Ready, Set... Slow

I was first in line to welcome the cool fall breeze that blew through last week. I was ready to put on a light jacket for my early morning quiet time on the patio swing. I was anxious to turn on the oven to bake sweet potatoes; and I thought I was prepared to turn off the ceiling fans until I looked up to see what had accumulated since the last time those blades were motionless.

            During the heat of the summer, my ceiling fans work constantly. Only when they wobble or make a noise do I pay attention to those much needed appliances in my home. And only when a fan is still am I able to make the necessary adjustments and clean the blades. As I stood on a chair, armed with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels, the parallel to my own life was a lot clearer than the glass globes which protect the fan's lights. Maybe you can relate.

            Everyone is busy. You may have to leave your house way too early in the morning and return much too late in the evening. You may be unemployed, yet overworked as you pick up after children or grandchildren, drive carpool, and keep the troops fed and in clean clothes. Or your relentless search for a job may have you drained. I know you have a lot to do, but I want you to stop. That's right. Stop long enough for the wheels in your wonderfully complex, Divinely constructed mind to find rest. Let the blades stop spinning. Walk away from the whirlwind of activity around you for just a moment. Cease from thinking of the next thing you are going to add to that heavy plate you are trying to carry. Ignore the voice that says just one more email response, just one more bill to pay, just two more hours of television. Ready, set, slow. Slow down. Quiet yourself and take a few moments to reflect, assess, and pray, and in the words of the classic railroad crossing sign: Stop, Look, and Listen.

             Even Jesus sought solitude. He left the crowd to grieve the death of John the Baptist. He chose a quiet mountainside to pray to God after a hectic day of teaching, healing, and feeding a multitude with a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread. If spending time alone with God was important to Him, it should be my top priority.

            Only in these quiet moments before God am I recharged. Sometimes He shows me how to become more balanced, or less noisy, or work more effectively. Other times He points to the dirt (wrong ambitions, anger, worry) that has accumulated in my quest to move faster and faster. A few minutes spent before God fills me with strength for my day, peace for my troubles, and direction for my confusion. 

            Regardless of the season, or the season of my life, spending time with God in prayer should begin and end each day. It's much better than cleaning ceiling fans.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

A Decade Ago...

Ten years ago, my daughter, Elise, was diagnosed with lymphoma. She was ten years old.

            As a cancer survivor, I should have been prepared to handle the experience. I wasn’t. Knowing terminology and procedures meant little when I had to enter Elise’s hospital room to tell her she had cancer. I had to dig deep and hold on tightly to my composure when she looked at me with those big brown eyes and said, “Momma, I don’t want to die.” Then it happened. The depths of grace, peace, and faith I had experienced throughout my own ordeal with cancer guided our conversation. Elise faced her future with calmness, maturity, faith, and tenacity far exceeding her age. An ambulance later transported us for the first of many trips to Children’s Hospital.

My husband was able to be with Elise most of the time, but one rare day he had to be in the office, so I brought her to the hospital for another dose of chemotherapy. On the menu was the drug I had begged the doctors not to administer. It was the one which, years before, made me lose my hair, and everything I ate or drank. It was the one that caused severe burns on my hands and feet. So severe I couldn’t even pick my hair up off of the pillowcase.  So severe I had to crawl to the bathroom on my knees when I became sick.

As the nurse donned her thick protective gloves and connected the chemicals to my daughter, I began to crumble inside. I watched the red liquid enter my baby’s body, and fought for control over both my emotions and the contents of my stomach. Then I raced to the exit door, ran out of the building, and called my husband to desperately cry, “I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.”

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Michael said.

“No,” I insisted. “It’ll be over before you get here. Just pray. Promise me you’re praying. Promise me you won’t stop praying.” Being fully aware of my frailty has taught me to lean heavily on my Jesus, and the words of 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.”

I re-entered the room, and if Elise noticed anything odd about my behavior, she never expressed it. That night, she became ill and a few days later, I found chunks of her hair in the bathroom garbage can. Soon after, she ditched the wig, and began wearing her brother’s baseball cap to cover her scalp.

“How do people go through this without Jesus?” she asked. It is one of many questions for which I have no answer. I cannot imagine going through anything without leaning on the strength of my Savior.

This past week, I accompanied Elise, now in her fourth year of college, to her yearly checkup at Children's. I dropped her off at the entrance, found a parking spot, then joined her in the waiting room. No longer led by me, my strong and independent daughter spent the day before her 21^st birthday filling out forms, leading the way to the heart scan, almost sprinting to the lab for blood work, then bringing me back to the clinic to meet with her doctor.

But our yearly visit to Children's is about so much more than forms and tests and doctors. It's about returning to the sights and the smells that instantly bring me back a decade. It's about feeling my heart fill to the top with gratitude for present health, humility at the thought of God's deliverance, and pain for the parents pushing wheelchairs, holding infants, and adjusting caps covering precious little bald heads. And it's about allowing the tears to flow as I pray for those I know still battling sickness and for these new little faces who have found a place in my heart.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Looking Like Ann

A few spots of skin cancer in the past provide ample motivation to keep my appointments with the dermatologist. Last week I expected a quick visit and a good report. What I didn't expect was a case of mistaken identity.

            He walked into the room, greeted me, and looked at my chart. He looked at me again, this time clearly puzzled, and said, "I'll be right back. I have the wrong chart"

            I glanced at my name on the chart and said, "No, that's my chart."

            "Are you sure? Aren't you Mrs. Watson?"

            If only I had a tank of gas for every time I heard that. "That's my sister," I explained.

            "Are y'all twins?" he asked.

            "No, but we are often mistaken for each other even though Ann is younger, thinner, and cuter."

            I should be used to this confusion. A clerk at the grocery store once said, "You changed your shirt."

            "What?" I asked.

            "You were just in here wearing a different shirt." And once again I had to explain it was my sister.

            Ann's co-workers and my husband's friends have also been baffled, as well as our parents who cannot tell our voices apart on the phone. Looking and sounding like Ann is effortless, but I would really have to work at having her patience, kindness, and thoughtfulness.  

            And while I'm listing qualities to emulate, I must look at the character of Christ. If I am to follow Paul's instructions in Ephesians 5:1 to be an imitator of God, I should study His word, hear His heart, and live by His example. Overwhelming? Yes! At least for me it is until I break it down and realize I just need to start with what Jesus said. " Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it. Love your neighbor as yourself."

            That will surely keep me busy! The time will just fly by. Before I am ready, three weeks will pass and I'll be back at the dermatologist for my follow-up. Would it be wrong to send Ann in my place?

Hurricane Isaac

My daughter Monique and her husband Frank now share our home, and that's a good thing. We love their company although we don't often see them. Between working at their jobs and working on their house, they are always going somewhere. I tried to cheer her up by suggesting that at least this very hectic time in their young marriage will cause her pregnancy to fly by. She is less amused by that than she is by the early morning commentary Frank and I provide as we discuss world events. She groans when we tell her we are going to start our own show, and she doesn't even appreciate Frank's suggestion of the title: Wake Up, America.

            What Monique does appreciate is spending more time with her niece, Adeline. As far as Adeline is concerned, Monique and Frank are just two more people available to spoil her. And two more voices to protest the enormous hair bows her mother, Lauren, forces her to wear. Whether Adeline is going to church or to the zoo or staying home with me, Lauren places a bow on her head.

            Time must have stood still for Lauren recently as she dressed Adeline for the day, then called to me with a voice filled with urgency, "I can't find Adeline's lime green bow!"

            I wanted to respond, "And there are people in Frenier who can't find their houses, others who are forced to toss out everything they own, and children whose worlds have changed overnight." Instead I just looked at Addi, who just sat there smiling, perhaps at the thought of her first bowless day.

            Lauren's frustration over a lost bow was no match for what I've been feeling concerning my community. The job of rebuilding seems enormous and I've found myself daily burdened by the needs. Rather than compile a list of the things I am incapable of doing to help, like installing sheetrock and laying ceramic tile, I've decided to do the tiny things that I can. A little cleaning here, a little cooking there, and in between it all, a whole lot of prayer. Even as I hold my grandbaby on my lap, I move her bow to the side so I can see her smile as I pray and ask God to form a healthy, prosperous future for us all. The promise of Galatians 6:9 has never seemed more appropriate than now as I trust God to reward all who labor now just for themselves, but for their friends and neighbors in need. "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."

            P.S. Lauren must have found that lime green bow. Sorry, Addi, I'll hide the next one in a better spot

Prayers for My Parish

In retrospect, it doesn’t really matter what I intended to write for today's column. The notes I had made during the week and the anecdotes lodged in my frontal lobe were shaken from their place of importance when my son Geoffrey and I sat down to watch the news early on the morning of August 16^th.  It was then we learned of the assault on four St. John the Baptist Parish deputies which resulted in the deaths of Brandon Nielsen and Jeremy Triche, and the hospitalization of injured deputies Michael Boyington and Jason Triche.

            The news jolted my community and almost every conversation I've engaged in since has included a reference to the tragedy. Sometimes, many times, I talk too much. Whether speaking to friends or praying to God, I use my ability to just go on and on filling up the empty spaces with more and more noise. The early morning shoot-out left even me at a loss for words. My heart still aches for the families and friends of the victims, for our Sheriff Mike Tregre and the men and women he leads, and for our parish as we grieve. And at times like this, my prayers become very, very simple and are most often whispers of 'help' amidst tears.

            I didn't need the command from 1 Timothy 2:1,2 to remind me to pray, but the timeless instruction found in those verses bears repeating: "I urge you, first of all, to pray for all people. Ask God to help them; intercede on their behalf, and give thanks for them.  Pray this way for kings and all who are in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity."

            May our prayers for the victims, the families, and our law enforcement only increase.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Olympics!

I'm not sure what I'm going to do when the Olympic games are over. I'm not even joking. In the short time since the opening ceremonies in London, my family has logged in many hours watching athletes compete for the Gold. The entertainment value of the games only dims when compared to my family's conversations during the events.

            The tension of a backstroke swimming race was shattered when Elise blurted out, "I can't believe we're all sitting around watching people swim backwards."

            When a member of the US gymnastics team stepped out of bounds during her floor exercise, our disappointment quickly turned to confusion as Lauren explained, "Those Chinese girls won't step on the line. They're Communists."

            Geoffrey, who remains quiet during the Olympics, and throughout life, was unimpressed as the announcers boasted of a rider in the Equestrian event. "So who gets the medal? The rider or the horse? The horse is doing all the work!"

            I managed to avoid the Olympic spoilers Geoffrey sought. He knew the results of most of the competitions before they were shown. Michael usually did, too, except for one day. It was the day Michael Phelps was swimming for his record-breaking 19^th Olympic medal. My husband asked that no one inform him of the results of the race beforehand. He spent the day without the news, radio, or internet. He should have just avoided Elise because she walked into the living room soon after the race started and said, "Is this the one he wins and breaks the record?" My family will never, ever, not in a billion years be allowed to work as sports commentators.

            I have an immense appreciation of these world class athletes, I thought as I finished off a bowl of ice cream after another gym-less day. I hold my breath when they swim, gasp when they fall, and lean forward as though my efforts will help them to cross the finish line victoriously. But although they are the best of the best, they are not perfect. While I anxiously await the judges' scoring of the performances, I thank God that He does not judge like the judges for the Olympics.

            It must be frustrating for the Olympic athletes to have trained so long and worked so hard, then judged on a performance of just a few minutes, or even seconds. I'm grateful that God is with me everyday, constantly aware of my actions, thoughts, and even my motives, then judges me accordingly. If I fall, I don't get a deduction like the gymnasts. I have the opportunity to get back up and go on, not even getting penalized if I ask for help.  The important thing is that I admit my mistake and try again. It isn't always easy to stay balanced on a narrow path, but with my God at my side, all things are possible. I also find such peace in knowing God will not choose only one winner. I am judged independently, therefore there is no need for me to compare myself to anyone else.

            What am I going to do when the Olympic flame is extinguished? I may not be sure of my life after the Olympics, but I am quite certain of life after death. In the words of 1 John 5:13, "I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God so that you may know that you have eternal life." We are all capable of winning the Gold. In fact, in Heaven, the streets we walk on will be paved with it.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Elise's Moving Day. Take Five.

Elise is moving. Again. This is her fifth move in three years. I can't believe it, either, but her fourth year at Nicholls will be spent at yet another address.

            My daughter's packing style mimics my own. She sorts as she goes, verbalizing both her thoughts and actions. Although there to help, I spent a few minutes observing.

            "Where do I begin?" Elise began as she scanned her large bedroom. I was hoping she had a plan that was better than mine. Or at least more honest. I told her to put all the stuff by the side of the road, tell her Daddy she was robbed, and go shopping. Now, don't judge me just yet. If you had seen her room, you'd understand. It looked a little like a crime scene, and a lot like my sewing space when I'm in the middle of a project. I get it. School, work and friends leave little time for cleaning, hanging up clothes, and organizing. In the midst of this clothing chaos, a Scentsy warmer, prominently displayed on an otherwise crowded nightstand, filled the room with a sweet fragrance. I continued to watch the fifth episode of 'Elise's Moving Day.'

            "This is Victoria's. This is Victoria's. This, too," she repeated over and over as she handed me her sister's clothes. Items belonging to friends were placed in a plastic bag for later distribution. Suitcases and laundry baskets were filled with her things, and although we were far from finished in the bedroom, we moved to the kitchen. What was not thrown or given away was transported to the condo she'll be sharing with Nikki, her best friend. I was little surprised, but a lot more pleased as I watched her clean up to leave the house ready for the next tenants. (Or to get back her deposit, but please let me just believe she cleaned because it was the right thing to do.)

            If you've moved lately, you can relate. Maybe your residence has remained the same for decades, but it's likely you've still made a few moves to a new job, church, ministry, relationship, or a different season of life. Some moves we direct ourselves, many are beyond our control. Births, deaths, and other people's decisions often force changes we neither want nor welcome. It doesn't really matter. Moving and adjusting to new circumstances are part of the journey. My prayer is always for smooth transitions.

            I was a little sad about Elise moving from the larger than necessary house to a bedroom with half the space she's accustomed to. She's not. Elise is excited because she is looking at the benefits. She's moving forward and looking forward to this new chapter of her young life. When moving into a new area of life, I need to force myself to look at the positive changes.

            Elise sorted as she packed, throwing out what no longer works. Whether it's a broken hair straightener or a burnt pizza pan, unproductive methods or life-draining thoughts, only bring what you need to your next place.

            Stay flexible. To make the most of her new room, Elise's dresser will hold her TV, her desk will double as her nightstand, and her bookcase will be given to her niece, Adeline. Old relationships don't have to be discarded in new phases of life, but sometimes the nature of the friendship changes.

            And please remember to clean up. My goal is to leave every place a little better than it was when I got there. Thanks to Scentsy, Elise's old bedroom will smell fresh for a while after she's moved. May the essence of who we are linger long after we've left.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com