Focus

He really tried. He would crouch down during low notes and jump up with a shout to match a quicker beat, yet still failed to properly lead the orchestra. Maybe it was because he sometimes jumped too soon, causing the musicians to seek direction from the first violinist. Or perhaps it was the time he instructed the orchestra to skip a passage, forgot his own instruction, and when they didn’t play it, stopped them and shouted, ‘Stop! Wrong! That will not do! Again! Again!”

            Multi-tasking didn’t work, either. His attempt to conduct while playing the piano resulted in candles flying off of the piano and a choir boy thrown to the ground. Finally, he laid down his ambitions of conducting an orchestra, remained seated at the piano, and focused on composing. The result of Ludwig van Beethoven’s concentrated effort produced hundreds of pieces of music still enjoyed today.

            A little focus is a powerful thing. Ask the photographer adjusting her lens to bring clarity to a point of interest. Or the surgeon carefully wielding a laser. Yes, focus is important. It’s why  Drew Brees, who would make any of the thousands of fans surrounding him happy to catch his thrown football, narrows his vision to find the hands of the teammate positioned for victory.

            So what about us? What do these examples have to do with our lives? I don’t know about you, but I’m walking away from this with two thoughts and the first one is about finding the task upon which I should devote my attention.

I believe it’s our responsibility to use the gifts God has place in us to the best of our ability. What if we placed a football in the surgeon’s hand, a laser in Beethoven’s, Brees behind the camera, and the photographer at the piano? What is the assignment you know you are called by God to complete? Now, focus on that.

I want to learn from the example of the trainer who puts blinders on the horse, blocking out distractions, allowing the horse’s eyes to look only to the race ahead.

Do you see your finish line? Now run until you cross it.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Where Have the Years Gone?

            “Let’s just stop and soak in this moment.” So we do. Victoria and I. At 8 pm., in the middle of Target, while selecting accessories for my college-bound daughter. 

            I wasn’t even surprised by her request to slow down the process and savor the moment. Victoria spent the day  ‘taking mental pictures’ (for emphasis, she blinked her eyes every time she said it) as we traveled through Thibodaux tracing routes to school and touring her Fall address.

            As I humored my 18-year-old, so proud of her realization of this next important step in her life, I did not wonder where the years have gone. No mystery at all. The very thought of the past lifts the lid of the treasure chest of memories and  images gently fill my mind.

            The past was spent on the sofa, cuddled up while reading books, watching cartoons, or talking. Or in the kitchen, cooking while Victoria sat at her Little Tykes art center in the bay window, creating. In the pool. Running beside her when the training wheels disappeared. On the trampoline. Listening to her giggle or play or  plan another adventure with her cousin Tiffani.

            Carpools, cheer camps, beach walks and beach talks took up a few years. So did shopping, tasting her latest smoothie inventions, and watching her spin little lumps of clay into small vessels on her first pottery wheel. Then her second. Then driving her,  and Tiffani, to pottery classes.

            Yes, Victoria managed to fill those years. Covering her notebooks with fabric to make them prettier (3^rd grade), enjoying the snack she called my Mom to bring her (a dozen char-grilled oysters), and ice-skating against the flow, on one skate, while I sat on the edge of the rink, horrified.

            She even crammed excitement into Easter breaks at the beach. My sister Kay and I were sitting by the pool as we watched Victoria emerge from the building wearing a silver pleather skirt and a huge multi-colored, striped sweater. It was my own fault for letting such a young child pack for herself. “Pretend we don’t know her,” whispered Kay, as we lifted our magazines a little higher over our eyes.

            “Aunt Kay! Mama!” she yelled as she ran to us, creating a memory which still causes us to smile.

            Then there were the pets she carefully chose and loyally loved. Cayenne, the Australian shepherd. Gucci, the Maltipoo. Oreo, Bacon, and Mittens, her cats. And the many fish whose names I won’t spend time trying to remember.

            So many, many scenes and segments of conversations race through my mind making it easy to know exactly what happened to those years. They were busy, sometimes exhausting; fun, often hilarious, but never boring. Uncertainties were met, decisions were made, problems were solved, and we somehow survived. We even survived our mistakes, grew a little wiser, and learned to lean on God a lot more.

In the midst of all of this remembering, another memory is created. A mental snapshot develops as Victoria and I briefly pause in our day’s dance. We devote a tiny moment of our life  to a brief rest before proceeding with the next step. And that’s what we did, right in the middle of Target. We stopped and smiled and added a few more items to the shopping cart.

            Yes, I know exactly where the years have gone. The millions of moments have melted into memories and moved into my heart.

            And I’m so grateful.  

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Praying

           I once belonged to a book club. Well, it started off as a book club. Some of the members read every book suggested even if it meant going without sleep the night before the meeting. Others read portions of the book, and the rest never read a word. It didn’t matter. I considered the books an excuse to visit over dinner, and in that respect, the group was 100% successful.

            I miss that book club. Until another one begins, I have my writers’ group. Well, it started off as a writers’ group before evolving into a monthly lunch date. We still talk about writing, yet there’s no pressure to produce. Catching up on each other’s lives, sharing events of common interest, and having lunch are the items on the agenda and we thoroughly cover each topic.

            I also belong to a Bible study group. Well, it started off as a Bible study group. (Does anyone see a pattern developing?) After watching a few DVDs, we decided to nix the formal study and focus on fellowship and prayer. Oh, and breakfast.

            Last week’s gathering began casually, then took an unexpected turn and dove headfirst into current events: crime, immigration, social issues, and politics. Facts and opinions flew as we uncovered breakfast casseroles, poured coffee, and settled into position around the table before verbalizing the answer to every question raised. Prayer. Not throwing our hands up in resignation with a quick “God Bless America,” but fervent prayer on behalf of our nation fulfilling the instructions of 1 Timothy 2:1-3 to pray for our leaders.

Our role of daily prayer for the community, state, and nation may not be visible; however, it is vital. May we never forget God’s promise to King Solomon in 2 Chronicles 7:14, “if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”

That morning, as I prayed with my friends, I marveled at the privilege of prayer. While communicating with the God of the universe, burdens go from our hearts to His ear. Although an important element of our church services, prayer is just as effective in our homes, while gathered around a friend’s kitchen table, as I rock my granddaughters, welcome the sun from my favorite spot on the patio swing, or even while in the check-out line. Standing behind someone with a basketful of groceries and a handful of coupons is a great opportunity to cover a lot of ground.

Hmmm. Coupons. I could save a lot of money if I join a coupon club. Maybe we could meet at Baskin-Robbins

Aunt Bea

           The door was always open, a beautiful smile welcomed visitors, and if you left hungry, it was your own fault. Such was my experience at the home of my Aunt Bea.

We used Liverpool Rummy as an excuse for our visits. At least I did. For me, the card game was merely a vehicle to visit, to travel through the lives of those gathered around the table. Over the years, hours of conversations have allowed me to tour other states and countries, and attend family events, all while holding a handful of cards and trying to keep up with the game.

            Lately our group had been the four of us: Aunt Bea, my cousin Coy, my Mom, and myself. I’m pretty sure Aunt Bea and I shared a secret I don’t hesitate to reveal. We were there for the fellowship. Although smart enough to realize every card left in our hands would bring us farther from victory, for the price of an additional unknown card from the stack we would ‘buy’ what the others discarded. We just loved to buy. You know, just in case we might need it later. To make it even easier for the other players, we didn’t pay much attention to their moves. Aunt Bea and I were a good balance for  our competitive companions.

            On June 24, 2013, I lost my card buddy. Her obituary will include her full name, Beatrice Waguespack Boé. It will also mention the husband she diligently cared for, Caire Boé, and name their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, succinctly summarizing her 88 years. The gaps left will be filled in with memories unique to the person holding the pen. I’ll use my turn to reveal another peek into our card games.

            Over the years, it became obvious we couldn’t give Aunt Bea too much notice of a potential game. She always wanted us to go to her house and we didn’t want her to go through the trouble of cooking. It didn’t matter. She was always prepared. For anything. Chips and dip? She had that. Relish? Do you want olives, sweet pickles, bread and butter, or dill? Cheese? Sliced, wedged, or baked Brie? A sandwich? Yes. And it would be cut in perfect little triangles, served with relish. Hungrier still? The freezer was stocked. The food was not only delicious, but artfully presented.

            Of course we brought snacks, Cokes, fudge, relish and cold cuts. And we always told her we were bringing the refreshments. It didn’t matter. She was ready for us before she ever knew we were coming.

            I didn’t realize our last card game was to be the final one with my aunt.  In all other respects, it was a typical evening. We shared memories, current events, and recipes. Toward the end of the night, I had an unusual craving for a cup of hot tea. She instantly directed me to her perfectly organized hall pantry.  On the way back to the kitchen, I passed the den which housed the computer she used to update her Facebook page, the books she loved to read, and the pictures of the people she just loved.       

            Today as I sip a cup of Bigelow Plantation Mint, the tea she introduced me to, I thank God. He  provided me with a real live example of gracious hospitality wrapped up in a beautiful and articulate lady who fondly spoke of the past, fearlessly approached the future, and in the meantime, played the cards she was dealt.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Time for a Rest

I love surprises. The little unexpected turns in life. The serendipity moments.

            Every year I experience this when I see my mock orange plant, which appears dead and dried up all winter, prove the life it had all along by bursting into greenery and beautiful white flowers each spring.

            An even better surprise was watching the child, name purposely withheld, who was once on the verge of failing 7^th grade Reading, turn a corner to become not only an avid reader, but an insightfully gifted writer.

            And then there are the short verses in the Bible I find tucked here and there which display God’s nature as much as a lengthy Psalm. Want to know one of my favorites? Exodus 15:27. Don’t look it up just yet; let me set the scene for you.

            The Israelites have been slaves in Egypt for 400 years. God uses Moses to lead them on their first trip out of the country, through the Red Sea, and into a desert. For three days, the people cannot find water. Finally, they spy a source and surely race to it, only to discover the water is bitter. Undrinkable. Tempting, readily available, but useless to quench their thirst. Under the Lord’s direction, Moses tosses a tree into the water and the bitter water becomes sweet. God then reminds them, “I am the Lord, Who heals you.”

            I know. You’re surprised I’m not focusing on the lessons in the previous paragraph. God’s deliverance from bondage. Power to lead His people through anything. The deception of appearances. Turning circumstances around when we obey. God’s healing. All important lessons just begging to be studied individually, but I’m anxious to get to the 27^th verse of Exodus 26.

            “Then they came to Elim, where there were twelve springs and seventy palm trees, and they camped there near the water.”

            Again, I could get caught up in the Biblical meaning of the numbers 12 and 70, and I would actually enjoy doing so; however, I don’t want to miss the overall message this verse delivers. Knowing what they had been through and, just as importantly, what was ahead, God brought them to Elim. A desert oasis. A break from their dusty journey. Refreshment for their weary bodies. Rest so they could sort out the events of the past month. Maybe even a little opportunity for relaxation and restoration as they stretched out before the water they camped near.

            Just 21 words. One sentence. Yet it causes me to pause every time. To thank God, not only for giving these newly-freed slaves a little vacation, but for recording it in His Word. It’s my gentle reminder to occasionally slow down, rest a while, recover from the past, and prepare for the future. And I surely won’t complain if He leads me to palm trees and water.

            Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com

Promises, Promises

“Remember when you promised to take me back for a tour?” She never forgot to say it every single time we passed Destrehan Plantation. My response varied according to the situation.

            “We’re already running late.” “I don’t have time.” “I don’t feel like it.”

            Elise would persist with the memory which prompted the promise. “I was in third grade on a field trip. Mrs. Selina called you to come and get me because I threw up. I never even got to go inside the plantation.” Thirteen years later and she could still recite the story.

            That all changed a few days ago. Elise and Victoria wanted to accompany me to a paint store in Covington. In an odd act of preparation, I called the store to check on the hours and discovered it is closed on Mondays. Plan B, if left to my daughters, would have been shopping. Before they could say “Charge,” I made an announcement: lunch and a tour of Destrehan Plantation. It’s part of my Discover Louisiana summer agenda. Fulfilling a promise was an added benefit.

            Do I keep all of my promises? Sadly,  no. However, I serve a Someone Who does. “For no matter how many promises God has made, they are ‘Yes’ in Christ. And so through Him the ‘Amen’ is spoken by us to the glory of God.” 2 Corinthians 1:20

            What’s my part? Just to believe. And I do. I don’t know when or even where, and I’m okay with that. God’s timetable is not mine and if I have to wait until Heaven, that’s okay, too. I’ve decided to continue to trust in His faithfulness.

            As we concluded her long-awaited visit, I told Elise, “I think you appreciate the tour more now that you’re older. You probably wouldn’t have understood it 13 years ago.”

            It makes me wonder if God holds a few answers, a few surprises for later in life when they are more appreciated.

Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com