Flower Delivery

At Christmas and Easter, the decorating committee at our church fills the sanctuary with the season's fresh flowers, and after the Sunday evening service, members of the congregation deliver the flowers to the shut-ins of the congregation. Our family was asked to deliver flowers to three ladies and a couple living in a retirement community, and so we filled the front and back seats with Easter lilies and a pink tulip and headed out, a little overwhelmed by the perfume of the Easter lilies.

Our first stop was at a dear lady's room in the nursing care part of the complex. When I first met her four years ago, she was close to ninety. She was Henry's friend--the only person I've ever heard call him Henk, the Dutch nickname for Henry. She was full of love, life, laughter, and joy in the Lord, and I'm so glad I knew her before she took the fall that started her rapid decline. Once animated, dressed in a sparkly suit on Sundays, she now laid quietly in the darkening room, wearing a hospital gown. Henry quietly approached and the rest of stayed back a little, not wanting to startle or overwhelm her.

Confused, at first she thought Henry was our pastor, but she quickly realized who her flower delivery person was. When I met her, she spoke English well--she's lived in America for much of her adult life--but her aging mind remembers the Dutch she spoke as a girl, and so she began rattling away at Henry, who understands and speaks some. She pointed to the Easter lily that was already there, and (as I pieced things together) told Henry that she already had one. In Dutch, he told her that now she had two.  I was impressed that either he (a) understood her and was able to communicate back to her, or (b) was able to act like he genuinely understood her and spoke back to her. I found out later that for my sweet husband, it was a little of a and more of b. That's one of the reasons I love him so much. He was very convincing.

They talked for a bit, and then she noticed the rest of us. She did recognize me, and it amazed me when she realized that she had to speak to me in English--and did. In the brief time we knew each other, she and I developed a mutual admiration, and she told me, "You are beautiful," as we held hands. I said, "You are beautiful," and I meant it. I kissed her neatly manicured hand--prettier than mine will ever be--and told her I loved her. She blew Henry a kiss as we left. It was hard to leave her, but there were other flowers to deliver before the evening was over.

Our last delivery was to an 89-year-old lady that I didn't know well. She still lives in independent living apartments. We all took seats in her nicely decorated and very tidy living room, and she insisted on serving all five of us cookies and orange juice. A traditional lady, she offered us refreshments several times, and at first we told her not to bother. Finally we accepted the orange juice and homemade cookies (delicious--glad we did) and found out that we drank up all her OJ. Later I told Henry that I felt bad about that, but he said that if we didn't accept her offer, we would have worried her to death. Dutch ladies must be hospitable--it's who they are, and they will find something to feed you.

We talked for awhile, and I fell in love with her when she told us this story. She walks with a walker that has a little seat on the front for carrying things. She had been making some soup, and was putting it into containers to freeze for another meal when she fell, spilling the hot soup all over her hands--she still had some scars from the incident. She didn't want anyone to know that she fell because if the wrong people found out, it could mean a transfer into the not-so-independent-apartments in another part of the complex, so she pushed through the pain and pulled herself up on her bad knee (she told us it really hurt), using her walker and a kitchen chair. She deserved way more than an Easter lily, but that was all we had.

It was a good way to end the day of resurrection, spending time with people who had been celebrating that resurrection far longer than we have and experiencing the blessings of its truth for many years. While we left them with a potted plant, they left us with the blessing of fellowship and communion of the saints. I will definitely be signing up to deliver poinsettias this Christmas.

Resurrection

Oh God of my exodus,
 Great was the joy of Israel's sons,
     when Egypt died upon the shore,
Far greater the joy,
     when the Redeemer's foe lay crushed in the dust.
Jesus strides forth as the victor,
     conqueror of death, hell, and all opposing might;
He bursts the bands of death,
     tramples the power of darkness down,
     and lives forever.
He, my gracious surety,
     apprehended for payment of my debt,
     comes forth from the prison house of the grave
     free, and triumphant over sin, Satan, and death. . . .
What more could be done than thou hast done!
     Thy death is my life,
     thy resurrection my peace,
     thy ascension my hope,
     thy prayers my comfort.

~from The Valley of Vision

A Place Called Mercy: John 5

A description of the spot makes it sound like something that should be on a postcard: a pool with five covered walkways in Jerusalem called Bethesda, which means mercy. Mercy was the last thing you could expect to find in this anti-resort visited by multitudes of blind, crippled, paralyzed people who spent their days waiting for an unpredictable angel to stir the waters. The first one in, they said, would be instantly healed. And so the blind waited, even though they wouldn't be able to see the water bubbling. The crippled and paralyzed waited too--even though they wouldn't be physically able to move into the pool--at least not quickly--when the water stirred. And so instead of peace, relaxation, and happiness, those waiting by this pool were filled with desperation, anxiety, and sadness.

And if you were in Jerusalem to celebrate the feast, is this where you would go? To this pool of despair surrounded by the hopeless? It would be a little like going to New York City to watch the Thanksgiving parade and instead, going to a homeless shelter or a hospice. And yet Jesus, in Jerusalem for the feast, did just that: he went to the pool called Bethesda, which means mercy. And out of the multitudes of the sick, Jesus saw one  nameless man who had been ill for thirty-eight years--longer than most people in those days lived.

There was nothing particularly attention-grabbing about this man lying on his bed by the pool in a place called Mercy. Jesus just "knew" that he had been there a long time. And so out of all the masses of sick people, Jesus looked upon this invalid and asked him a very strange question: "Do you want to be healed?" Who wouldn't want to be healed after thirty-eight years of lying on a mat? So then the man, of course, responded, "Of course." Except that stories in the gospel of John never go the way we would expect them to, and that's not what the man said. So the man answered just as strangely as Jesus asked: "There isn't anyone to put me in the water when it stirs, and by the time I get to it myself, someone else gets there first." He almost sounds a little defensive, doesn't he, as if Jesus is accusing him of something instead of asking him a simple question. When we are confronted with sinless perfection, it's sinfully natural to become defensive, to blame someone else for our own failures and flaws.

And so the man who expected his salvation to come from an angel stirring the pool of water found it coming from this stranger who told him to take up his bed and walk. Wouldn't you expect him to say, "Why didn't I think of that? Don't you think I would if I could?" But he didn't. He did what everyone Jesus calls does, must do. He took up his bed and walked. And later, when he meets Jesus in the temple, he comes to understand that physical healing, a wonderful thing, is actually a small thing when we understand that what we really need from Jesus is spiritual healing so that we can go and sin no more.

How like those invalids by the pool are we all--blind to our sin, unable to walk in God's paths, paralyzed and unable to do anything pleasing to him. We lie by the pool, helpless to do anything to bring about our own cure, trusting in anything we can to bring us salvation, anything except the one who truly can save. But he comes to us--hopeless, desperate, full of self-pity, with nothing that would draw anyone to us--knows, chooses us, calls us, and transports us from the pool of despair to Mercy, asking us if we want to be well. He knows that we are helpless even to answer, so he tells us to get up, take up our bed, and walk. And sin no more.

  

Pet Punctuation Peeve

The route we travel to so many places takes us past our local Steak 'n Shake. While I certainly admire that eating establishment's steakburgers with cheese, skinny but crisp fries, and--yes--milkshakes, I cringe every time we pass by because of this:

"Open 24 hours"

For the people driving by on M6 at 3 am who can indulge their craving for a double chocolate fudge or turtle caramel nut shake (now I want one), this is a wonderful thing, but, please, Steak 'n Shake, lose the quotation marks.

As an English major-now-editor, I'm coming to the conclusion that people should have to get a license to use quotation marks. When I see the quotation marks around "Open 24 hours," it indicates one of the following:

1. Someone else is saying that Steak 'n Shake is open 24 hours.
2. It's a joke--Steak 'n Shake is not open 24 hours; in fact, used this way, it's probably only open two or three hours a day.

So Steak 'n Shake, these are the situations in which you would use quotation marks, and I'm thinking that these would rarely come up on your sign:

1. When you are indicating that someone else is saying something:

Annette said, "I would like to go to Steak and Shake to have a turtle caramel shake." Truer words were never spoken.

Note that the words the person is actually saying are enclosed in quotation marks. A comma goes before, and end punctuation usually goes inside. The exceptions are question marks sometimes (a subject for another lesson) and semicolons and colons.

2. When you are using a term ironically:

I just had a "healthy" meal at Steak 'n Shake that included a turtle caramel shake and french fries.

3. When you are referring to a word as a word:

A "classic melt" at Steak 'n Shake has nothing to do with ice; it involves meat and melted cheese on toast.

So Steak 'n Shake, why don't you just get rid of the set of quotation marks that came with the letters for your sign? I'm hard pressed to think of a situation where you would need them for your purposes. Unless there's something you want to tell us about your "steak" burgers . . .

Facism (Not to Be Confused with Fascism)

I just want to be treated fairly. Aren't we all created equal? Is it right that a segment of society should suffer ostracism--even abuse--simply because we aren't part of the majority? Should we not all have the same opportunities for success--the same right to pursue happiness--here in America?

I do not enjoy the same rights and privileges as others because of a new and ugly form of bigotry: Facism, which is not to be confused with Fascism. Let me explain. This evening, I checked my e-mail and found an ad from Orbitz announcing that I could win a trip to London. I eagerly opened the e-mail and scanned the page to find out how I could enter. I would like the chance to win a trip to London. But when I found the information for entering the contest, I saw that I would have to enter through Facebook. I don't have a Facebook. I am a victim of social media, refused the opportunity to enter a contest simply because I don't participate in Facebook.

So now those of us who are victims of Facism are refused the opportunity to enter contests. We also aren't privy to invitations to events when a universal invitation is extended on Facebook, and yet we're still expected to be in attendance. It seems unreasonable--yes, prejudicial--to expect those of us who are not on Facebook to show up for your open house/wedding reception/Pampered Chef party/birthday when we do not know that it is happening. Expecting non-Facebookers to know about and support your social events when they aren't even aware of them is definitely facist.

Even families are turning on their members who don't engage in social media. When my husband recently learned that a cousin had bought a campground in a distant state and had moved away months ago, he was told, "Get on Facebook." So now we can't even be a part of our families if we aren't on Facebook?

So what is next for those of us who have opted not to splay our lives for the world to see on Facebook? For those of us who don't have twenty-five pictures of our most recent vacation posted? For those of us who don't have time to report the minor, insignificant details of our lives to the rest of the world? Perhaps we'll be banned to live in our own physical communities, where people communicate by letters, telephone, and--gasp!--talking. When someone has surgery, has a baby, dies, gets married, or just wants to get together for an evening, we'll be forced to pick up the phone or send out paper announcements and invitations. And we just won't know where you went on vacation, see the pictures of the most recent remodeling project, or that you just finished cleaning your toilet and ate a bowl of Reese's Puffs. We shall overcome . . . or maybe not.