love. And, of course, the gifts they sacrificed for seem practically useless then--yet they cement and grow their love. All of this being compared to the gifts of the magi who came to worship Christ.

full story here

And so my own magi story has unfolded over the last 3 months. My husband, David, had two nice bikes of his own--one he used on bike trips, the other a mountain bike he used for everything else. I had no bike of my own, and so we started thinking about purchasing one. Except that David was laid off, and even though we made two trips to the bike store, we didn't want to dip into our savings to purchase a bike. I drooled over a Trek and a Globe model, to be exact, but tried to make peace with the fact that there was not going to be a bike in my near future.

Over the last few months, I also suggested a few money-saving ideas to my husband. Why not cancel the Y membership for the summer and downgrade the cable to basic. He agreed, and so I have been walking outdoors. He rode his bike, but he also took walks with his wife. And so the summer unfolded.

Except that last week, one week before David headed back to work, he said that he was thinking about selling the Bianchi road bike. "Are you sure, honey?" I said. "What if you decide you want to start making road trips again." And he said, "No, I don't see that happening. I'm ready to get rid of the bike."

And what I didn't realize at the time was that David figured by selling his road bike he could purchase me a new comfort bike. And that is exactly what he did. Last night, before we left for prayer meeting at church, he informed me that he wanted to stop by the bike shop to purchase a bike for me, before church.

I literally yelled "yippee!" and jumped a few inches into the air. He was rewarded with a kiss.

And we were off to the bike shop. As he drove my new champagne-colored Globe Carmel out to the car, I smiled from ear to ear. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. And all I wanted was open road and my new comfort bike--a gentle ride for my 36-year-old rear.

When prayer meeting was over, I started to push the husband toward the door. Let's go home and take a ride. Although the sun was close to setting, we pulled out our bikes, raced around the park trail, in rhythm to the live music there, then circling a small pond. And finally, home.

There is a wonderful feeling of joy and contentment in riding through the neighborhoods with my husband on this new bike. A bike he planned for and sacrificed for. A gift he gave willingly, wanting to share this activity with me.

Instant gratification is overrated, my friends. It's the gifts of thoughtfulness and heart that get me every time. Long live the story of The Gift of the Magi, and may all of us experience the joy of giving through sacrifice.

The O. Henry story ends with the author/narrator comparing the pair's mutually sacrificial gifts of love with those of the Biblical Magi:

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 5

I have to tell you the udder truth. 

I once stepped outside after an evening church service and found myself staring into the eyes of a large heifer. And she was chewing her cud. I'm sorry if you don't believe me, but sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Needless to say, I almost screamed, but soon realized she had simply escaped from the farm next door and was surprisingly harmless. 

When my dad took the call to a country church just before I turned 13, everything changed for us. We moved from a small town to a country church and parsonage--which, though separated by a few miles--were both, quite literally, surrounded by farms and fields. I also had the eerie privilege of walking out of the front of the church on another occasion after nightfall; looking up, I saw an owl perched on the building's small spire.

Anyhoo, when my dad became a country preacher it made for some interesting predicaments. There was the obvious: the parsonage was downwind from cows and pigs, and if the wind started blowing in the wrong direction, things got smelly quick. We lived on the corner of a dirt road and a highway, where every parishioner who passed could keep a good eye on us.

Especially some of the most faithful members of the church. It was Oren and Beulah who first welcomed us into their home and offered us their love and friendship. Hearty and warm, they farmed their fields until Oren was into his 80s. In fact, dear Oren only recently passed away when he was well into his 90s. They were the kind of folks who you instantly claimed as grandparent-like figures; it was impossible not to cherish them.

Beulah had grown up in the rundown home across the dirt road where they now lived. And, although the story is a bit fuzzy in my memory, Oren had courted her young. They must have been married for over 70 years. And all along, they knew what was important: faith and service, generosity, family, and working with the land to produce crops. 

Oren's son's family also lived across the highway from us and provided us with many warm memories and years of friendship, too.

But, to tell you the truth, some of the first memories I have of Beulah is that her window gave her a birds-eye view of our activities, from a 1/4 mile down the dirt road. She noticed when the old brown station wagon left our driveway, and many a time, she could tell you when it came home. This might have bothered us if we didn't love her so; but as it was, we realized she cared enough about us to keep tabs on us--and inevitably she needed to know we were home so she could deliver fresh green beans or still-warm baked goods. As you can tell, the arrangement had its advantages!

But we didn't know all of this when we first moved into the country parsonage. We just knew that life had a different rhythm there, and it seemed like people were warmer, friendlier, and more hospitable. There was many a wonderful barn party for the youth group, with bonfires and smores and outdoor games under the stars. 

There was our freezer, filled regularly with 1/2 a cow from a local deacon who also happened to be a dairy farmer.  (I believe he missed Sunday School to get the milking done, before he could get cleaned up enough to slip in for church.) And if you want my opinion, country folks know how to do a potluck better than city folks. Those were grand events, and the cleaning up was just as much fun as the eating. It goes without saying that EVERYTHING was homemade.

There was an earthiness and a graciousness about the ministry of the church. I think people were more grounded, more connected to the land and to animals, and it made a difference in how they carried themselves. No one ever said running a farm isn't stressful; but there is a measure of repose in caring for the elemental things that can't be found in a factory or an office.

The teaching in Sunday School was usually simple and preached with the Bible in hand. Folks seemed to have a better grasp on right and wrong; what pleased God and what didn't. All of the people were imperfect with quirks and ingrained habits and all, but most of them did their best, and I loved them for their honest living.

It was important to my father to be honest and hardworking, too, which led him to insist on mowing his own lawn, which was in full view of the highway. Apparently he became one of them, because I remember the day the call came for the men of the church to go wrassle some escaped cattle. Dad must have done what he could, although if he helped in the end, it was only  because he was good at following directions.

A city preacher turned country preacher. I think the move was good for dad's blood pressure. I know it was good for the little brown church we came to love. And although 20 years have past now, and I'm far removed from that life, I still yearn for both the quietness of the country and the noisiness of the fellowship. 

Summer evenings with the ice cream freezer cranking out treats. Visiting and caring and an abundance of hugs and encouragement. When folks would rather give a hand up than take a handout. I carry these memories still close in my heart--and some of my best dreams bring back the smells, and the smiles, and the sunny nature of that old country church. Cows and all.