The Blessed Heart

Ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . ah-choo!!

          “Bless you!!” 

          We sneeze and someone blesses us. Routinely, glibly we say the words, but do we stop and think about what it means to be blessed? Do we recognize the blessings God has given us?

          There is a story I love about twin boys (although I don’t know the original source).  One was an optimist and one was a pessimist. Their parents were concerned about the direction their attitudes would take them in life, so they decided to teach them a lesson one year on their birthday. 

          The parents filled the little pessimist’s room with toys – every size, shape, description, color. They got the latest, the greatest, the most popular toys on the market. They filled the little optimist’s room with horse manure. (I don’t know who was responsible to clean it or for health care issues, but I’m glad it wasn’t me!!) They stood at the door to the little pessimist’s room, hoping he would be thankful, but before long he was complaining. The toys were too hard to assemble, they weren’t the right color or size. They weren’t what he wanted. Nothing pleased him. The parents peeked into the little optimist’s room, hoping that he would have learned to be more realistic about life. The little optimist was wandering around the room smiling and happy. When they asked what he was doing he replied, “With all this horse manure, there just has to be a pony in here somewhere!”

          Are you complaining about the beautiful “toys” you’ve been given or are you looking for the pony?

          Paul wrote the book of Philippians from prison, yet over and over he tells the church in Philippi to rejoice. His circumstances were not what we would call favorable or a blessing, yet Paul didn’t see it that way. He considered where he was a blessing because he got to see the Gospel spread because of his confinement. He rejoiced. He saw the blessings in the middle of a place where many of us would only see the horse manure.

         Have you taken time recently to count your blessings? Why don’t you take a few minutes to list some of your blessings? Write down 10, even 20 things that you are thankful for. They can be simple, general things like clothes to wear and food to eat to very specific things. 

Are you looking for the pony or complaining about the toys?

Lessons My Father Taught Me About Living . . . and Dying

I learned many lessons from my dad by the way he lived his life.

I learned that hard work is a good thing. My dad didn't work in a faraway office. When I was a child, my father owned a dairy farm - a business where the work never seems to end. He took me on the tractor to the fields and let me "drive" it even as a young girl. When he was building on an addition to the barn, he hung a swing from the rafters for me so that I could play while he worked. When I was older and the farm had been sold and he ran a sawmill, I went with him into the woods while he cut down trees. As a thirty-something adult, I finally came face to face with the realization that this was not the way most kids grew up. For many Dad left in the morning and came home again in the evening and in between they didn't see him. I learned about work by working side-by-side with my dad doing things that little girl hands could do. I don't ever remember him asking me to do something that was beyond my ability and I remember him protecting me from the things that could harm me in the hazardous work he did. He seemed to know what I could and couldn't do and asked me to do what I could, but didn't ask more.

I learned not to complain in the face of pain and difficulty, but to keep going, pace yourself, and do the best you can. When I was an infant, just 6 months old, my father had his second back surgery. As long as I can remember, he lived with chronic pain and significant health issues, yet he rarely complained. Sometimes in his sleep you could tell how bad the pain was because in those unguarded moments he would moan, but in his waking hours he rarely complained. And, despite the pain he built two successful businesses - the family farm and then a rough cut lumber business. His lumber business grew mostly by word of mouth. Customers would come back again and again because of the quality of the product they received. He did his best. And he paced himself, resting when needed, taking family vacations, and weekend getaways with my mom. Then he would return to work hard and do his best.

He was a man of few words, yet when he spoke his words carried weight and had impact. When he said he would do something, you could count on it.

I also learned about love. He was a quiet man and words of love didn't come easily to him. Yet his love for his wife and family was deep. He loved to have his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren in his home. He always seemed to know that people were more important than things and that family were most important of all people. As long as he was able, each year he would drive the many hours to visit my sisters who lived far away to spend time with his daughters and their families. He made many gifts in his wood-shop for his children and grandchildren. He helped remodel houses, build potato bins, play games, hike, pick berries, and visit historical sites for and with his family. All of these expressions of his love.

He also taught me lessons in his dying. I had the privilege of helping to care for him the last 10 days of his life. The hospice workers warned us that it is normal for people to do things that we're not accustomed to them doing - like swearing a blue streak. My father, although in incredible pain those last days, didn't cry out, didn't get cranky and didn't swear. I don't think I ever heard him utter a swear word during my lifetime and that habit, I believe, was so deeply ingrained that even in death those words were not a part of who he was.

I knew that he loved Christ and had served Him faithfully for many years. It was his custom to spend time reading his Bible each day. As he lay in the hospital bed, the toxins building up in his system, I read to him from his Bible. One day I asked him if there was anything special that he would like me to read. His response was, "No, it's all good."

He died on a Sunday - Mother's Day - and the night before he uttered the last words I would ever hear him say on this earth. He had been basically in a coma for the few days before that, talking little, sleeping much. On that Saturday night, he spoke in a clear strong voice and said, "Thank you, Jesus!" I knew that he could see and was experiencing something very real and profound in the spiritual realm. In that moment, I felt closer to God than I had in a long time.

I am thankful for the lessons my father taught me in life and in death. He lived well and he died with dignity and honor.