Plain Wisdom (12 page)

A voice of reason said,
Everybody’s wrong at one time or another. You were wrong just a few weeks ago
.

I wasn’t
this
wrong! And it’d make my life a whole lot easier if he was never wrong
.

If he were always right, you’d be the only one in this relationship who was ever wrong
.

I stopped kneading the dough and mulled that over. If he were never wrong, he’d be like a god. And I’d be at fault way too often.

Anger drained from me. I dumped the overworked dough into the trash, rinsed the bowl, and started fresh—this time thinking how awful it would be to live a lifetime with a person who was always right, making me the only one who was ever wrong.

Thanks to that revelation, I’ve never become as angry as I was that day.

The funny thing is, within a year or two, I couldn’t even remember what he’d done that had made me so furious. I only remember the lesson—that we are both imperfect, both in need of correction, grace, and forgiveness from each other.

Over the years I’ve had seasons of needing more grace and forgiveness than he did. At other times he’s needed more than I have. But neither of us has had to grant more forgiveness than God grants to each of us every day.

Below is an Amish biscuit recipe that is similar to the one I was using that day. Tip: If you overknead the dough, you’ll have a flat and tough biscuit. And if you overdo the anger, you’ll have a flat and tough life.

With mixed emotions my sister Rebecca put away the last of the groceries in her pantry. Someone had left another box of food on her doorstep. Wiping tears away, she bowed her head in gratitude.

When the economy crashed, her husband’s work had slowed. So, like the rest of the country, the Esh family tightened their belts and tried to get by with less. They were staying afloat until their thirteen-year-old invalid daughter, Lydia, needed medical attention.

Lydia was born with Rett syndrome, and over the years she has developed scoliosis (curvature of the spine). Hospitalization and surgery were recommended to correct the problem, but first Lydia needed to be x-rayed. To the surprise of Rebecca and her husband, this required an hour and a half of sedation and a full MRI, which resulted in a shocking bill.

Family and friends, Amish and English alike, rallied around them. One generous family offered to host a benefit supper providing fun for the whole community, lots of great food, volleyball games for the youth, and great fellowship.

Normally Rebecca enjoyed attending these suppers. She was always the first one to support a good cause. But when the tables turned and she was on the receiving end, she discovered how hard it can be to accept other people’s hard-earned money. Money she would most likely never be able to repay.

As Rebecca struggled with this, the thought came to her mind that this situation resembled the plan of salvation. God’s grace is not something you earn, and you can never repay it. You simply accept it.

As she reflected further on this, she realized that God’s love is often carried out through His people. God had just showered her and her family with more love than she could ever imagine. And, as with His grace, all she needed to do was accept it and be grateful.

When Joseph and Mary desperately needed a place for the night, innkeepers turned them away again and again. All the inns were full. Finally, acknowledging Mary’s obvious needs, someone offered them the use of his stable.

We like to think that if Mary, in labor, knocked on our door, surely we’d give her our own bedroom. We certainly wouldn’t turn her away completely. But how often do we miss great opportunities? I can think of a few I’ve missed—or almost missed. One especially stands out in my mind.

Several years ago after having had company all weekend, I was anxious to get back to filling the orders I’d received for my crafts. I have a craft business and make all sorts of items to sell at craft fairs or to put on consignment in various stores. I was already behind on several agreed-upon completion dates, but before I could sit down to resume my previous week’s work, an English neighbor stopped in and asked if we’d give her visiting nephew a buggy ride.

I am ashamed to admit it now, but for a second I felt annoyed. What did she think we were, an amusement park? Not only was the timing bad, but our horse was out in the far end of the pasture.

I was about to say, “Sorry,” when I noticed her leading the boy carefully by his hand, watching his every step. The child was blind. Shame washed over me for thinking I was too busy.

As quickly as I could, I fetched the horse and hitched it to the buggy, then gave that little boy the ride of his life. With each squeal of delight that escaped from his lips, I promised myself to never hold my work as a higher priority than a golden opportunity to serve the Lord in a simple act of hospitality.

In 2002, years before my first book was under contract, my youngest son and I boarded Amtrak in Georgia at midnight, and we made our first visit to Miriam’s home. Four years later, as I started writing the second book in the series,
When the Morning Comes
, I expected my earlier traveling experience to be sufficient research for the opening scene, when Hannah stepped off that same train. But each time I tried writing the opening, it didn’t sound the way I wanted it to. I’d write five chapters and delete five chapters, over and over again. It finally became clear that I needed to see and feel what Hannah would as she stepped off that train. I had to see the Alliance, Ohio, depot in person.

So I made plans to board Amtrak in Gainesville, Georgia, and change trains as needed until I arrived in Alliance. I checked online to see how long the ride was and discovered that the train would arrive in Alliance around two in the morning. I could deal with that.

But as I attempted to finalize my itinerary, I kept hitting dead ends. I called Amtrak several times and spoke with different people, trying to locate a cab company or bus line so I could get to a motel after arriving. No one was able to help me, and I couldn’t chance landing in Ohio at two in the morning without a solid plan.

I told my husband we needed to drive there. Being the agreeable man I married thirty years ago, he took my word for it and made arrangements to take time off from work.

A few weeks later we pulled into the Alliance train depot. The night sky swirled with snow, but the thin white blanket couldn’t hide the eeriness of the run-down, abandoned building. A white and blue sign near the tracks indicated a pay phone. I climbed out of the car. Snow and gravel crunched under my feet as I walked toward the sign. The wind whipped through my coat as if it wasn’t there.

I reached the sign but didn’t find a phone.

As I stood at that bleak, desolate depot, Hannah’s life unfolded before my eyes, and I couldn’t take notes fast enough. By the end of our week’s stay in Alliance, I knew more than how a traumatized teenage Amish girl managed to survive away from her home, family, and community. I also knew who she became and why.

I found Hannah. And all it took was getting to the place where I could see what she’d seen, hear what she’d heard, and feel what she’d felt. Basically we’d driven to the place where I could slip into her shoes and walk a mile.

May I be that willing to make the necessary sacrifices to walk in a friend’s, a neighbor’s, or even a stranger’s shoes. I must figuratively, and sometimes physically, remove myself from the comforts of home, travel to wherever that person is, and allow my heart to open to his or her reality. No judgment, no frustration, and no coldness of heart allowed. Just an open mind and heart and a willingness to be fully present as I offer an embrace as God has embraced me.

At times, when my family is still asleep or no one is home, I walk the floors of my home with my Bible open, and I pray Scripture. It does more for my inner joy than if I went on extended exotic trips, were the perfect size, or had a maid—none of which are a part of my life!

It gives me peace and stirs such hope that by the time I’m done, I often feel as if I
can
move mountains, both through prayer and through sheer determination. But that prayer time is never about seeking immediate healing for anyone, resolution to financial needs, or direct answers.

There’s a time for those prayers, but when I walk the floors praying Scripture, it’s about praying for my family’s hearts (and my own) to be strengthened, for our eyes to be opened to more of who God is, and for the meaning of true success to take root or grow stronger in us. It’s like speaking a blessing over us. I believe the influence of these Scripture prayers will extend to God’s moving in our lives in the months, years, and decades ahead. I believe I’m speaking blessings that will continue to
unfold long after I’m gone from this planet. I’m praying and believing for the overall welfare, preservation, and long-term relationship with God of my children, their spouses (or future spouses), and their children, and their children’s children. I have spent a lot of years praying for the safety—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—of my future daughters-in-law.

Because I’m not asking for little favors, and I’m not emotionally stressed about something happening in a person’s life right then, and I’m not needing God to rescue someone—immediately!—it seems that I enter a zone of faith unlike any other prayer time.

I make the scriptures personal, but when I began doing this, there were no books about praying His Word. At first I found it hard to speak such things so boldly over my loved ones. How could I dare take His Word and speak the power of it over little peons like us? It felt as if I thought we were worth more than we actually are.

But I continued the prayer time, wrestling with feelings of inappropriateness toward God. One day while praying, I began to understand. When Christ died on that cross, He made it clear that nothing was too good for us. After all, He’d been brutalized and humiliated to give all little peons everything good God has to offer.

Psalm 127:1–2 says, “Except the L
ORD
build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the L
ORD
keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows.” I consider the house in those verses to be the heart, soul (the mind and will and many emotions), and body of those I love, and I boldly proclaim to Him that I can do my absolute best for my children, and it’s nothing, zilch, nada, unless He’s the one doing the building and protecting each area. If I give my children too much, they could become spoiled or feel superior to others. If I give them too little, they could resent it or feel inferior. We all know there’s no perfect balance in anything on this earth. That’s where God moves in and balances everything out through His work in our hearts, souls, and bodies.