TIM E HOLDER

I live way out in the country. Two and a half acres of woods and a small wood house with a creek winding through them. The Blair Witch Project.

I used to normally go out with the dogs and watch them run around and perform their regular constitutionals before coming inside.

One night several years ago, it was misting and I really didn’t want to stand outside with them. It was taking my Jack Russell Terrier, Gitli (Cherokee for “dog”) who was a tornado of teeth and toenails, a lot longer than usual to come home so I went out looking for him.

Apparently, he wandered behind my house to the next street, where my neighbor’s two dogs attacked him and brutally killed him. I’ve never gotten over that. Now I never, under any circumstances let my pooches go out, rain, shine, sleet, snow, ice, unless I’m there with them.

So, a while ago, I took two of my six out. My little blind one was barking at me to pick her up so I did. I carried her into the house. Falkor wasn’t out of my sight for more than one minute. But when I went to bring him in, he, apparently, and ill-advisedly, decided to go on an exploration expedition. He never wanders far, never out of my line of vision.

I calmly checked all the normal places he would go. The burn pile, the creek. I called and called. I walked around my next door neighbor’s house and to the street behind, where I found Gitli in a field years ago.

I immediately began to tense up. I could literally feel the anxiety of fear rising in my shoulders and into my throat. My mouth went dry and my heart began to race as the minutes turned into hours.

I got in my car and drove around the neighborhood looking for any sign of him. I kept stopping to ask neighbors if they may have seen him. A black labassett with a red collar.

There were new kids playing in the front yard of the house where the dogs killed Gitli and I stopped my car, stuck my head out the window and asked if they saw a black dog with a red collar. They were so sweet. They walked to my car and said no dog came by with that description, that they would certainly be looking for him and bring him home if he came over.

I then looked up to see their father standing on the front porch. I yelled, “I promise I’m not a predator. I’m really looking for my dog. I live right behind you. I love Jesus and I’m in the choir.” He smiled and gave me the thumbs up. I thanked the kids for helping me look. Then I hollered up at the father. “By the way, they probably still shouldn’t walk up to a car of someone they don’t know.” He laughed and said, “You are absolutely right.” I drove on down the road a bit, turned around, and headed back. As I passed, I saw the father on his knees with his kids, obviously having a very pertinent and timely discussion. They all smiled and waved.

I was beginning to panic. I walked through the woods all around my house, screaming Falkor’s name. The whole time praying, “Please let him come home. Please let him be okay.” My brain began to reel. What if those neighbors with the pit bull tied in front of their house down the way are actually dogfighters. What if they caught Falkor for bait. Possible, but totally irrational. I couldn’t stop praying. The “what if’s” were not impossible. Just not probable. But possible.

I came home and sat on the front porch and drank my Dr. Pepper and prayed. More than two hours passed. He was never gone so long. My whole body trembled. I couldn’t get past the awful thoughts and pictures in my head.

I finally realized this was completely out of my control. I knew the only place I could go was to the Lord. And I didn’t need to be alone with this fear and anxiety. So, being the social media junky that I am, I went on Facebook and posted Falkor’s picture. I asked my friends to pray with me.

Immediately, posts began to pop up from my precious friends and family. “Praying for a safe return.” “Praying.” “What a horrible feeling. Praying.” They went on and on. “Oh Tim, I’m so heartbroken.” “Praying for Falkor’s safe return and peace for you.”

At this point, I realized my entire body was reacting to the fear. I realized my brain, which is supposed to be used for problem solving, was being bombarded by the “what if’s,” which are never good in a situation like this. I thought of 2 Corinthians 10:5 “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.” I always believed that verse was just for evil thoughts concerning unforgiveness or lust or any number of ungodly, mental failures. It never occurred to me that it could be talking about fear. That fear and anxiety are just as faithless as any other feelings that pull me out of obedience to Jesus.

The thought that I had many, many faithful believers who love me, petitioning our Father, and going to him on my behalf, even over something that would seem a very small matter to most people…well, I physically felt my heart slow down, my chest un-tighten, my breathing go back to some semblance of normal, the sweating stop. I just closed my eyes, and said, “Lord, I can’t control this. I have to let it go. I just ask that you hear the prayers of your people.”

It seemed everything slowed down for awhile. It wasn’t that I was okay with my sweet little pooch being lost. I just knew the One Who created Him was in control, no matter what.

It was close to four hours and the sun was going down. Every time I felt the fear begin to bubble up, I would pray, “Give me your peace.”

And then, about 8 o’clock, up saunters Falkor. Soaked. Obviously swimming in the creek. Looking obnoxiously sheepish. When he saw me sitting on the deck, he stopped short. He SO knew he was in trouble. I just let him stand there dripping, staring at me, while I calmly went to Facebook and let everyone know he was home safe. Then I hugged him while people all over the world typed, “YAY,” “Hallelujah,” “I’m so glad, “Praise God!”

The next day there were still consequences from my letting fear take the place of faith in the Lord, no matter what the outcome. My body literally ached. I was sore all day long. Once again, obedience to Christ is proven through my weakness. And by the way, as I write this, I just found Scout finishing up a pan of shortbread I left on the stove to cool. My memory verse this week is Isaiah 41:10 “You’re my servant, serving on my side. I’ve picked you. I haven’t dropped you. Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you steady. I’ll keep a firm grip on you.”

A few weeks ago, between services at church, I listened to a message on my phone from the correctional unit where I do volunteer work. It was my weekend to be “on call.” An inmate’s cousin died at a correctional unit where she was incarcerated in Missouri and I was to inform him of her death. It’s never easy. But, I’ve done so many of these “interviews” over the years that it’s not as devastating as it once was. I have the conversation down and I can pretty much do it by rote. I fight to not become so callous that it ever becomes just a nuisance or even an inconvenience.

It wasn’t a big deal to go since I was scheduled to do the evening teaching at the women’s unit just down the road from the men’s. After meeting with the gentleman who lost his cousin, I settled down to put final touches on my notes for the evening service. I called a couple of my co-facilitators who lead Celebrate Recovery with me down to the office so we could start planning out our next step-study that was to begin soon. About the time we got into the planning, I got a call from the women’s unit that one of the ladies there lost a family member and I needed to come talk to her before she possibly read the obituary in the newspaper that day.

I sent the guys back to their barracks and sat back in the chair and my stomach began to churn. This one seemed impossible. I drove the quarter mile to the women’s unit and as I walked through the chain link gate, all I could do was pray. I told God that this one was too hard. I didn’t want to do this one. I wasn’t angry, just an overwhelming fear, leading to almost immediate weariness. I recognized this pattern.

I walked into the barracks area and told the officers why I was there. I normally take the inmate into the chaplain’s office and break the news to them, give them a few minutes to process, let them call a loved one, pray with them and send them back to their barracks. This was different.

I asked the officers if one or two of them could stand outside the door in case Traci became too inconsolable. The captain walked to the barracks door and called her name. “Mason, to the chaplain’s office.”

There are a few things I can count on when I have to deliver devastating news to the inmates. First, if you’re called to the chaplains office, there’s a 99% chance it is not going to be good news. I’ve done so many of these “interviews” that I know the thought process as they approach me. They are running through a litany of people in their lives that it could be. Who has been sick? Who is oldest? Was there some kind of accident? An overdose? Murder?

As they approach, I see the excruciating anxiety and fear in their faces as they literally search my eyes for any sign or clue as to who they are about to begin the grieving process over.

I also know they are lining themselves up internally. No matter what the news, they can’t show their grief. They can’t show weakness or fear of any kind. They can’t allow anyone “in” to walk with them for fear of “owing” anyone.

My heart broke as Traci walked toward me and I introduced myself. “Hi Traci, I’m chaplain Tim. How are you today?” This little lady, already no bigger than my index finger, seemed to fall in on herself and become even smaller. She smiled weakly. “I’m okay. But, I think I’m about to not be.”

I closed the door behind us and motioned to an empty seat for her to sit in. I sat with the desk between us, which, at this moment, seemed to separate us by miles. “No, I’m afraid not. Traci, There’s no way for me to make this easy for you. We got a call today. Your son, Benjamin, chose to end his life.”

There is always a moment of silence. One thing I’ve learned in life is that silence is, more often than not, better than trying to fill a space with well-meaning, but, nonetheless empty platitudes that, more often than not, go unheard.

So we sat for a little while, the time as distant and distinct as the space between us. Traci locked her eyes on mine and I watched as the tears began to pool in her eyes. She finally whispered, “Thank you for telling me.” She started to get up and I said, “No, sit here with me for awhile.”

As Traci wept, mostly silently, I waited for the tears to subside, for the moment. And then I began to ask her questions about her boy. All the good things she could remember. I asked her what his favorite things in life were. He loved the razorbacks and pretty much anything with a motor. I, as you will more than likely suspect, choked back tears with several of her memories.

I prayed with her and told her how important it was going to be that she find ways to lean into God for hope and grace. I prayed that God would place angels in strategic places around her to whisper His peace, that only He could give, to her hurting heart. I prayed that, as impossible as it seemed, she would find peace instead of fear.

The last thing I told her was that I would pray for her. I would pray that she find a way to show the glory of her Father in the midst of this devastating situation. That she would lean into Him and give Him the chance to be her safe place. The only One she could truly trust with this pain. Traci gave a half-hearted nod. Unconvinced. It is, after all, prison. And she walked back to her barracks.

I watched her walk through the big metal door of the barracks and heard the heaviness of it closing echo down the hall. Her lowered shoulders, bearing more weight than one lonely woman should ever have to carry, spoke volumes. One more defeat in her life. I looked toward the officer who was standing at the door, watching as she walked to her rack. The officer turned toward me and said, “Traci walked straight to her rack and started brushing her hair.”

I went back to the office and just said, “Lord, you’ve called me to this ministry. I do love it. But, I don’t ever want to do that again.”

A couple of hours later, at the evening service, I stood at the door, welcoming all the ladies in to the visitation center. I was only about half-way there, mentally, trying to realign my troubled heart for the teaching I was about to do.

About halfway through the line, I looked up to see a little, tiny lady walking in. Her eyes red and wet with tears. My throat closed up and my eyes filled as I said, “Hi, Traci. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Sometime in the summer of 1971, I’m fairly certain it was mid-August. I remember it being blistering hot. Sweltering, eggs on sidewalk hot. I was just leaving Jr. High and headed to sophomore status at Searcy High School. That time of life when everything was changing and abhorrent and loathsome. School, body, attitude, definitely attitude. Friends were the ultimate expression of loyalty. Parents knew nothing and could do nothing right. I didn’t truly think they were ignorant. They just thought they knew everything.

One particular Saturday, I was just finishing summer band practice at the practice field, which was just behind Ahlf Jr. High. Mom informed me, as I threw my trombone in the back and jumped in the front seat beside her that it was way past time for a hair cut. No big deal. She would drive me to Hickmon’s Barber Shop on Race Street. A little ramshackle, wooden shop as I recall it. Maybe only two chairs. But, I can’t remember anyone ever working there besides Mr. Hickmon. So one seat sat empty every time I was there.

At any rate, we were not going anywhere near Race Street. In fact, we barely went the length of a football field before turning into a house just adjacent to the stadium. I immediately recognized the sign out front. “Merlene’s Beauty Shop.”

Merlene Barker was mom’s dear friend from church and was the manufacturer of most every woman in town’s bouffant. For some reason, she apparently never recovered from the death of John F. Kennedy because most every woman coming out of her salon was channeling the exact same flip as Jackie did a full decade before. Except for my mother, who insisted that, much like the basic black dress, the beehive would always be in style. She normally said this at bedtime while wrapping her head in toilet paper.

For some undefinable reason, much like a rabbit when it senses danger, a coyote or woolly mammoth, every sinew and tendon in my body tightened into defensive mode. “What are we doing at Merlene’s? Somehow I knew it wasn’t to pick up one of Merlene’s amazing casseroles she was famous for making when there was sickness or a death in the family. “Why aren’t we going to Hickmon’s? And where’s Andy?” My little brother was almost always in the mix when it was haircut time. “Hickmon’s is closed today for some reason.” I can’t remember if Mr. Hickmon was sick that day, or out hunting with his boys. But, I’ve never gotten completely over the resentment of what transpired over the next hour.

Mom tried to sound excited. “Andy was finished so I dropped him off at JR’s.while I ran some errands.” That would be another friend of the family, JR Betts. She dropped my little brother off at JR’s service station while she came to get me. “Merlene wasn’t busy today and she said she would be happy to do your hair.” “DO…my hair?” My breath caught in my chest as I remembered the time Merelene gave my little sister a perm and burned her hair off at the crown. To this day, Jacqui still calls her, “Mom’s old lady hairdresser.”

“Mom, I can wait till next weekend. It won’t get that much longer.” “I’ve already paid her, so get in there.”

Many people, when they are in a ghastly, albeit non-fatal accident, experience flashbacks, small bits and pieces, pictures of the event and not the entirety of the cataclysmic, life-shifting episode.My first thought as I walked in the room was why my mother wasn’t, at least whispering, “DEAD MAN WALKING” as I walked to the chair in the middle of the room.
Merelene was thrilled to see me and exclaimed how excited she was since she rarely ever got to to work on boys.

I couldn’t compartmentalize all the smells in the place, a mixture of bleaches and dyes and I don’t know…what? Burnt hair? I was first strangled by a pink and blue striped plastic apron thing. And before I could instinctively rip it off, the chair was jerked back into water-board position. I have to admit, the hair washing was not half bad. I think I fell asleep until the chair was unceremoniously thrust back into an upright position and Merlene began circling around me with a pair of scissors and a comb. No clippers.?

She was absentminded talking to mom while she worked, about church and what someone wore to someone’s funeral. They laughed and giggled, which was totally annoying to me. Really stupid stuff.

And then, Merlene began performing some kind of sardonic treatment to my head as though she were raking it with a fork. Like she was combing it backwards or something. I asked, “Are you teasing my hair?” She said, obviously for the one hundred thousandth time, “Oh no honey, if I was teasing your hair, I would be doing this?” And she pointed her fingers at my head and went, “ Nyea, Nyea, nyea, nyea, nyea, nyea.”

I rolled my eyes as she continued to tease my hair. And the entire time she was doing that, she was spraying me with some kind of lethal toxin. My eyes were burning with the fires of a thousand volcanoes, and I was completely unable to take in air, literally gagging as I gasped for, what I felt certain were my final two or three tattered breaths.

Just before I went unconscious, I remember there were two thoughts almost simultaneously. ”This is what females go through almost weekly and don’t come out of it genetically altered like they grew up next to a nuclear power plant China Syndrome meltdown disaster? And the second thought, as I glared at my mother, who was mysteriously absorbed in a Southern Living magazine, was, “For the love of all that is holy, I am your son, save me.”

Finally, it was over. Merlene stood back, crossed her fleshy ams, cocked her head to the side and exclaimed, “Oh.” Mom lowered her magazine, looking up for the first time, and said, furtively, “Oh.” And then, almost as if adding intentional punishment, Merlene held up the mirror as I morosely said, “Oh!!!” With the underlying thought, “please. No. Let me wake up or die. Please.” It was not being able to look away from a train wreck, only I was still anticipating the wreck. Growing up, I possessed this weird tick. I would laugh at the most inappropriate times. If someone told me their mother died, I would stifle this insane urge to guffaw. There was no way to politely say I would rather have my eyelids stapled to a railroad track than look in that mirror. So, I froze. The next thing I knew, I was laughing.

I looked like Patsy Cline and Lady Bird Johnson gave birth. I WAS A GUY…IN JR. HIGH SCHOOL. It looked a little like this.

Only way more poofed up and…hard. I remember it being hard. Like I would raise my eyebrows and my whole scalp would migrate backwards.

I mumbled “thank you,” and slinked to the car, almost crawling, praying that no friend, actually no other human, would see me before I got to the car. When mom got in, I slunk into the floorboard and began trying to flatten my hair down with my hands an spit. But, it was like scraping a concrete yard ornament. I think my fingertips actually bled. Mom was yelling at me to leave it alone. “You need to keep it just like that till tomorrow, so Merlene can see it at church.” And there was about as much chance of that happening as hell getting a Baskin Robbins. I figured I could leave it alone until the second we got home and I could drown myself in the shower…with a jackhammer.

Again, however, the car wasn’t going toward home. We were, in fact, headed down Race Street. It wasn’t until we pulled into JR’s service station that I remembered my little brother. Mom, frustrated at me for futilely attempting to get the mutant off my head, said, “Go in and get Andy.”

I hope you’re getting the emotional picture here. I’m 15 years old. About to enter high school. In a town of about 10 thousand people where everyone knows everyone. And I look like Merlene literally dipped my head in Aqua Net and dragged me through a donkey barn. “I am NOT walking into that gas station. It’s not happening. You can pull out a couple of hairs from my head right now and stab me in the heart with them if you want. But, I’m NOT going in there.” “Timothy Eldridge, get out of this car and go get your brother.” She said Timothy Eldridge, so I knew the battle was over. I prayed that a freak tsunami would splash through washing away the entire town, including my hair.

I walked toward the firing squad, which was actually a glass door. I pushed it open to see three gas station attendants wiping tears from their eyes, looking toward the opposite corner of the room like they just finished watching the funniest movie of all time. I glanced over and saw Andy in the farthest chair he could find curled up in a ball with exACTly the same bouf as mine. They all turned and saw me. And the funny movie started all over again.

We tried to beat each other to the car. I got in the car and, looking out the side view mirror, I somehow stammered, “Okay, let me get this straight. You actually allowed this hairdo thing to happen twice?” “Oh well, now. It doesnt look that bad. It’s just…and she trailed off with a heavy sigh.

Not another word was spoken on the ride home. Andy and I, avoided eye contact, because it would only make the false hope that we didn’t have the same alien on our head a reality. Andy would burst into tears. And i would burst into uncontrollable laughter.

The car was barely put into park before we raced into the house and stood in our respective showers for about 45 minutes. Although I’m sure mom only took us to Merlene’s Little Shop Of Horrors…and torture…and humiliation out of convenience, no boy from our family ever stepped foot in that place again.

The only consolation I felt out of the entire experience was at church the following morning, when I marched in and watched Merlene’s look of shock. There may have been a snarl on her face, like I deliberately defaced a masterpiece. I may just as well have drawn nose hairs on the Mona Lisa with a Marks-a lot! Or taken a chisel to the statue of David. At any rate, fortunately, right about then, the old tick set in again and I burst into peals of hysterical laughter. We all have specific moments in our lives that define us. If you should ever wonder why it doesn’t phase me for a single second that my forehead recedes to the back of my neck…now you know.

Psalm 139. “God, investigate my life, get all the facts firsthand. I’m an open book to you; even from a distance, you know what I’m thinking.You know when I leave and when I get back; I’m never out of your sight. You know everything I’m going to say before I start the first sentence. I look behind me and you’re there, then up ahead and you’re there, too—your reassuring presence, coming and going. This is too much, too wonderful—I can’t take it all in! Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit? to be out of your sight? If I climb to the sky, you’re there! If I go underground, you’re there! If I flew on morning’s wings to the far western horizon, You’d find me in a minute—you’re already there waiting! Then I said to myself, “Oh, he even sees me in the dark! At night I’m immersed in the light!” It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you; night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you. Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother’s womb. I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration—what a creation! You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day.Your thoughts—how rare, how beautiful! God, I’ll never comprehend them! I couldn’t even begin to count them—any more than I could count the sand of the sea. Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with you! Investigate my life, O God, find out everything about me; Cross-examine and test me, get a clear picture of what I’m about; See for yourself whether I’ve done anything wrong—- then guide me on the road to eternal life.”

My favorite verse in this psalm is verse 14. A lot of versions translate this verse “I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

I, of course, thought it great that I was “wonderfully” made. And it seems I spent all my time, when thinking about this verse, landing squarely on the word “wonderfully” made.

If someone is going through a tough time, and I feel it’s my responsibility to make them feel better, verse 14 is a go-to verse. If I can make someone, even for a moment, recognize that they are “wonderfully made,” I’ve done a good thing. That they are incredible. That the Lord put them together exactly the way He wanted them to be. I can go through a litany of phrases with anyone who feels body shamed or self-image shamed or filled with guilt over past mistakes or fearful that the Lord or people have forgotten them. I can remind them, as I do myself, that I am. “Wonderfully” made. And that really is a good, sustainable concept. But, I think it leaves out the single most pivotal point of the verse.

When I tell people they are “wonderfully made,” if I leave that as a stand alone thought, it could possibly lead to selfishness or a sense of entitlement. That we are owed some gift or merits because the Lord thinks we are wonderful. The truth is, He does think we are wonderful. But, why does He think we are wonderful? First and foremost, He showed us how wonderful we are by the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. And even that love leads to the single most important part of verse 14.
There’s a reason why David began the verse with the word “fearfully.” He wanted us to understand that although we are wonderful, the goal was not so much that we are wonderful, but that the Lord God, the Creator of the entire Universe, reverently and with the greatest expectation and design, put us together, molecule by molecule, cell by cell, atom by atom.

The Hebrew meaning for fearfully in this verse means reverential awe or worshipful respect. We were created by the Lord reverently and in worshipful awe. Not that we are worthy of worship. But we were created in wonder by the One who IS worthy of worship. There is no assembly line. There are no pre-fabrication molds. There was only God and nothingness and most surprising, His imagination. A clean slate.

There was an intense, holy time where God fussed over you and me. A fervent anticipation of who He planned for us to be. And why did He give each person in this room such deferential treatment? Because He is faithful and solemnly serious to see His plans fulfilled.

Ephesians 5:15-20 says, “Don’t waste your time on useless work, mere busywork, the barren pursuits of darkness. Expose these things for the sham they are. It’s a scandal when people waste their lives on things they must do in the darkness where no one will see. Rip the cover off those frauds and see how attractive they look in the light of Christ.

Wake up from your sleep. Climb out of your coffins; Christ will show you the light!

So watch your step. Use your head. Make the most of every chance you get. These are desperate times! Don’t live carelessly, unthinkingly. Make sure you understand what the Master wants.

Don’t drink too much wine. That cheapens your life. Drink the Spirit of God, huge droughts of him. Sing hymns instead of drinking songs! Sing songs from your heart to Christ. Sing praises over everything, any excuse for a song to God the Father in the name of our Master, Jesus Christ.”

Why did God take on the self-imposed assignment of creating you? For His glory. So that the world could see through you, that He is good in every circumstance. He is reliable. He is faithful. He is unchanging in his mercy and wisdom and holiness. And that He is not willing to waver in His devotion and interest in even the most minute aspects of our lives.

When we realize the exactness of who we are in Him, when we recognize and fully accept the bottomless implications of why the One who holds the universe in place would take the time to fuss over making you, it focuses every application of every thought, every display of compassion, every song, even every learned eccentricity, every choice, every time we think we chose intuition, when it was in fact, the guiding of His Spirit, every judgement we hold captive, every meal we make, every soul we lead to Jesus.

1 Corinthians 12:12-31 “You can easily enough see how this kind of thing works by looking no further than your own body. Your body has many parts—limbs, organs, cells—but no matter how many parts you can name, you’re still one body. It’s exactly the same with Christ. By means of his one Spirit, we all said good-bye to our partial and piecemeal lives. We each used to independently call our own shots, but then we entered into a large and integrated life in which he has the final say in everything. (This is what we proclaimed in word and action when we were baptized.) Each of us is now a part of his resurrection body, refreshed and sustained at one fountain—his Spirit—where we all come to drink.

The old labels we once used to identify ourselves—labels like Jew or Greek, slave or free—are no longer useful. We need something larger, more comprehensive.

I want you to think about how all this makes you more significant, not less. A body isn’t just a single part blown up into something huge. It’s all the different-but-similar parts arranged and functioning together.

If Foot said, “I’m not elegant like Hand, embellished with rings; I guess I don’t belong to this body,” would that make it so? If Ear said, “I’m not beautiful like Eye, limpid and expressive; I don’t deserve a place on the head,” would you want to remove it from the body? If the body was all eye, how could it hear? If all ear, how could it smell?
As it is, we see that God has carefully placed each part of the body right where he wanted it.

But I also want you to think about how this keeps your significance from getting blown up into self-importance. For no matter how significant you are, it is only because of what you are a part of. An enormous eye or a gigantic hand wouldn’t be a body, but a monster.

What we have is one body with many parts, each its proper size and in its proper place. No part is important on its own. Can you imagine Eye telling Hand, “Get lost; I don’t need you”? Or, Head telling Foot, “You’re fired; your job has been phased out”?

As a matter of fact, in practice it works the other way—the “lower” the part, the more basic, and therefore necessary. You can live without an eye, for instance, but not without a stomach. When it’s a part of your own body you are concerned with, it makes no difference whether the part is visible or clothed, higher or lower. You give it dignity and honor just as it is, without comparisons. If anything, you have more concern for the lower parts than the higher. If you had to choose, wouldn’t you prefer good digestion to full-bodied hair?

The way God designed our bodies is a model for understanding our lives together as a church: every part dependent on every other part, the parts we mention and the parts we don’t, the parts we see and the parts we don’t. If one part hurts, every other part is involved in the hurt, and in the healing. If one part flourishes, every other part enters into the exuberance.

You are Christ’s body—that’s who you are! You must never forget this. Only as you accept your part of that body does your “part” mean anything.”

There is no one else in this room right now but you. So, you can’t say, “that is true for everyone here but me. It makes sense for them, not me.” You are the only one here. And God is saying to you, “I made YOU. I made you reverently. I thought about YOU. There is not a single soul on this planet who can do what I’ve made you to do. No one can. Only You. I fearfully made you. So stop being afraid. You no longer have permission to think that you are a less important part of the body that I specifically, carefully and with great hope and determination designed.

Seek wisdom from those who’ve been at it longer. Learn to be confident, adventurous, daring, courageous and unflinching with your faith, intrepid, fearless and wholesome with your words.

Before I created the world, I chose you. And because of my Son, no matter what you think of yourself, I choose you to be holy and without fault before Him.

And I am calling you to travel together with the rest of the body. Stay together. I have given you gifts that no one else in the history of time can fulfill. Your gifts. Moses wouldn’t be able to fulfill the plans I have for you. Not Abraham or Paul or any of the apostles. Not Lydia or Ruth or Esther. My plans for you are unique in all the world.

Don’t go along with the crowd. And don’t believe their weak expectations of me or my love and my heart for your success. Trust me. I’m worth it. And above all, stick together. That’s how the body will work. I knew you before “In the beginning” was written. And rest assured of this. I’ll be with you day after day after day, right up to the end of the world.”

The denomination I grew up in was a blessing. It was a great place to learn a lot about Jesus. I was raised memorizing the books of the Bible, the names of the 12 apostles, the Lord’s Prayer, the 23rd Psalm as well as a slew of other stand alone verses that have remained cemented in my conscious and sub-conscience, rising to the surface when they are needed.

This denomination was also excruciatingly strict in it’s theology and practices. Baptism was extremely important and the biblically accepted form of baptism was immersion. Total immersion. Total and complete immersion. In a few ultra-extreme, hard hat, conventional congregations, it was believed that if any molecularly small part of the body was not completely submerged during this beautiful statement of faith, the baptism did not “take.”

Watching baptisms today is still one of the most emotional and magnificent experiences I sit through, whether it’s in a church service, a swimming pool, a lake or stream. And although I’m nowhere near as legalistic as I was growing up, when I watch a baptism, I still lean to the right, doing my part to make sure the baptizer is shoving the baptizee as close to the bottom of the baptistery as humanly possible.

I once received a note from a lovely friend, Cathie. She said, “Last Friday night was such a special night for me. My choice to be baptized was an act of worship for me and a moment of great beauty on my walk with the Lord. I very much felt the solemnity of offering my life as a sacrifice to the One who has redeemed me with a price. My heart was feeling the beauty of being led by the Spirit to make the choice to truly follow Jesus. As I stood in the baptismal pool I looked out on the people who were gathered to witness and I was struck by such an expression of tenderness in your eyes. Your eyes looked like you were gazing on the baptism as though it were something of great beauty. I felt as though God used your expression as a mirror to reflect His beauty that I was feeling in my heart. The decision to be baptized remains solid but the actual event seems like a blur. I was thinking about it this morning and the two things that I remember most are the way the water felt and that expression in your eyes. You gave me a gift that I’m sure you are not aware of and I wanted to thank you.”

And Cathie was right. I wasn’t aware. I responded back, “Oh Cathie, thank you. What a precious thing to say. And I promise to carry that memory with me forever. To be honest, I get very emotional every single time I watch a baptism. I know that it’s the single most profound public statement that a person will make in their lives. So, I watch…always in amazement and wonder that the very God who hung the stars in the heavens looks down on us during that moment with even greater wonder and amazement. What love and joy and pride he, I’m certain, felt for you at that moment, when you, unafraid and unashamed, told everyone there that you belong to Jesus. My heart just swells up to bursting every time I see that. I love that over all these years of being a believer, that is the one aspect of my walk with Jesus…well that and communion, that never gets rote of trite or commonplace. Thanks for your note Cathie. And thanks for letting me be a part of it. Just remember, God loves you right where you are right now. And I know He’s very, very proud of you.”

I wonder how many times, walking down a sidewalk, sitting across a conference or supper table, pushing a grocery cart, waiting on the AT&T representative to pick up, accidentally running into someone who has hurt or wronged us, how often have we been given the chance to bless someone, sometimes without ever even knowing we did it.

Matthew 5:16 says, “In the same way, let your light shine before others so that they may see your good works and give glory to you and know that you’re a good person.” Is that what it says? NO!!! It says, “In the same way, let your light shine before others so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.”

One of my favorite traditions that was given to me by Carol Skiba, who leads our Creative Living Sunday School Class some 4 years ago. I’ve never liked making New Year’s resolutions. In fact, I read that every year, 87% of adults will make New Year’s resolutions. And 50% of those resolution makers will fail by the end of January. So, I used the idea I got from Carol, which she got from a book called, “One Word That Will Change Your Life” by Jon Gordon.

Simple is best. So, every year, I pick one word that will be my life word for the year. As I sat and prayed and asked the Lord to give me my word for the year, I wasn’t getting a clear answer. But, I felt like I would go with “giving” a couple of weeks before New Years. But, sparks began to ignite all around me that it was to be a different word.

A little more than a decade ago, the week before thanksgiving, I became gravely ill. I went to several different doctors, none of whom could figure out what was wrong. I wasn’t diagnosed with Transverse Myelitis until the next April.

Five months of not knowing. I was scared. One Sunday morning, right smack dab in the middle of the “not knowing,” between services at church, I was in the gym area. People were swarming around in all directions. I almost ran directly into my friend, Lisa Fischer. She smiled and almost yelled “how you doing” over the typical echoing din of a gym. I’m not sure why, but walking with a black rain cloud of fear and uncertainty, ready to burst open at any second, I fought back tears and told her. She listened, and then said, “I’m praying right now.” Right there, in the middle of total chaos, Lisa raised one hand to heaven and put the other on my shoulder and blessed me with a precious petition to the Lord, asking Him to not only ease my distress, anxiety and fear of the unknown, knowing that HE knows and that I would find supernatural peace while waiting. I’ll never forget that “vacuum” moment. But, the funny thing is, Lisa has no memory of it.

Flash forward to last month. I ran into a friend of mine in Wal-Mart before Christmas. I knew he was having some health issues, so I asked how he was doing. He told me the fall he took caused him to have constant headaches. There is a slight bleed on his brain and he is in constant pain, migraines, more often than not. In the moment, I remembered the moment with Lisa 10 years earlier. And I heard the Lord say, Remember Lisa’s blessing.

Right there, in the food storage container aisle, I raised one hand to heaven, put my other hand on Andrew’s shoulder and took him to the throne. He messaged me later and told me what a great blessing that was.

A few nights later, a friend that I’ve known since childhood responded to one of my posts on Facebook and said that several years ago, I brought her back into a relationship with the Lord. She said it was truly a blessing. Again, I have no memory of what I said or did to encourage her to look again toward Jesus. But, in that moment, the Lord changed my word for the year. It is “blessing.”
I don’t know all the ramifications of how that one word will enhance and change and enrich my life and my walk and relationship with Jesus. But, I know it will. As in past years, I’ve wondered where I’ll see the opportunities to use my word. But, I’ve learned that it’s like buying a new car. A few weeks ago, I got a Nissan Rogue. Never really noticed them before. But, now that I have one, I see them everywhere. My hope is that when I get to heaven, there will be many people who come up to me and remind me of a moment when I blessed them, even if I don’t remember it. My hope is that I will have more of those moments than the alternative, where someone walks up to me and reminds me of the time I was angry or short, or rude, or cruel. I want “blessing” to become a habit.

Proverbs 11 says, “The one who blesses others is abundantly blessed; those who help others are blessed. Curses on those who drive a hard bargain! Blessings on all who play fair and square?

The one who seeks good finds delight/ the student of evil becomes evil. A life devoted to things is a dead life, a stump; a God-shaped life is a flourishing tree. Exploit or abuse your family, and end up with a fistful of air. Common sense tells you it’s a stupid way to live. A good life is a fruit-bearing tree; a violent life destroys souls. If good people barely make it, what’s in store for the bad!”
This year is my year of “blessing.” What is your word?

Back to baptism. Remember, I told you that it was a matter of salvation for the denomination I was born into. And that salvation was, at best, questionable if every centimeter of flesh wasn’t “covered in the cleansing flood.”

When my father first started preaching, he went out many nights to hold what was then called, “Cottage meetings.” He would go to a home and teach the family about Jesus. If they chose to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior, they were taken immediately to the church and baptized. I loved going with Dad to the church on those special nights.

At one of his “cottage meetings,” the wife said she would think about it and make a decision by Sunday morning. After retelling her the stories of the rich young ruler and Acts 26 where Agrippa was almost persuaded, dad went home, disappointed, as this would have been his very first baptism.

But, sure enough, come Sunday morning, the lady went forward at the end of the sermon to be baptized. There was general excitement in the room, as this was to be dad’s first baptism as a preacher. She was a formidably built woman and very tall. She and dad walked down the blue painted steps that matched the water into the baptistery together. The lady wearing the angelic white baptismal garment. Dad with his starched white shirt, sleeves rolled up and chest high waders. Dad placed a handkerchiefed hand over her mouth and held the other hand in the air as he announced the usual proclamation. “I now baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, for the remission of your sins, Amen!” She pinched her nose shut and leaned backwards.

Unfortunately, she held her head up, keeping it from going under the water. Dad tried again to push her down, but each time, she held her head just short of complete immersion. Complete, total, soul saving immersion. Dad must have pushed her down at least 5 times, putting more and more muscle into the endeavor, possibly out of irritation that the more he leaned, the more water trickled inside the front of his waders.

Finally, dad realized there was a light blue painted step about 2 inches, just under the surface of the water. So, basically, he was beating this poor tall woman half to death. And an entire congregation of people were rocking back and forth like they were in a row boat in the middle of a squall. Many of them were okay with “buried with Christ.” But, certainly, no one was comfortable with the “raised to walk in newness of life” part. It would have been a shame for

her to miss getting into heaven just because her nose wasn’t submerged. Or maybe, everything but her nose would make it. Who knows. Maybe that’s where grace comes in.

So, what is your word for the year?

Many things about the birth of Jesus amaze me. He is the Son of  God. He was with God from the beginning. John 1 says, “In the beginning was the Word.  The Word was with God. And the Word was God.”

I have wondered, at what point in His life, did Jesus understand His mission on this little ball of water and dirt that HE himself created. I have to believe He always knew.  I have to believe that although the fully human part of Him learned how to walk and talk and eat independently, just like the rest of us, learn a trade by using his father’s carpentry tools, the fully divine part of Him was always aware of who He is. Always. He is, after all, God. “Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who, although he existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. Being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:5-8).

I don’t believe deity and divinity are attributes one would want to or even could just lay down.  The idea of Jesus leaving the very face of His beloved Father, leaving the love and affection of His Father’s home, discussing and deciding in the great halls of eternity to come down to this tiny, time inhibitive planet, is incredibly claustrophobic to me.

First, willingly walking away from His Father, coming to this tiny speck of dust in the universe He created. Not to mention knowing that He would be cognizant of deliberately floating in amniotic fluid for several months, the whole while understanding that He was literally wrapping Himself in the very dirt He created.

I also can’t imagine the sacrifice of His Father, His Dad, by design and foreknowledge, knowing what was to come, letting the hand of His boy go so He could leave Home for awhile and go away to fulfill a mission that would ultimately be rejected by so many.

The one lesson I can carry away from all of it is service. The simple definition of sacrifice is the act of giving up something or enduring the loss of something that you want to keep especially in order to get or do something else or to help someone.

It is easy for me to think of the sacrifice of Father God in relation to Jesus coming to earth to help us, to teach us about God, to serve.  But, I equally love the idea that He sent Jesus to earth to “get” me. Understand me.

It tells me that there is nothing He wouldn’t do, there is no opportunity He wouldn’t present to ensure that I am with Him forever. And in fact, did make the biggest sacrifice, by giving up His Son for a season.

I have, obviously, not yet seen Jesus, my BFF, face to face yet. And though it was only 33 earth years, it breaks my heart for God that He was forced to live without the physical presence of His most precious possession. The One Who knew Him best, the One Who was always with Him, the One Who for all of eternity, up to that point, lavished His love on His Dad.

But, God and Jesus were willing and did it for us. Abba Father let go of that strong, perfect hand, the hand that created the universe, knowing that it would one day come back, but would never look the same again.

That hand would become, for awhile, small, fragile, reaching up to be supported and held by parents and relatives. It would grow to heal the sick and hurt and broken, even hearts.

And that wounded hand would one day become the very symbol of my salvation.

And that wound would never heal. The blood from that tiny hand still flows. And it covers me and it saved me. And how can I, knowing the absolute reality of that love and sacrifice, not raise my own hand, to reach up to touch such perfect devotion. Such a small token I give as I hold on to the mystery and the hope of His birth. And wait for the hug.

A few days before Christmas, even at the Christian bookstore where I worked at the time, the stress was palpable.  I could taste the anxiety in the demeanor of the guests I waited on.  Every morning I would pray before I went in that I wouldn’t let it or them get to me.  Although 90% of the people I checked out were awesome, there was that 10% that pulled me down.  A couple of times, I seriously wanted to just stop, look them in the eye and say, “Tell me something.  If I were NOT a follower of Jesus, what is it about your attitude right now that would ever make me want to say, “WOW…whatever YOU’VE got…I WANT IT!'”  Seriously, it was getting bad.

One day, after standing at the register, non-stop, for 5 hours, I looked up and saw a lady walking into my line.  Just behind her, I saw a couple of my friends smiling and heading toward my queue.  I couldn’t wait to connect with them.  I knew they would make everything okay with a smile and a hug.  Get through this one lady first.

I looked down at this tiny little lady and saw tears streaming steadily down her face.  I froze.  I’m not talking about a few tears.  She was silently sobbing, her body wrecked with the obvious pain of sorrow. All I could do was respond.

I leaned toward her.

“What’s wrong?”

She just shook her head and said, “I’m okay.”

“No.  You’re not okay.  If you want me to check you out, you’re gonna tell me what’s wrong.”

With tears streaming down her face, she literally sobbed as her voice trembled. “My son died three months ago.”

I leaned closer.

“This is your first Christmas without him.  I am so sorry.  I am so very sorry. How did he die?”

“Meningitis.”

“Oh…man. How old was he?”

“13.”

“What is your name?”

“Sarah Ann.”

“Well, Sarah Ann, would you mind if I prayed for you?”

She nodded. I looked at my friends behind her, who were listening to the whole thing, and I motioned for them to move to the next checker.  They nodded with full understanding and moved to the next queue. I put up my “We would be happy to check you out at another register” sign. Sarah Ann and I moved over to the children’s section and I took both her hands.

Just at that moment, a miracle happened.

Remember, the precursor to a miracle is that there always has to be a problem first. It is that moment when we give the Holy Spirit permission to move in and build a vacuum…a fortress around us.  And you know, the enemy can’t penetrate the holiness of that place and that moment no matter how hard he may try.

I physically felt the presence of the One Who breathes out stars into the universe and is, amazingly, more interested in the next breath I take.

I began to pray. I prayed to a Parent who understands these specific emotions and this excruciating loneliness and is acutely acquainted with the impossible horror of experiencing the death of His beloved Son. I said it made no sense, from our viewpoint, for this boy to die.  But, even if we can’t understand the experience, we can trust His heart.

I prayed for Sarah Ann.  I asked the Lord to wrap His strong arms around her and that his hands would hold her so tightly that she would have no doubt that He was right there with her. I prayed that He would cover her with His feathers and that under His wings she would find refuge…that His faithfulness would be Her safe hiding place.  I prayed that He would send angels to stand in strategic places around her so that she would find peace that the darts of the enemy could never penetrate.  I prayed that He would hold her little boy’s hand, tell him that his mom misses him very much, loves him and can’t wait to see him again one day.  I prayed that Sarah Ann would remember, one day, to introduce me to her boy. And then I said “amen.”

Sarah Ann turned toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck.  We stood there for many seconds, her heart-wrenching tears falling into a deep ocean of loss.  I held her there, a pretty shabby life jacket, beaten and weather-worn, held afloat only by the buoyancy of grace.

Finally, she was able to stand on her own.  She looked up at me.  I looked at her and couldn’t help but see Jesus’ mother and how Mary must have looked when she realized her boy was gone. I could only think of how Mary must have remembered the miracle of His birth, and that somehow, even in light of this inconsolable loss, someday, as they reached for each other’s hands, there would be absolute joy in the reunion.  There was only one thing I could say to her and truly, for the first time that season, mean it.

“Merry Christmas.  Merry Christmas Sarah Ann.”

If you should ever hear me, for some random, arbitrary reason yell out, “ANFRACTUOSITY,” don’t be alarmed. Anfractuosity is merely the act or state of being anfractious, which is an adjective meaning “full of turnings or intricate windings.”

There are absolute, turning on a dime, moments or experiences in my life when I know change just happened or I can sense something is about too. Many times, it is part of my journey that I have no control over. Sometimes it is totally due to user error. But, a shift in focus is inevitable.

The past few days, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the anfractious paths our lives tend to follow and I wonder how much of it is due to mere circumstance and how much of it is the direct hand of God.

A while back, an opportunity came my way that I have waited for and worked toward for over 7 years. The chaplaincy at the prison I volunteer for came open and I found out it was listed on the state job sight only 3 days before the application process for that job closed. I went and updated my application on the site and clicked the button to send it. Knowing that 3 years ago I applied for the same job and my volunteer experience and work history got me into the interview stage, I felt confident. That night, I received an email saying that my experience did not meet up with qualifications allowing me to interview.

The next morning I called to find out why I was qualified 3 years ago and now, with three more years experience, I didn’t. I was informed that I had no official, free world ministry paid work listed and they don’t look at volunteer work. Somehow I inadvertently deleted my job history of 12 years on staff at a church before I pressed send. Although I listed the fact that I worked for a church for 12 years and listed everything I did there, it wasn’t listed in the actual “list” of job history, so it didn’t count. My volunteer status as denominational chaplain for three years, which means I do everything a paid chaplain does, only I don’t get paid, counts for nothing. I begged them to let me amend my application and fax it to them. But, I was talking to a real, live person who was well versed at the script in front of her and sounded more like a “press 1 if you think I care…” recording than a compassionate human being. When I hung up, I sat in a kind of vacuum, insular state for a few minutes, not even daring to catch my breath, for fear there would be no air around me and my attempt to breathe would come out as nothing more than a guttural groan. I felt defeated and alone. No one could fix this. So, I got up, straightened my name tag, and walked to the counter at work and spent my day doing my job.

I have lately been living in a phrase from a statement my pastor made in one of his recent teachings. “The message will always be consistent, unchanging. But, the methods should always change.”

Twists, turns, curves, bends, anfractuosity. Even with a never-changing message that is clear and sharper than any double edged sword, I never stop being surprised by the unexpected bends and curves in the road.

I wish God would give me a heads up when something is going to change. If He would just yell, “PLOT TWIST” so I could have adequate time to prepare. Then I could handle it all on my own, all myself, and not have to…depend on Him. “Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day.” Psalm 139

It is hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that He is actually on my side and knows what’s best for me…has a plan for my life that was laid out by Him before I was ever even conceived…knows when I want something, even when it’s ministry oriented, but still not His best for me. He knows when it’s time for me to let go of my dream, even if it’s wonderful, because He has one that’s better, and in the long run, will fill me more and leave me more fulfilled. He will sustain my gifts and grow me into that plan.

John 10 says “Jesus told this simple story, but they had no idea what he was talking about. So he tried again. “I’ll be explicit, then. I am the Gate for the sheep. All those others are up to no good—sheep stealers, every one of them. But the sheep didn’t listen to them. I am the Gate. Anyone who goes through me will be cared for—will freely go in and out, and find pasture. A thief is only there to steal and kill and destroy. I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of.”

Again, recently, I prayed hard about a volunteer position that might possibly open for me in a ministry I dearly love. But, I couldn’t get past the feeling that God wanted me to grow in a different place. I wrestled for weeks. Finally, I heard Him say, “Give up what you think is good, for what I know is better.” When I finally let go, when I finally surrendered, I felt such an amazing peace and freedom. Real freedom. I was giving Him room to do something new.

I sent a copy of one of my stories to my sister. She actually uses Facebook as social media. Go figure. What a concept. She never reads long stuff, including mine. She is the Jack Russell Terrier of my life. Once she gets her teeth in something, she just doesn’t let go. She texted me back about 2 hours later and told me to go to timeholderblog.com. She started a blog site for me. A new adventure has begun because I cleared out space and gave God room.

Just when we think we could never love anything more than using our gifts just as we always have, we need to be ready and prepare for anfractuosity. He will change us and He will use our gifts for His glory. The key is allowing our hearts to be surrendered and allow our methods to change to display His unchanging message of salvation.

I wanted the chaplaincy for the past five years. David wanted to build the Temple. God told him it wouldn’t be his to build, but his son’s. I feel certain that David must have felt disappointment. But, God’s plan for David was better. I feel certain that part of the reason David didn’t build the temple is because it was through his line that the Savior of the world would come. And rather than the linage of Jesus being from a man who built a building of stone, the ancestry of Jesus would be from a “man after God’s own heart.”

That was a major plot twist in history that David thought would be his legacy. He gave up what he wanted to receive what God knew was best.

Anfractuosity. Another way I’m trying to escape the traps of human conditioning is to change my view of change. If I expect change, my knee-jerk reaction is to think, “I have to lose something for change to happen. What will I have to give up?” Maybe that’s why so many people hate change.

I think the word itself has bad connotations. Maybe that’s why so many are afraid to give their hearts to Jesus. What if we looked at it from a different vantage point. What if we made Isaiah 43 our catch phrase instead of “change.” Isaiah 43:19 says, “See, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up. Do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and springs in the wasteland.” He’s doing a new thing.

What if we allow him room to do a new thing instead of changing something. Maybe we do have to give up something we love so He can give us our new, best dream. It makes it far less scary for me to think of the adventures of life as new things, rather than having to change. “He’s doing a new thing.”

To me that says it all. He’s doing it. And it’s new. And it’s going to be fresh water in a wasteland. Sounds like an oasis to me.

Anfractuosity is not about how steep is the mountain, or how sharp is the curve. It’s about the excitement of what is just around the next bend. And what is the next part of my story that He is about to reveal for His glory. It’s all about the word and how we define it. Looking at a word or phrase the way we’ve always looked at is not always the same way the Lord wants us to always look at it. And we need to be absolutely sure we use the words right.

Several years ago my sister took all of us who worked for her from Searcy to Little Rock for supper. I was in the front passenger seat while my sister drove. There were three ladies in the back.

Conversation Part 2: Don’t look for Conversation Part 1: There isn’t one. Two reasons. #1: Part 1 was obviously not important as #2: I have absolutely no memory of it. So, picking up in the middle of the conversation, the girl in the middle in the back seat says….
“Oh, that’s awful. Yeah, I knew this guy once who was riding his motorcycle through a corn field and he ran into a concubine and it poked his eye out .”
…………………………………..(crickets)………………………………….
Me: “You mean combine, right? He ran into a combine?”
She: “No…he ran into a CONcuBINE and it poked his eye out!!
Me: “Well…a concubine was actually a kind of second wife. Well, she didn’t have the status of a wife. She was just a servant, usually, who was around if the man of the house wanted extra sexual encounters. King David had, like, thousands of them.”
…………………………………….(crickets)………………………………….

She: “So……….what’s a combine?”

Children: Take careful heed to this extremely important warning. Stay away from the concubines. They’ll poke your eye out.

And, may the anfractuosity of your life be “all new things.”