My dear husband does not like to get gifts. Not birthdays or holidays. Not even Christmas or Easter. Not anytime or anywhere. Nope. Nada. Nyet. The other day—mind you, it’s only June—when I surprised him with the complete DVD series of Hogan’s Heroes, which he truly loves, while thanking me, he quickly deemed it his early birthday and Christmas present adding that there was absolutely no need to get him anything else. I just have to shake my head and smile because my kids and I love to give gifts. And we especially love birthdays. It’s a celebration of life.
Giving and receiving. It’s not so hard to do. Or is it? For some, giving is a way of life. Making someone smile. Bringing that ray of sunshine into a cloudy day. Loving. Ministering. Caring. But flip the switch and be the one given to, and whoa, hold the phone. It’s been said, “It’s better to give than to receive,” but I would submit it’s a whole lot easier to be the one bestowing than it is to be the one accepting. In a world where according to The Beatles, all we need is love, why then is it so hard to be loved on? Continue reading
My daughter, Laura, doesn’t like change. Most of us don’t for that matter, but when she was a little girl, anything great or small that altered her universe, would send her into a tailspin for exactly two weeks. You could bank on it.
One time that stands out, happened when we made a major move from Missouri to northern California. We found that because of overcrowding in the public schools where we were going, it would be better for Laura, an upcoming fourth grader, to make the switch and attend private school.
First, there was the digging-her-heels-in and wrinkling-her-nose-in-protest-phase, followed by the argumentative, why-this-couldn’t-possibly-be-good-for-her-life, angle. (At that time, I was convinced if she had chosen to be a lawyer by profession, any firm would have gladly welcomed her.) Continue reading
My husband, Jerry, loves to go to the dentist. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, he goes willingly into the office, full of glee, grinning from ear-to-ear. Not me. Not anything close. In fact, not at all. To get me there, it’s almost as if someone has to push me from behind, fighting firmly-planted feet and heels that are digging trenches as I’m forced to go. But when I’m in the chair, I know the fastest way out of there is to open my mouth wide, relax every muscle I can think of, and let it happen. The funniest thing—my dentist always tells me that I’m one of the easiest patients to work on. Little does he know.
Submission. That’s all it is. Letting something happen to you that you would not normally yield to willingly. Like letting the dentist put that medieval tool in your mouth to drill out decay—a horrible thought to shudder at in itself. Or following the not-so-wanted-diet your doctor has prescribed to save your life. Or letting the spouse who wants to plant a kiss on you when you’re not quite finished with the discussion even though they are. That’s what it is to submit. Continue reading