My first chore after stumbling into the washroom some mornings, is to look into the mirror and use all my powers of persuasion to convince that person I see that she’s alive and needs to report for work.

 A few weeks ago someone told me about a similar conversation. He’d called an office he’d dealt with before, to request information about his account. “But I noticed,” he said, “that the woman at the other end didn’t seem to want to talk to me.”

 It turns out the lady had a good reason for her reluctance. “According to the computer records,” he said, “I became deceased last year. I’ve been dead for months! She just didn’t want to talk to a dead man!”

 It’s exhausting business, trying to convince someone who doesn’t want to be convinced that you’re not a corpse. Afterwards, he hung up the phone and decided he needed a rest—but not before breaking the news to his wife. He told her she shouldn’t ask him to help with the chores anymore, because, after all, “dead men don’t work!”

 Ignoring my chuckles, he carried on, “And’ya know the worst thing about all this?”

 “What’s that?”

 “I missed my own funeral!” He sounded downright indignant.

 I may have too. Within a few weeks of a move to a new community, I turned on the radio just in time to hear announcements of local funerals. A few seconds later, I stood, horrified, listening to the date, time and location of the “funeral for the late Kathleen Gibson.”

 Timid phone calls began trickling in almost immediately—a few of our new congregation members, wondering, I suspect, if they’d trucked in their piano-playing preacher’s wife for nothing.

 Me: “Hello.”

 Silence.

 Me again: “Hello?”

 Them: “Um…is that you, Kathleen?”

 Me: “Hmm…think so. Last time I checked.”

 Them: “Whew! I heard…(cough)…well, I thought…well, the radio said…(sighs and hesitation)…So you’re not dead, then?”

 We found it funny after we got it all sorted out. No, I didn’t mind if they didn’t attend my funeral. I’d be too busy myself, working at something or other. And as we all know, dead people don’t work.

 One day my desk chair will be empty of the crumbling shell my spirit called home for a few years. Reports of my death will start trickling out. The phone calls will be genuine. People will say I’m dead.

 Don’t believe it. All this time? I’ve been on a God-assignment. When I’ve uttered my last word down here, I’m going home, people. Gonna live with Jesus. Gonna get a new body and a heavenly assignment.

 “Absent from the body…present with the Lord,” the Bible says. Christ-followers will be more alive after death than ever before.

Fabulous. No more arguing with the mirror, and no more funerals. 

Meet me there?

_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_

Easy Over

-~-~-~-~

Even though none of us will be present at our own funerals, most of us have an idea of how we’d like to be remembered, and many of us will be required to plan a service for a loved one.  Before you must, make time to check out these helpful links:

https://www.mywonderfullife.com/ Inspired by the premature death of a beloved husband, this site is a place where you can collect all your preferences in one place, making it easier for your grieving family.

http://www.godweb.org/planfuneral.htm A basic “need to know” article for Christians who, faced with planning a loved one’s funeral, have no idea what to do first.

We had a long season of pet-lessness before Ernie joined our family. Prior to living at our house, the second-hand Amazon Green parrot lived briefly at a friend’s home. There, he cawed like a crow and regularly staged stressing little conniptions. When she and her husband left on vacation, Ernie stayed with us. They never picked him up—but, yes, we agreed to the adoption. At only twenty-odd years, with a life expectancy of fifty to a hundred, he’s the only pet we’ve owned who may have to put us down.

Ernie dislikes hats, earrings, red fingernails, and black clothing. He loves to laugh, and adores walnuts, almonds, and peanuts, all of which he cracks with his beak. He detests most large men and cracks those with his beak too, when he’s in a snit.

We don’t need a watchdog. Ernie thinks he’s one, and plays the role with surprising ferocity. During the Preacher’s naps he perches like a regal eagle on his shoulder, and not even I dare approach when he’s on duty.

For awhile, Ernie’s cage sat in our room, on my side of the bed. One night I went to bed early, hoping to catch up on a sleep deficit. Ernie, his cage door open, positioned himself at the inside corner where he could watch me snore.

 A few hours later I woke to hear footsteps in the hall. I recognized the Preacher’s tall figure entering the room, but clearly, Ernie didn’t. He darted to the top of his cage, spread his wings, and dive-bombed. Landing on the Preacher’s hand, he dug in with his beak, clamping down with the tenacity of a pit bull.

The Preacher grunted, pried the bird off, and pushed him (protesting loudly, wings akimbo) back into his cage, this time shutting the door behind him. When he came back into the room, I noticed a bandage on that hand.

The next morning as Ernie ate his morning snack of sunflower seeds from my palm, I said, “With two fingers, the Preacher could have wrung your pretty green neck. What were you thinking? ” He cocked his head at me. “Hello!” he said, bowing and fluffing his feathers, pleading a good scratch.

Ernie may only weigh a few ounces, but his iridescent feathers hide a colossal personality. He often forgets he’s a bird, not a dog or a person. That he’s small, and we’re big—and trustworthy. And that as the pet in the family, his only real responsibility is not to attack those he sees as a threat, but to be our friend. To love us back. To trust us to care for him.

On good days, he seems to remember all that. On those days, his companionship thrills us.

Consider the birds, Jesus said. They teach things about relationship with our Father. I’m considering a green one, and am wiser for it.

***

Below: The Preacher’s precocious parrot purloins a pear. Lesson here?  Before risking life and limb to achieve what you desire, be sure it’s the real thing. (In this case, it wasn’t.)

We hugged, opened our mouths, and started in, just like old times in another church foyer. Back then, we almost wore the carpet thin after worship, standing there yakking. We discussed rebellious kids, our dissatisfaction with our prayer lives, the upcoming women’s retreat, new dessert recipes…

Decades ago, when we first met, she came wary to worship. Hurt. Prepared for rejection. Not expecting the friends she found. We shared committees, planned events, went on retreats together; chatted every mile. Together with our husbands, we spent time at each others’ homes, enjoying an easy companionship. Bright. Helpful. Solid.

But life is gritty sometimes. Like a sandstorm, petty little things gust in, swirl over and blow us away from the people we care about. And suddenly you wake up and realize a friend has gone missing.

I can’t recall what it was exactly, but hurts and disappointment clouded over our comradeship. The sun of that friendship got lost for years. No final words, no real explanations. Just a far quieter phone. An empty pew. And sometimes, tears on the pillow.

Years later, crises visited both our homes. One day, as we drove near her home, I picked up my cell phone, almost without thinking. Punched in her number.

“Just drivin’ by,” I said, all in a rush. “Wondered if….”

“Please come,” she said.

Around the kitchen table, the conversation felt fragile and cautious. We dodged the sensitive things. Our husbands, our partners in hard times, talked between themselves. Slow words, polite, but cool. Mostly, we listened.

But when we left, something had changed. “D’ya think…” I asked myself. “Don’t do that,” I answered myself. “You think too much. Follow God, one step at a time.”

We met “accidentally,” after that. God’s doings, I’m sure. Like that day in a church neither of us attended. In restaurants, at stores. Gradually, the ice thawed. Now when I see my friend we talk as naturally as we ever did. Laugh, too.

Thank God for hard times. Difficulty, disaster and disease, if we’re paying attention, bring clarity. Make us see the important things we can’t otherwise—like our own pettiness, and what we’ve sacrificed to hang onto it.

The specific hurt that drove a wedge between us is long forgotten. In light of the really big stuff we’ve both faced since? Not even worth discussing. Somehow it feels more important to simply grab the present opportunity. To embrace the moments and the people God has allowed, for as long as he allows them.

Let it go, people. And follow peace, in Jesus’ name.

Easy over…

Anyone remember Ethel and Lucy? Theirs was one of the best friendships television has ever portrayed. Take a few moments to watch these two classic clips–both accompanied by great songs. They brought me memories of other friendships, particularly the ones I share with my sister Bev, my daughter Amanda, and my dearest friend, Glenda. There are more, too, all gifts from God. Sometimes we clash (we’re women, after all!), but how worth it it has been to keep following peace. 

At 11:30 every Saturday morning growing up, I and my siblings gathered in the kitchen. We tuned the family radio to KARI, then shut up and listened to the latest episode of Danny’s story.  Every week the fictional young Christ-follower got into a scrape. Every week his story ended on a cliff-hanger. And every week we came back.

Our radio tuned in other stations, their call letters as memorable to me as any alphabet jingle: CJOR, CKNW, CKWX and CKLG. They introduced me to pop music and talk radio; to journalists like Jack Webster, Pat Burns, Ed Murphy (Reaction Line), Jack Cullen and a roving reporter named Roving Mike.

We had no TV. Radio delivered our entertainment. But only KARI delivered soul-food. Its Christian programming introduced me to a faith perspective wider than the small church our family attended—though not one I appreciated at the time. The station played stuffy music, and I had little patience for the preachers who frequented its airwaves.

Danny’s stories made up for all that. Danny taught me how to live like a Jesus-kid.

Much later in life, when I began freelancing for CBC Radio, I found I loved making radio as much as I enjoyed listening to it. One day I posted a yellow sticky note at the top of my computer, “Pray about doing radio spots,” it said. I wanted to do for others what Danny did for me.

For years, whenever I really noticed that yellow rectangle, I prayed, “Lord, if it fits in with your plans, I’d love to broadcast a few simple words of faith.”

Meanwhile, in Yorkton SK, a man named Dennis Dyck, who had a gift for sales, a passion for Jesus Christ, and a love of Christian radio, began a 50 watt station called The Rock, 100.5 FM. And in Calgary, Ray Sargent, an ex-clergyman-turned radio producer, began EnjoyRadio.org, producing two syndicated gospel music programs, Enjoy the Mix, and Sunday Side Up.

In his time and for his higher purposes, God caused all our passions to increase and our paths to intersect.

In January of 2011, my 90-second radio spot, Simple Words (shorter versions of this column) began airing on 100.5, Rock. One year later, the Rock sits at 98.5 FM, with a newly increased power of 50,000 watts. (Congratulations, Rock gang!) Simple Words is just one of many weekday features God uses to inspire faith in that station’s listeners.

Within a month after its first air-time, Simple Words caught the attention of Ray Sargent. Today his programs, including Simple Words, air on more analog and digital gospel radio stations than he can count, in no fewer than twenty countries around the world.

In every Christ-follower’s life, God plants his own vision—always three sizes too big, to leave room for him. Our part is to accept it, keep praying, and take action. 

Are you?

 Celebration day, feast on the table, house full of people. Five-year-old Butterfly Bean watches me pour out cider. Whispers, “Nana. I have something to tell you.”

 “Yes?” I reach for another glass.

 She reaches up. Grabs a hank of hair and yanks my head down to hers. Very persuasive, that one. The pouring stops instantly.

 “Goodness, darlin’, what is it?”  I suspect blood. A broken toy. Writing on the wall. At the very least, a request for help in the washroom.

 Still holding my hair hostage she hisses into my ear, “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that if anyone believes in him, he will not perish, but have eternal life.”

 For over two decades I wore a fragile gold cross, a cherished gift from an older sister. Until its chain received one tug too many, I recited that very verse whenever one of the Beans touched it. Eventually they joined me, their infant lisps more tones than words. We did that hundreds of times, always including the reference: John 3:16. It stuck, I assumed.

 “Wow, I’m impressed! And where does that verse come from?”

 “From Awana,” she hisses again, referring to a mid-week kid’s church club she and her siblings attend.

 Not the cross after all. Nevertheless…“Neat! And what book do we find it in?” 

 “The Bible!”

 “Right, honey. But it’s in another book, too. Do you remember where?” I’m chasing the reference.

 “My Awana book!”

 “Anywhere else? Is it in J….”

 She’s shouting now, or as loud as a hissing whisper can go. “It’s in MY BROTHER’S AWANA BOOK, TOO!”

 “NEAT! But, honey, in what place can we find it?”

 “AT AWANA!”

 I hint. “What about John…?”

 “THREE SIXTEEN!” she yells. Skips away, grinning.

 Memorizing is good for the brain, researchers have found. Most of us tuck away phone numbers, social media tags, and favourite channels without effort.  But memorizing scripture? That’s slow-release fertilizer for the Christ-following spirit. The more we bury inside, the more it grows us up.

 Celebration day. Feast on the table. House full of people. One little girl reminds us why. Pour out the cider! Raise a glass! And…”Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!”

 And that’s found in 2 Corinthians 9:15.

***

More on memorizing:

Friend, if we want to hear God speak to you, we MUST carve out time to spend with his Word. The times of my greatest closeness to God have come during periods of meditating and memorizing not single verses of scripture, but entire chapters. Rev. John Piper  has plenty to say about the importance of scripture memory…take time to watch his powerful sermon on scripture memorization below. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOkLP6VHtWk for those on RSS)

The Crossing occasionally held evening by-ticket only functions. Dessert, entertainment, and great conversation. One Christmas the owner asked me if I’d emcee one of those evenings; a night of readings, music and dance. An intimate concert—with an African accent. I’ve told my readers about that evening before. Perhaps for my benefit alone, or maybe that of someone who shared that special evening with me, I need to recall it again.

 Candles illuminated the tea room, once the gracious living room, and little changed over the years. One primitively carved giraffe lamp with a wide basket-woven shade glowed in the corner, and several small Christmas trees—slender silver rope-wrapped cones—hung with stars that reflected the flickering candles.

 The Crossing bulged with its cargo of thirty guests. We clustered around steaming cups of hot apple cider and exquisitely arranged plates of decorated shortbread cookies.

 For two and a half hours some of the area’s brightest artistic lights shared their gifts—stories, poetry, music—vocal, guitar and flute, and an exquisitely interpreted ballet number (by a young woman I didn’t know would one day become a friend). The presence of a tiny five-month old infant resting quietly on her mother’s lap lent an almost hallowed atmosphere.

 The performers had been asked only to choose pieces with a holiday theme. But almost without exception, they read or performed pieces that reflected the true meaning of Christmas. Not a single mention, that I recall, of the fat guy in the red suit.

 Closing the evening, I recited the Christmas story from Luke 2 to a recorded orchestra playing “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem.” Reflected in those candlelit faces, I sensed wistfulness. Longing. Hope. I ended with John 3:16: For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life.

 All evening, but especially then, it felt that the reason for the season had chosen to join us. Jesus, in that very room, fingering the edges of our shop-weary, Christlessmas hearts, and tuning them once more to a genuine Christmas key. Perfect pitch.

 This year’s Christmas concerts are over. The gifts are unwrapped, and the turkey picked to the bones. But truth has not left us, nor the Christ whose birth we celebrate. I hope you made some great memories, but I’d like to know…do they include an encounter with the Reason for the season?

***

No matter our faith–or lack thereof, God never stops reaching for encounter with us. Watch the remarkable story of one young Muslim practicing cultural Jihad in the Bible Belt of America:

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Shepherds still watch their sheep in the fields just outside of Bethlehem. The city boasts around 22,000 people today. It was far smaller and less significant centuries ago, when the Hebrew patriarch Jacob buried his beloved Rachel near there. Much later, Naomi and Ruth, two other well-known Bible women, also called the area home.

Ruth married a local crop farmer named Boaz. The couple became the great-grandparents of a bold young shepherd boy named David: harp player, giant slayer, future king of Israel, a nation long darkened by its own rebellion against God’s laws. During the mighty Davidic dynasty, tiny Bethlehem became a strategic fortified city.

But David’s line ran out. Israel’s erratic jags in and out of faith continued. The kingdom divided, and little Bethlehem faded into insignificance—except for the promises.

Early prophets had made statements about that little hiccup on the map, the town still known as the City of David. A great ruler would be born there, a member of David’s royal line. A shepherd to lead God’s people, in God’s strength, from stubborn rebellion to hope and peace.

“And the government will be on his shoulders,” the prophecy said. To a nation oppressed by its enemies, that last bit was especially welcome. (Times haven’t changed much, have they? Like Israel, humanity in general persists in believing that personal freedom, peace and happiness are bi-products of optimal circumstances. That once we placate the hunger, fix the system, replace the infrastructure, even out the inequity, haul home a bigger toy, pile the gifts higher…the world will be rosy again.)

Fast forward the centuries to the dot on the timeline where B.C. flips over to A.D. Like the rest of the nation of Israel, Bethlehem, a wisp of its former self, chafes to escape the grip of Roman authority. In obedience to a government census call, an unmarried, very pregnant teenager and her fiancé, a direct descendant of David, make their way into town. Their names? Mary and Joseph.

You know the rest of the story. Angels announced it to shepherds first: “Glad tidings! Great joy! Unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior…Christ the Lord!”

Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. Prophecy fulfilled through the wails of an infant. And ever since, the Bethlehem child, the Good Shepherd, has demonstrated that God keeps his promises and that joy and peace flow not from fixed circumstances, but from fixed hearts.

One snowy November, my oldest sister’s husband sent word to our scattered family: “If you want to see Sandra again, you should come,” he said.

From separate provinces, my sister and I, along with our elderly parents travelled to the province in the middle. Beside Sandra’s bed, holding Sandra’s hand, we said the necessary things, then we watched Sandra go home.

Our faith told us something glorious: she’d gone to live with Jesus, pain-free. Our frailty told us something shattering: she’d simply gone, and far too soon. The pain of her absence sliced us, and twinned with the complexities of regret, devastated us.  

Sorrow like that carves a gaping hollow in a body, making even simple things impossible. Picking up the phone. Driving a car. Answering easy questions. Remembering to eat and drink. Choosing what to wear. Making a choice, period.

Someone has said that God comes to us in the people who come to us. He came to our family through four earthly angels that year. Too close to Christmas, in a strange hospital far from home.

The angels, strangers all, arrived just after my sister died. They came simply to be with us. Their presence loaned us strength. They brought juice and coffee. Made necessary phone calls. Stayed with us until it didn’t hurt so much to breathe, until we could get up, limp on to do the necessary things.

In the dark hollows of your own crises, perhaps you’ve met earthly angels too. Maybe you’ve been one; a neighbour, a passer-by, a pastor, friend or family member, even a stranger. They come without beckoning, simply to be with the hurting. To do what must be done, even when what must be done is simply sitting together in one place.  

I’ve wondered, in the years since my sister’s death, if it took that for me to truly appreciate the deepest meaning of Christmas—that God is never absent in our darkest moments. That when emotional paralysis prevents a victorious grasping onto him, he has already grasped onto us.

“The virgin will be with child, and will give birth to a Son, and they will call him Immanuel, which means “God with us.” Matthew 1:23

What we celebrate at Christmas is God’s answer to the most universal prayer of humanity: “God, be with me. God, stay with me.”

Through Jesus within us, and those who come to us in his compassionate spirit, God answers, “Beloved, I’m right here.”

If sorrow haunts you at Christmas, remember. But if loss has carved a chunk from someone you know, go.

***

Got a moment? Absorb this song, sung by Mandisa and Matthew West…

I don’t know if I’d fit in at that church. I’m not old—yet. And I’m not sure what they mean by regular—though I eat a healthy serving of fibre every day. I’m not even a purebred Baptist.

But I’m regularly ordinary, if that’s what it means. And I’m plain, too. People who meet me after reading my books or articles have said things like, “You’re so…(and then they stop, as though they’ve already said too much, and are afraid that if they go any further, they’ll incriminate themselves—or embarrass me.) Then they gulp and finish. “You’re so…ordinary!”

Maybe it’s because I am so ordinary that the people I’m most comfortable with are also ordinary. Folks who mispronounce words every now and then. People who don’t have perfect memories. Women who roll out of bed on a Saturday morning and clean their own houses in their pyjamas. Friends who struggle like I do with eating and praying and loving; pride and greed and selfishness. People who remember they’re human, and don’t mind letting others know. 

I have acquaintances who are renowned speakers and authors. Gifted friends whose names are known around the world. You’d know some of them, if I dropped them. (I won’t because it’s best to keep fighting that pride thing.)

Know what I’ve learned about those people? They’re ordinary too; not too different from me at all. But totally willing for God to fill them to the top, stir them to the bottom, and pour them out in dry and thirsty places. In the doing of all that, they accomplish so much good that others believe them to be extra-ordinary.

Long ago another ordinary woman did that. A very young one. Christians call her the Virgin Mary, and what God poured out of her was called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

If you’re ordinary too, stop imagining that God can’t use you. No cup alone—no matter how fine, can satisfy thirst—only what’s inside the cup can do that. So be ordinary, be filled with God’s Holy Spirit, and be used.

 ***

Take a moment for worship…one of my favourite Christmas songs, sung here by the composer of its lyrics, Mark Lowry

Holly is a teacher. Holly is a devout Christ-follower. And Holly, knowingly, married a murderer.

In a drug-related incident in his youth, her husband stabbed his drug dealer. The case was clear-cut, and the subsequent life sentence came as no surprise. Chances are, Holly’s husband will spend the rest of his days behind bars.

Holly goes to visit him a lot.

Here’s the kicker: Holly didn’t meet her husband until well after he’d been sentenced. She was boarding at the home of his faith-filled parents. They kept talking about their son, who they loved very much, prayed for and visited often.

The former drug-user had become an artist. He sketched people in lines so meticulous they looked almost like photographs. He taught classes for prisoners. People described him as a gentle giant; a positive influence within the prison.

Curious, Holly went with them on a visit. The two became friends and married two years later. They are devoted to one another, despite the oft-negative reactions of others. And God seems to be using their story.

I first read about Holly and her husband on a website for Christian women*. Then I read the comments submitted by readers in response to the article. “Doesn’t seem wise to me,” wrote one woman. “What if you’re wrong? What if he reverts? Then what?” asked others.

Whether Holly’s artist husband is a con artist, a temporarily restricted felon, or a genuinely Christ-transformed individual, only God knows. (I admit to the same questions.) But no matter it ends, perhaps the best part of Holly’s story lies in another direction.

The often rarely-turned pages of the Old Testament contain a curious story about a man named Hosea. Hosea was a prophet. Hosea was a devout God-follower. And Hosea did as he was told.

Following God’s direction, he married a prostitute.

The choice was foolish from every possible angle, except God’s. But God used his and Gomer’s lives to remind people of his “in spite of” kind of love. A forever faithful love, for fickle people.

Holly’s and Hosea’s lives remind me of another story. The one Christians will begin celebrating this Sunday, the first week of Advent. A story of how God made good on his long-ago promise to send a Messiah to free people from sin and darkness, and offer them light and life.

Refuse. Recant. Rebel. Reconsider. God knew about all those responses ahead of time. Nevertheless, through his beloved Son, the message of Christmas that began in a cattle stall is an ongoing proposal: “I love you. Believe in me. Don’t perish. Have everlasting life.” Foolish? Perhaps.

But that’s what love does, sometimes.

***

*Read Holly’s moving story for yourself at http://www.kyria.com/topics/marriagefamily/marriage/spirituality/goodlife.html