The Conditioning

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Friday, August 1

At exactly fifteen minutes after midnight, Cynthia, startled from a sound sleep, rolled over, struggled to untangle her arms from the duvet cover, and made a grab for the phone. On her first attempt, she missed, sending the book she had been reading just before turning off the light, tumbling to the floor.

“Hello?”

Nothing, not even a breath, or a whisper answered her.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Cynthia boasted about her ability to sleep through anything. During the years of the cold war, the accidental triggering of an air raid siren had sent the entire town into panic mode. She blissfully slept through it all. Storms, parties, and street races, never affected her beauty rest. It was odd that the ringing phone should do what nothing else could.

Calls at midnight usually signaled a family crisis, a drunk whose fingers did the walking in all the wrong directions, or a legitimate wrong number. The latter was usually followed by an apology or sometimes with the hasty “clink” of a receiver into its cradle and the sound of the dial tone.

There was nothing but silence this time.

Cynthia hung up and went back to sleep muttering about the rudeness of some people.

Saturday, August 2

At precisely fifteen minutes after midnight, the phone rang.

This time, Cynthia’s reflexes responded with more accuracy. Her hand grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Look, who is this?”

Empty air answered her.

The receiver returned to its cradle just a little more violently than it had the previous night.

Cynthia was scheduled to have Saturday morning brunch with some friends. Over orange juice and scrambled eggs, she recounted the experience of the last few nights.

“I don’t know what to do. Should I report it to the phone company? It doesn’t seem serious enough to call the police. There isn’t even any heavy breathing.”

Her friends commiserated with her. Maybe she should consider taking her phone off the hook at night, or getting an unlisted number.

Sunday, August 3

The clock in the living room struck 12:15 a.m. just as the phone beside Cynthia’s bed began to ring. For a second it seemed part of the dream haunting her at that moment. She had been walking along a road. Fog lay heavy and wet around her, preventing her from seeing much beyond the end of her nose. Branches hung from the trees—dripping telephone receivers, which she kept banging into. The sound of the phone pulled Cynthia off the path. The sheets were damp, her pajamas bathed in sweat.

“What do you want?” This time, politeness fled with sleep.

Again, there was nothing but silence.

Cynthia flung the phone down. She considered unplugging it, but resisted. Her father wasn’t well, and the family could call if something were to happen to him.

Later that morning, the now bleary-eyed woman, shared her experience with the other members of her Sunday School class.

“If whoever is on the other end of the line would just say something, then at least I would have some idea of how to respond. But this silence, and the clockwork timing is so frustrating.”

Cynthia felt better after the others prayed with her asking that the Lord would intervene in the situation. She went to sleep that night hanging on to those prayers, plus a few of her own.

Monday, August 4

The sound jerked her out of a peaceful slumber. This time, precisely fifteen minutes after midnight, Cynthia didn’t even bother to ask who was calling. She pulled the phone from its cradle, listened to the silence for thirty seconds, and then put the receiver back.

The routine chores of the day were carried out on automatic pilot as Cynthia chewed on the dilemma of the midnight caller. There was so much to do as a first-time homeowner. The hours in the day never seemed enough.

Tuesday, August 5

Cynthia woke up at precisely fifteen minutes after midnight—to absolute silence. There was an odd smell in the room and a light haze. Her mind, now conditioned to respond at this hour, kicked into high gear. She recognized smoke and the odor of something burning.

On her list of things to do in the new house had been a revision of the smoke alarms.

Later, as the firefighters checked the house for any further signs of overheated wiring, she thanked God for His midnight caller who had saved her life and her home.

Tucker: Living In Divine Order

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In the summer of nineteen forty-two I learned to fly. Well, I tried.

“Davey Tucker, you get off that roof right this minute! You’re gonna kill yourself!”

My father was winning the war flying Spitfires over the English Channel. So was I; but I flew over the barnyard on our farm in Minidoka County, Idaho. His enemies were the Luftwaffe’s Messerschmitt 109 and Focke-Wulf 190; mine were chickens and ducks. They flew too, though unfortunately for me, better than I did.

Dad told me that in the early years the Spits couldn’t go into steep dives quite as well as the ME 109’s. The negative ‘g’ forces starved the motor of fuel and the Spitfire could up and die on you real quick if you weren’t careful. We heard later that dad learned that lesson the hard way. So did I. I dislocated my shoulder launching myself off the roof of the barn that summer. I always blamed it on not having enough time to pull myself out of the dive before I hit the haymow. Dad didn’t hurt anything but his pride. After he was forced to bail out of the plane he had to walk back to the aerodrome, something pilots only do under the most dire of circumstances. Walking is generally considered beneath them.

While my father flew, I did too. I tried sheets taped to my arms and planks strapped to an apple box and launched off the baler. After we heard that dad had “lost” his Spit, I briefly limited myself to the ground, pretending that I was crawling through enemy lines to safely. But like dad said, pilots don’t walk, so I went back to flying. Besides, mom wasn’t too pleased to have me trampling the potato plants during my bolt for freedom.

In the summer of nineteen fifty-six, I learned how to run. It was no less hazardous than my flying had been, but certainly more pleasurable.

At the time, I was entering my last year at Seminary and as usual, I was running late —literally. I rounded the corner of the library on my way to a Hebrew class, and ran down the cutest little girl that I’ve ever had the satisfaction of meeting. I married her later that year. Marie claims that she caught me on the run and that I spent the next fifty years trying to get away! She invested every last one of them trotting alongside of me keeping the house, the kids, and my life in order through the fat, and the lean years, of ministry.

Marie always said that the only time that Dave Tucker wasn’t running off somewhere to do something for somebody was when he was “walking the line” for her. The year we were married Johnny Cash released a song that I’d swear to this day Marie made me repeat as part of my wedding vows. I can still hear it:

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time, I keep the ends out for the ties that bind, Because you're mine, I walk the line.”*

It was no hardship watching my heart for her.

Now, in the summer of two thousand and six, I am learning how to walk. I doubt that it will be anywhere near as difficult as soaring and running were.

I stand before my congregation, the fourth that I have served over fifty years of ministry. This will be my last sermon as pastor of this church. After today, I will be just plain David Tucker, retired.
It’s time to slow down and let life catch up to me. Something tells me that while it’s going to require some adjustments, things are going to be okay.

“Please turn with me in your Bibles to Isaiah Chapter Forty, verse thirty-one. Our text for today reads this way: ‘those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.’ Have you ever wondered why Isaiah, inspired by God’s Spirit, wrote: ‘soar’, ‘run’, and ‘walk’, rather than ‘walk’, ‘run’, and ‘soar’? Well, soaring is a young man’s game. When I was boy growing up in Idaho, I rather took to flying …”

I look down at Marie and smile. Yes, walking’s going to be good.

*I Walk the Line by John R. Cash. Recorded 4/2/56

Broken Dreams

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Go again to that dark place
where freedom dies and life lies waste.
Consider there that time, now past,
when all alone you gazed aghast
at broken dreams, forlorn and bent
beneath your feet lay, shattered, spent.

Return once more to memory’s cove
where, snug and safe, a treasure trove
of gold and silver, safely hid
from evil’s touch and gambler’s bid.
Protected by a Father’s hand
who caused these dreams to ever stand.

Some will die, and others live.
It is the Father’s grace to give
the best to those who dream, and wait
for Him to choose which one to take
and weave into life’s broken heart
a thread of hope, that missing part.

Let fall behind those painful sparks
of dying dreams that now grow cold.
And look beyond their fading light
toward His promise, pure and bright,
of dreams set free, divinely blessed,
a Father’s gift, as always, best.

That Sinking Feeling

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“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matthew 14:28 NIV)

You have to admire the audacity of Peter. As for me, I don’t like small boats. I prefer my water in a glass or at least in a form that comes with a tap. If I had been Peter, I probably wouldn’t have even been in the boat, much less trying to walk on water. But sometimes the events of life don’t give us a choice. Unlike Peter, we don’t even get the opportunity to ask permission to take a walk on the wet side—we get tossed out of the boat and seemingly left to sink or swim. A serious illness, a financial setback, a ministry turned misery, a relationship that fails, a past that haunts us, a present that overwhelms us and a future that defies us—who would ask to walk on these turbulent waters?

For Peter there was a lesson in faith to learn. He couldn’t have known that when he stepped out the boat. All he wanted was to get to the Lord. And that is the whole point. To get nearer to the Lord, to know Him better, to trust Him more, to grow in His likeness requires stepping beyond all that means security to us. It means allowing Him, even inviting Him, to push us out of our boat so that we can learn the lessons in trust that only rough seas can teach.

And when events thrust us out of the boat? Don’t look back. The past is done. Don’t look around. There is nothing out there that can save us. Don’t look down. Neither sinking nor swimming are options that God would choose for us. He wants us to walk in triumph over the stormy seas of our lives. Not under the circumstances, but above them. How? A successful crossing comes when we keep our eyes, our hearts, our minds, our lives always focused on Him. And keep walking.

It Seems Like Only Yesterday

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The old woman told me to my face that it would have been better if I had never been born.

And was I expected to accept the blame for that?

I lost my innocence then—at the tender age of twelve. Like the gush that announces the blooming of womanhood, came the understanding that no one is safe, not even a child in the presence of someone old enough to know better.

At one time our city mayor was a lowly high school counselor—well, I guess to us he didn’t seem so humble then. My one, and thankfully, only visit to his office was on the occasion of his dispensing advice concerning my future. He asked about my plans. I told him. He informed me that I didn’t have the brains to do what I anticipated.

It’s a good thing I didn’t believe him.

It was at that point in life that I came to the conclusion that free advice might actually be worth exactly what you pay for it, and even those in lofty positions of influence might not always know what they are talking about.

Four years later, within weeks of graduating from my chosen institution of higher learning, I was asked to be the valedictorian of my graduating class. Days later, a rather shamefaced dean informed me that the Board of Directors of the school had rescinded the invitation. After all, they argued, the school was trying to attract men, making it inappropriate to have me, a woman, as valedictorian.

I guess I should have been doubly insulted.

So I learned that sometimes even the most godly men do ungodly things. History tends to repeat itself, but it’s that first plunge into the waters of disillusionment that seems the coldest. With time I would become much more familiar with my own frailties and become much more sympathetic to the weaknesses of others. All the same, during those chaotic days I discovered friends I really wasn’t aware that I had, classmates who refused to allow the scions of ecclesiastical power to do the wrong thing.

During the adventurous twenties, I was to learn that with patience and perseverance, even the harshest critic can be won over, and that not every open door leads directly into the next room. Sometimes there are hallways to be dealt with before we are ready for the next door. A hallway can be a humbling place, something akin to standing in a corner except that it isn’t punishment. It’s, well, a place to wait, reflect, and get things in perspective.

In one of those hallways, in middle life—the lower middle—a shock awaited me. I discovered that God wasn’t impressed by my job description. He showed me that I needed to describe myself, not by my title, but by my relationship to him. He was more impressed by my being than by my doing. To teach me that lesson, he had to strip away all that he had given me so that I would learn to focus, not on the gift, but on the One who had done the giving.

In my forties, I took the first steps toward learning not to tell God how things ought to be done. I also learned to tell my mother what to do, and then discovered what a wonderful thing it was to be able to relinquish the role of “mothering” my mother and to return to being a daughter.

“Freedom 55” came and went. I resented that, especially since my brother retired with a nice package at the age of fifty-two. But then, I argued, what would be the use of having learned all those lessons, gained all those experiences and acquired all that expertise just in time to be relegated to that proverbial “pasture.” I remembered Caleb, who demanded the right to take on the toughest assignment possible—at the age of eighty-five. I’m barely crawling out of my nappies compared to him.

Now, on the cusp of years that are physically rusty but spiritually golden, I realize that my battles are not fought with the same naivety as in the spring of my life, nor with the same heat as in my summer years. The fall is cool but fresh, and bright with colour. There are still possibilities to explore, mountains to take, more lessons to learn, before winter comes.

And I have a message to deliver to an old woman.

Glass Walls and Rubber Hammers

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Dear Alice:

I have fallen in love with the only woman I know who enjoys being single. To be honest, Janet seems like the kind of person who doesn’t need me — I only know that I am quite sure I need her. She is on the shady of middle age, but blessed with an ageless spirit, full of life, energy, and fun.

Her colleagues and friends hold her in high regard. She is successful in her career, independent and talented. She is committed to the Lord, and to the ministry she feels He has called her to. People tell me Janet is always “up” — I certainly have never seen her otherwise, though she honestly shares her struggles and weaknesses.

The only flaw that I can see, if you could call it one, is the invisible barrier that keeps anyone from getting too close to the “real” Janet. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t “standoffish,” but there exists a reserve, a glass wall that allows you to see her, but not touch her. That’s my dilemma — how do I get past the guard at her heart’s gate? I’ve met the woman of my dreams and I have no idea how to approach her.

Hopeless Romantic

Dear Hopeless Romantic:

Janet sounds like the kind of gal who would set her table with crystal and white linen, make a gourmet meal, light the candles, and then happily have a RO-TIC evening (that’s Romantic without the “man”) all by herself.

However, all is not lost. While it is true that there are some people who are called to singleness for the sake of the Kingdom, you obviously believe that Janet isn’t among their number. One of you must be wrong. Nevertheless, let’s assume, baring Divine intervention, that you are right and that Janet is the one God has for you.

Glass walls need to be approached carefully. They are fragile — too much pressure and someone is going to get badly cut. Not enough pressure and neither of you is ever going to find out who’s got the inside track on God’s will for your relationship.

First of all, respect Janet’s ministry and calling. Be interested in what interests her: not simply as a source of information or curiosity, but dig a little to find out how she feels about what she does. Don’t give advice or criticize, simply listen and support. Her wall may be built of insecurity. Others believe she has “all her ducks lined up,” but Janet may not be so sure that she really does, and fears to let anyone get close enough to discover how she judges her own abilities, and why God has blessed her life. When she trusts you, the crack in the wall will begin to widen.

Ask her to tell you her story. Find out about the experiences in life that have made her strong. Share your story with her, especially where your histories might come together. I’ll bet she is looking for someone who understands where she has been.

Be honest and vulnerable. By being vulnerable, you are not being a wimp: you are showing Janet that she is as safe with you as you feel with her; that she doesn’t need to compete to gain your respect. She sounds like she has learned to succeed in a man’s world — no easy feat! She needs to understand that you are not looking to deny, or to denigrate, what she has earned. Treat her as an equal. If she’s the woman you think she is, she’ll return the respect, and respond with interest.

Last, but certainly not least, if her commitment to God is as high a priority as you think it is, she’ll need to see that same commitment in you. As a person content with being single, she won’t consider giving those privileges up for anybody who is simply “warm and breathing.”

And hey, no woman, no matter how independent is adverse to flowers and the like. Just be sure that the gift reflects the woman. She’s obviously no pansy; so don’t give her any of those. She’s strong, so don’t give her roses, — they won’t last as well as she has. Try Birds of Paradise: exotic, flamboyant, and tough!

Remember, cracking glass works best with a rubber hammer.

Let me know what happens. I’m willing to bet that Janet will discover that she needs you as much as you need her (DV).

Alice

I Am Maranta

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Twilight descends as heavenward I bend
to embrace its portals.
Evening skies, chameleon as I, rainbow hues reveal:
Blue to orange, pink to mauve, purple to black.
I too am transformed, an aberration
like the human kind who follow my lead.
By day I stretch, verdant greens, spots and lines
in graceful combination,
a tribute to a creative Master.
Designed to delight and inspire,
I reach out to the light, to the Son, to heaven’s gleaming,
soak in its deepest sense;
then give back, exchanging one blessing for another.

I am Maranta.
I caress the light, hiding from its burning
yet seeking its warmth.
As night enfolds the day and holds it close
I retreat into myself, from reaching out
to pulling in.
Beneath the greens of light and dark, the veins and spots
hide another side,
another story.

I am Maranta.
Green turns to purple, the veins marked wine,
the spots of reddish-blue
blood-red against the darkening sky.
A curiosity to the uninformed who view my nature
as strange as that of those who lift
holy hands toward the sky.
I raise my “hands,” though they are not,
toward the One who made me thus.
Why, I ask, am I to be
so different from the rest?
I think He made me to reflect that bitter night,
the twilight of His life when, His prayer released,
He bled.
And vibrant life to death itself committed,

I am Maranta.
At twilight, the green of my life
to purple turns, the blood-red old as death
as to my Master I give myself in prayerful stance
as once He did with committed, dependent heart.
For those who echo my example,
who labour as He, with earnest voice;
be warned.

I am Maranta, an aberration,
as you will be to those who, without understanding,
fail to see that the greening of the soul
requires a purple twilight,
a garden of waiting,
of urgent pleading,
of heartfelt praise,
sometimes suffering,
always committed,
ever faithful
even to the death,
in prayerful pose.

I am Maranta.
Follow me.


The Maranta, more popularly known as the prayer plant, folds itself up at night revealing an undersurface of rosy-purple.