Re-Designs

I used to work at the District Attorney’s Office.  One morning I was called by the Managing Legal Assistant to her office.  She told me to be seated, then she started rifling through the papers on her desk.  I began to feel alarmed.

      “Raquel, do you know why you’re here?” she inquired.
     “I have no idea,” was my short answer.
     “Well, yesterday you prepared a warrant for the arrest of Investigator Toomey. He signed it. The judge signed it. And it made it's way to the computer system. He could have been arrested for the crime of murder.” I heard the seriousness in her tone, as she handed me the arrest warrant.



I saw where I had typed the name of the investigator on the blank for “Defendant” and the name of the defendant on the blank for the “Investigator.”  I was completely aghast (I don’t use this term lightly!). As serious as this mistake was and for which I probably could have been written up, I was just given a strong reminder to be very careful with my work. The consequences of my mistakes could be very serious. This was my introduction to the world of legal documents, where a misplaced comma can inadvertently grant freedom to a hardened criminal (there has been an actual case of this in one county).

How do you react to a situation like this? Do you beat yourself up? Do you find excuses? Do you take yourself on a guilt trip that leads to nowhere but a misappropriation of energy and a depressed spirit?

Recently I’ve had conversations with friends who have shared stories of mistakes they have made. They both had a difficult time forgiving themselves. One was in utter disbelief that she could have made the mistake; the other kept telling me and herself how stupid she was. Then she recounted various mistakes she had made to convince me that indeed she was stupid, which was completely untrue.

I, too, have suffered from this same malady of lack of self-forgiveness. It was a lot easier for me to forgive others, but not myself. For many years, if I made a mistake I’d beat myself up emotionally. If I have wronged someone, I’d have difficulty forgiving myself long after the party I have offended had forgiven me. If I felt I came short of some standard I have set for myself or what I thought God had expected of me, I would punish myself by dwelling on this shortcoming for days. I would sometimes be so incapacitated. I would feel so unable to do anything right.

This burden I have put upon myself seems so ridiculous now. But the truth of the matter is, my problem came from believing that I was not allowed anything less than perfect performance or perfect behavior. As a young child, I was taught that if anything was worth doing, it was worth doing well. I have misinterpreted it to mean that whatever I did should always be done perfectly. And that my mistakes could be of such huge proportions that my world would end if I made one.

Contrary to what I had thought, I have lived through the many mistakes I have made. In fact, I believe I have even grown through the lessons I’ve learned from them. Some of my Bible heroes are men and women who have made some terrible mistakes. King David was an adulterer and murderer but from his lineage the Messiah came. Peter swore to high heavens that he would never betray his Savior, but did, not just once but thrice, and yet became a martyr for Christ. Moses in a moment of anger disobeyed God and lost the opportunity to enter the Promised Land, but was given a glimpse of it and then was laid to rest by the very hand of God.

Sometimes we make wrong decisions, choices, or judgment calls. Whenever I dwell on mine in endless recrimination and self-punishment, and get so incapacitated by the fear that I can never do anything right, I remind myself that if God was sovereign, which I believe He is, then He can even make something good come out of these.  When we make mistakes, beautiful re-designs are available in the hands of a gracious God who has masterfully crafted them long before our mistakes.  We only have to come to Him and admit, "Oops, God, can you do something about this mess I made of my life, my marriage, my career, my children, my finances, and sometimes even warrants of arrest*?"


*I spent 21 years of my work life preparing legal documents from arrest and search warrants to
Complaints, Grand Jury Indictments, extradition papers to finalizing legal briefs prepared by City lawyers and argued before high courts. During the last 8 years at my job, my desk was the first and last stop in the City’s legislative process.  My earlier mistakes had all been part of the training to make me a better worker.

 

A Magical Evening

 

Don and I have always tried to live simply and have always had to stick to basics.  But in my heart of hearts there sometimes comes a desire to see how the other half in this world lives.  Well, October 26^th this year was our 38^th wedding anniversary.  Since we’re in Budapest, wouldn’t a lovely evening cruise down the Danube be a super special way to celebrate? We looked at our budget (yes, we belong to that group of society that always has to keep a sharp eye on the budget.). We decided that if we picked the one without the dinner, this was do-able.  We could even invite our friends Merrill and Carol to celebrate with us.  We booked our dinnerless cruise and decided we’d have dinner in a restaurant before we went on the ship.

 The well-lit ship was a double decker.  I was looking for the staircase to the upper deck where our cruise voucher said we belonged, but as Don handed our tickets to the attendant, he was offered a glass of champagne, and so were the rest of us.  Then we were conducted to our table in the dining area.  I quietly whispered to Carol, “I hope we are in the right place.”  Merrill was impressed.  He says, “You guys go first class.”  I was too embarrassed to admit we booked for “without dinner. “ Then we took a second look at our ticket.  Sure enough, it was “With Dinner.”  Someone must have made a mistake.  I decided to just quietly accept this upgrade and enjoy it. Soon an attendant came to our table with bottles of wine for our choice.  A few seconds later a photographer took our pictures.  I leaned over the table and whispered, “I can get used to being rich!” 

Soon our ship was moving quietly on the Danube. We could hear the strains of “Autumn Leaves” being played by a live band somewhere behind us.  I told myself, you’ve got to be dreaming.  This can’t be real.  But it was all real.  I thought, “How generous is my Father in heaven who has given Don and me this very special 38^th anniversary gift -  a magical cruise on the Danube complete with live music, the company of very special friends and yes, with a dinner thrown in!”  Our ship seemed to glide in the water, ever so quietly and gently giving us the time to take in the wonderful landmarks along the river – the Hungarian Parliament building, the Castle on Gellert Hill, the Museum, the University of Technology, etc., all brightly lit and magical.  And somehow I felt like a little girl again experiencing something very, very special, thankful for the man I believe God chose for me, and all the good things God has sent my way through our lives together.  

 

What an unforgettable evening!  When I was a young Christian I often heard it said that we can never outgive God. There have been times when I have felt that God was asking a lot more from me than I think He should as in, “God, are you serious?  I’m 33 years old and you want me to get married?  And to this guy who is not even of my race?  And God, did you notice that he is younger than I am?  Besides, he has a mustache and you know how I feel about men who have mustaches.  They look mean.  And, he is a pastor!  Why in the world will I want to marry a pastor?  I’d have to be somewhat ‘holy.’  Are you really serious about this?”  And He was.  I’m glad I took Him seriously, too, when He said, “For I know the plans I have for you.  . . . plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. “ (Jeremiah 29:11)

 

Haus No. 43 Marienburgerallee

(Written on a recent trip to Berlin, Germany)

November 3, 2012.  On the schedule today is a visit to the Dietrich Bonhoeffer Haus No. 43 on Marienburgerallee, Charlottenberg.  Don had called for a 9:00 am appointment the previous day.  I have just recently read Eric Metaxas’ biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and was completely impressed by his commitment to his faith.

Took the 236 bus to the Spandau Banhof where we transferred to an S5 train.  It would be four stops to Herrstrasse station.  In a few minutes we were there and between Evelyn and Don, they figured out where we should go according to the map.  (I don’t get involved in such things as definitely when the good Lord passed out the smarts for map reading, I must have been absent!) 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Haus

Soon we were on Marienburgerallee, a tree-lined street with the sidewalks filled with wet orange, yellow and brown leaves fallen from the trees.  We walked past house number 69, 68, 67 and on down to 43 and 42 which looked almost as if they were attached.  No. 43 had a little plaque at the gate, but on the wall next to the main door was a bigger sign that  said “Bonhoeffer Haus.”  We were fifteen minutes early.  Our appointment was at 9:00. It was only 8:45.  As we were waiting, pacing on the sidewalk and looking at the other houses on this Allee, a head popped up at the open window.  “You will have to give me a few minutes,” the man said to us in a slightly German accented English.  “That’s fine.  We know we are early,” Don answered back.

As we waited to be let in, I looked down the Allee and imagined those days in 1943 when the lives of those dwelling in this neat, unmistakeably affluent neighborhood were disrupted by visits from the Gestapo, arrests, interrogations and some by untimely deaths.  I wondered how I would have been if I were in their shoes living in those uncertain times.

Soon Kurt, our guide, appeared at the door. We started our tour in a big conference room where a long table that could probably sit 20 people was in the center of the bare wooden floors.  On the walls hung enlarged photos – collages of various stages in Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s life.  There were photos of him as a young child, of his parents and siblings.  Then there were photos of him as Associate Pastor in charge of young students being prepared for confirmation.  Kurt patiently explained to us the photos depicting significant events in the life of Bonhoeffer. 

Up we went on the spiral staircase to the attic.  Here was Dietrich’s study. The room looked quite austere to me. The bed was not the original one the room had but everything else was. There were shelves that lined two walls.  There was a harpsichord set against the wall next to the door. I walked over to the desk by the window. Kurt told us that was Dietrich’s desk and chair.  I couldn’t resist sitting on the chair and running my hand on the surface of the desk as if doing so would somehow connect me with its former owner.  It felt almost sacrilegious to sit on his chair and put my elbows on his desk.  This room felt like sacred ground. 

Soon we were back downstairs to the conference room.  We signed the guestbook, picked up some postcards and put in a donation into the “Spende”can.  In a few minutes, we were back on our way to the U-Banhof and home.  And I wonder, what if God requires of me what He required of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  Would I be as faithful?

Making Like Tourists

Tiburon

Today Don and I made like tourists in our own City.  We picked up sandwiches, chips and soda from our favorite Safeway in the City.  We then  drove to the Marina, parked the car    bayfront, rolled down our windows and settled to a quiet lunch as we enjoyed the beautiful scenery around us.
 

Right in front of us the bay waters lapped at the rocks a few feet from our car.  They rippled towards us  from a long way back.  They looked like they came all the way from Tiburon which lay across the bay from us as we sat in our car. These waters travel so quietly, calmly but purposefully.  Once they reach our shore, they break up so gently but with a little swoosh to let us know that they had done their journey.





The Famous Alcatraz Prison

Slightly to our right is the famous Alcatraz Prison.  Reminds one of the Burt Lancaster movie, “Birdman of Alcatraz.”  A lot of stories have come out of this prison.  I overheard a young lady ask the tour guide about the shark-infested waters around the prison. He answered, “That is not true.”  Like the young lady, I’ve believed that sharks kept inmates from escaping this most impregnable prison.  Its fortification and icy waters were enough to keep them in.  At some point of its dark history, Alcatraz became home to many of the nation’s most incorrigible criminals.

As we lunched on our sandwiches, chips and drinks, we turned our eyes to the iconic Golden Gate Bridge.  We never tire of this bridge. I have driven on this bridge in the early morning hours when the fog hangs just slightly over a tower as the sun’s rays begin to break through, lightly touching its International Orange paint giving it a golden hue.  It is such a beautiful monument to one man’s genius and tenacity.  So many said it could not be built, but he didn’t believe them.  Underneath the bridge is where San Francisco Bay empties into the Pacific Ocean.  It would require a span across the 6,700 ft (2,042 m) strait, with water 372 ft (113 m) deep at the center of the channel.   There were frequent strong winds, swirling tides and currents accompanied by blinding fog at times. Many experts said that these would prevent construction and operation.  But Joseph Straus would not be discouraged.  Today it is considered one of the modern wonders of the world.

Two monuments, two reminders.  An impregnable prison that tells many stories about Adam’s sinful nature that lives in all of us.  The other,  a monument to the indomitable spirit in man that drives him to build that which seem to be beyond building, or to soar beyond that which seem unreachable.

Remembrances

 “My grandmother was always cooking.  She loved to feed us.  She made sure that there was plenty of food in the house.  When my friends came home with me, she would always feed them.  I remember how she used to make our breakfasts.  She would make fried rice and frankfurters for us.”  Such was the tribute to a loved grandmother in the memorial service celebrating her life.

“My sister Wanda was a couple of years older than I. With five children in the family, we always had loads of laundry.  At one time in our young lives, my mother had drafted us to help with the laundry.  Wanda devised an ingenious way to do ironing.  We would take turns ironing.  When I ironed, she read books to me, and when it was her turn to iron, I would read.  This way we got a lot of ironing done and a lot of books read.  She taught me how to read.”  A sister, Virginia Taylor, recalled in loving memory of her older sister who had recently passed away.

“I remember how one day as I sat in the cafeteria in school, I found out I had forgotten my lunch at home.  I panicked.  I wouldn’t have lunch,” the adult son of my friend was telling a story about his dad during his memorial service.  His voice started to break as he continued, “Then suddenly, my dad appeared walking towards me with my lunchbox in his hand.  I couldn’t believe he left work to bring me my lunch.”

As a former pastor’s wife I have attended quite a few memorials and funerals.  I have listened to many an obituary and tribute.  I must admit to some self-centeredness here as sometimes I wonder what would be said of me when I am gone.  I have my fears, so I have asked my husband not to have any tributes or sharing time about my life during my funeral.

Those of us who are in the winter of our lives often look back and see where and how we have been. Often we regret that we have not done better.  However, it never ceases to amaze me that most of the memorial and funeral stories I hear have been about little things that most people wouldn’t think mattered. Some think of success in terms of how far they get in their careers, how much wealth they accumulate or how many academic degrees they have after their names - things that sometimes distance or distract us from those we love the most.  A grandson’s remembrance of his grandmother’s fried rice and frankfurters breakfast, a sister’s reading while sharing an ironing chore with an older sister, a father’s taking time from his work to bring a son’s forgotten lunch to his school – little things but meaningful remembrances because they connect rather than distance.

My husband’s mother passed away two days ago.  Her granddaughter, Kristy Inez Major writes:

This is my grandma, Nila Major. When I was little, she taught me about Avon, Pepsi in the bottle, and how to paint my nails. More recently, she's taught me about quiet, enduring strength and childlike joy. I'm thankful for her and what she has written on the world. We miss you already, Grandma!

                                                           Nila Inez Major  1925-2013

Mom Major, one of the most beautiful (and not only physically, though she was, too) human beings I've ever known.  I cannot thank her enough for raising such an exceptional man for me.

Till Next Christmas

The wooden nutcracker soldiers have done their annual deployment. Time to put them away to wait for another tour of duty in December 2013. 

The Christmas ornaments, the twinkly lights, the artificial pine garlands and the faithful wreath that greeted guests to our home will soon be back in their boxes and stowed away for another season.

The little girl in me does not want this season to end.  I have so enjoyed the decorations, the baking, the shopping (though this year I really did not do much, in protest against the consumerism that has now almost completely engulfed the reason for the season), the family get-togethers, the special church services and the send-off of Christmas cards and waiting for replies.  Above all, I like the feeling of goodwill that Christmas brings me.  I’ve even said “Merry Christmas” to some neighbors I have considered generally grouchy.  The horrendous and unthinkable massacre at Newtown shocked and angered us. But through it all, families got together to celebrate Christ’s birthday.  Gifts were exchanged.  Christmas concerts were presented and attended.  And the story of the Babe born in the manger has once again been told and retold in songs and plays.  Long after the Beatles of Liverpool pronounced that "Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. . . . We're more popular than Jesus now; I don't know which will go first - rock 'n' roll or Christianity,” Christ’s birth was celebrated as it has always been.  (The atheist group that hoisted that anti-Christmas banner in Times Square is the big exception.  It must make them happy and probably significant, to pick a fight with those of us who believe in the Christ.)

I remember that many years ago, we experienced a time of utter desperation and hopelessness in the Philippines.  A crime wave was raging through the country.  There was political corruption that wouldn’t quit.  The average citizen was suffering from an economy that had put such a heavy burden on him.  The scene was very dark.  In mid-July one radio station decided to play Christmas music. I don’t remember the state of the country to have changed.  But somehow it didn’t feel so hopeless anymore.  It felt like this period was just a temporary setback.  Things would get better.  And we all managed to survive those terribly bleak days.

When hope is lost, all is lost.  Recalling this experience, I asked what brought the hope back.  In my believer’s heart, I was convinced that it was the remembrance of that birth in the manger of the only Son of God.  It gave us hope.

And now 2013 is upon us, a blank sheet waiting to be written on.  I’m still basking in the glow of the celebration we just had.  I was reminded (along with the rest of the world) of the birth of this Saviour who brings hope, light, salvation.  I hope I don’t lose that glow as 2013 gets written.  I hope I never lose it when the writings get dark, confusing and difficult to understand.  And when the writings fill with encouragement, success or good endings, I hope I remember that the Babe in the manger did not stay a Babe, and that nothing gets written without Him.