Excerpt

Chapter Eleven

A Marriage or a Merry-Go-Round?

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.  –Mignon McLaughlin xi

“Dear God, I have a problem. Well, not exactly a problem . . . I’d call it a grave concern. It’s about my marriage. No, I’m not contemplating divorce, although several of my friends have encouraged me to consider it. I’m not there yet; just a little confused. You see, we were so excited on our wedding day…and for some time after. One of our friends told us this was normal because the fairy princess expects to marry the handsome prince and the handsome prince thinks he has married the queen, but after a while reality sets in.

“It took some time for reality to set in for Tom and me. After scrimping and saving for the down payment, we finally moved into our first home. And then, the children came. Two of them…as you know. Don’t misunderstand, we are thankful for all you’ve done for us.

“But then, after a few more years, the chore of daily living settled over us. Occasional squabbles turned hostile. Disagreements about money…vacations…in-laws, and well, you know…sex. We’d always make up. Some times that was the only alternative. But the problems were never completely resolved.

“Now I wonder if we are getting as much out of marriage as we should. I don’t know what more we can do. If it continues like this…feast and famine…hot and cold…war and peace…I’m confused and worried. Is this what marriage is supposed to be—a merry-go- round—or is there more? Anyway, thanks for listening, God.”

If you had to answer that prayer, what would you say? Would you mention that many become confused about marriage because if it doesn’t start out right, it’s got less chance of being right. In the beginning, they imagine days of meaningful activity and nights of togetherness and passion. Along come the kids, mortgage payments, career changes, personality clashes, and arguments over trivialities. Startled, they realize they are going round and round with no goals or objectives other than short term emotional thrills, soon forgotten in the drudgery of daily living.

God’s Attitude About Marriage

Is that what God had in mind when he presented Eve to Adam and pronounced them one flesh? Is he now willing to make concessions? “Whoops. I made a mistake. Those human beings aren’t behaving. I’m going to cut them out of my will. What was Plan B again?”

Nothing of the sort. Take off your shoes; marriage is holy ground. It’s a permanent and sacred union of two personalities who find a physical and spiritual satisfaction with each other which they could not find alone. With Jesus as guide, they navigate lofty mountains and steep valleys, the three of them locked together all the way. Two pilgrims, one leader.

Notice any compromise here? Any uncertainty? A concession, perhaps? God doesn’t compromise when it comes to marriage. He is just as serious about marriage as he is about sin and grace for dope addicts, about love and mercy for murderers, as well as for the thieves and liars who sit in the front row in church.

A Christian marriage is more than an experiment in Let’s-Make-a- Deal. Those locked in the one-flesh contract don’t get a free get-out- of-marriage token when words like thunder shake the house and dirty looks are daggers that cut pride into small pieces. Marriage is a union of a man and a woman founded on mutual respect, a determination to succeed, and a resiliency established through faith in Jesus. They have a rock to cling to, and guidance from someone who knows them better than they know themselves. That rock and guidance are based on a few simple words of Jesus: “Love each other as I have loved you” (l John 15:12).

Just a second! In his final instructions before his passion, wasn’t Jesus simply instructing his disciples how to behave toward one another after he was gone? Plugging that passage into the context of wedding bells and nuptial vows is pushing the envelope too far when it comes to arguments about who’s going to clean the basement, take out the garbage, pick the kids up from school, show up at school functions, or…well…you know the drill.

There’s no stretch here. Jesus sets the love-bar high when he uses the key phrase as I have loved you. Love each other as I have loved you from before you were born, from before the world was set in place, from eternity. Love each other as I have loved you as the apple of my eye. Love each other as I have loved you as the one who humbled himself for you, as the one who died for you, as the one who watches over you night and day.

The Cornerstone of Marriage

The cornerstone of a Christian marriage is neither difficult to describe nor tough to understand. God didn’t say, “Feel good about one another.” He said, “Love each other.” Love each other with a love that indulges itself in the happiness of the other; a love proud to serve and eager to forgive; a love that fulfils its own needs by satisfying the needs of another. Like peanut butter and jelly, a sheep and its wool, a stamp on an envelope, husband and wife come together to become something they could not be alone.

Read more about Talk to Me, God… I’m Confused and Wayne Bartelt HERE.

Copyright 2010 Wayne Bartelt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
Am I Walking Worthy?

Often times I wonder, am I walking worthy of my calling? Am I walking circumspectly and not as a fool? What about my prayer life? Is it effective? What can I do to improve it? Am I studying enough? These are all questions that many Christians should be asking of themselves? It is called self-evaluation. You take a critical, spiritual look at yourself and ask the Holy Spirit to show you where you are weak.

Other questions I ask myself are: Do the people I allow in my inner circle bring me down or do they lift me up? What about myself? Do I encourage others to seek God’s face and to study His Word to improve their walk? What about my light? Is it shining brightly or is it dimly lit?

Every day I strive to honor God and bring Him glory. When I shared these questions with my “first friend,” a fellow minister, he welcomed me into the Christian club or the minister’s club. (I get to pick which one.) He reassured me that God will let me know if I pull too far away from Him. His response was comforting.

I like the idea that I am asking myself all of these questions because that lets me know that I am not spiritually dead. In fact, I am growing and maturing in my Christian walk. I am running in this Christian race because of my deep rooted love for God. He made it possible for me to be alive and well in this day and age. I have lived through three decades which is more than what most people lived to see.

Now, back to my initial question about whether or not am I walking worthy of my calling.  Honestly, I believe that I am. Every day, I encounter situations that can make me or break me. I can set my eyes on God and come out as a victor or I can focus my energy on my situation and come out defeated. I would not want that added stress when all I have to do is give everything over to God? To walk circumspectly simply means that I walk in my Christian life looking for opportunities around me to glorify God.. It means that I look for a chance to share God with others. As an ambassador of God, I look for opportunities to assist/minister to those who are lost and struggling and need encouragement and I look for those who are saved and need to see Christ lived out.Martin Luther said it best, “The world does not consider labor a blessing, therefore it flees and hates it, but the pious who fear the Lord labor with a ready and cheerful heart, for they know God’s command and they acknowledge His calling.”

When God gives you life, He expects you to live it. Not as you see fit, but as He sees fit. His ways are not like man’s and His path is not crooked and wide, but straight and narrow. And your destination (whether it’s on the wide and crooked path or on the straight and narrow path), is truly left up to you.

Copyright 2010 Satara P. Ferguson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

My Father’s Betrayal
Chapter 1

Father,” I prayed, “You know the darkness I feel
from my parents. Be my light today. Honor this
obedience.” Jerry added his Amen. I massaged my
throbbing forehead. We pulled to a stop at Route
34, just south of Halesburg. It was July 1997.
My husband and I had driven north, through the
cornfields of central Illinois, for our yearly visit
to the family farm. I rummaged through the glove
box, found two Tylenol Extra Strength, and washed
them down.
I leaned my head against the seat back. “My father
thinks I’m stupid because I grow flowers rather
than tomatoes.” I stared at the green cornstalks in
the fields. “And has my mother ever asked me a
question about my life?”
“Yeah, that’s them,” Jerry said. As he glanced at
me, God’s compassion shone in his gray eyes. In our
twenty-five years together, Jerry had often seemed to
me like the incarnation of Jesus. He even looked a
little like I imagined Jesus to look: tall, with strong
features and gentle hands.
“I don’t think I’ve talked to them more than
twice this year. And once was three weeks ago when
I called to set up this visit.” I ran my fingers through
my short brown hair as I gazed at the mobile home
park on the south edge of town, bigger now than I
remembered. Jerry squeezed my shoulder. I smiled
at him.
As the medication worked, the throbbing
lessened. Passing the metal-sided grocery store
downtown, my heart softened as I thought of the
large family—eight children, plus my maternal
grandmother who had lived with us—that my
mother had fed from the proceeds of the small
grain farm. They worked winter jobs, too. My father
butchered beef at the processing plant; my mother
cooked at the steak house. How many headaches
had they endured?
In the last block of the business district, grayed
plywood sheathed the windows of Laughlin’s
restaurant, where I had paid a quarter, handed to me
by my mother every week after mass, for the Sunday
Chicago Tribune. Threading my way through the
tables full of townspeople eating their beef and gravy
hot plates to the back room where the newspapers
were stacked, I had worn my country poverty like
a jacket of shame.
Just past the old restaurant, we turned right,
passing classmates’ houses on our way out of town.
Across a railroad, just beyond a winding creek, the
180-acre farm began. Between the water and the
road, a stand of pine trees grew. When I was in high
school, my father had sheared off the back limbs to
foil thieves who’d been stealing them for Christmas
trees, but they looked full now.
We turned into the farmyard just past the orchard
and pulled up near the old barnyard, where ducks,
geese, and chickens had once pecked, but where
grass and gardens now grew. Along the driveway,
purple clusters of grapes hung heavy against broad
green leaves. In my childhood the vines never bore
fruit because of my father’s herbicide overspray.
Beyond the grapes, my parents, in their eighties,
toiled among the tomatoes.
As we opened the car doors, my petite, whitehaired
mother straightened and waved, a watering
can in her other hand. Such hard workers—I can
respect that, I thought, returning the wave. My
father, resting on a tubular metal kitchen chair that
functioned as a garden bench, eyed us without lifting
a hand. He’s a tired old man—he can’t hurt me.
He leaned over to grasp his gnarled wooden
cane where it had fallen. Despite gripping the
cane’s rounded top with a shaky hand and using the
chair’s vinyl-covered back as a second support, he
nearly stumbled as he stood on his arthritic knees,
breathing heavily.
“Are you still nursing a forty-year hatred?” He
wagged a crooked finger at me, his black eyes bright
and hard behind his glasses. His unexpected rage
felt like a ten-foot tsunami. I planted myself against
the onslaught.
Leaning on her hoe, my mother watched us,
silent. Behind me, Jerry grasped my shoulder. A few
feet away, a cardinal called to its mate in the golden
delicious apple tree. As I glanced at the wet black
soil surrounding the tomatoes, trying to compose
a response, I remembered a day before the time
I started hating my father, a day more than forty
years ago.
~
Was that the supper bell? Behind the red
corncrib, near the field of green stalks that towered
over me, I’d found just the right consistency of black
mud I needed to make a pie for a tea party with my
dollies.
As I turned to run to the house, my foot slipped
in the goop. I sank into the mix of mud and poultry
droppings up to the tops of my shoes. Finally, I
wrestled myself out, but not without lying down
to get some traction. My pants! Tears sprang to my
eyes. Mom had just produced them from her stash
of rummage sale finds that morning, when I had
complained I didn’t have anything to wear. She’d
found another pair, too, but they were patched and
had a big stain on the left leg. I’d whined to wear
these today, even though they were good enough for
a Sunday afternoon drive. “I’ll be good,” I’d said. “I’ll
keep them clean.” Boy, would she be mad now! Our
pigs kept themselves cleaner.
I ran into the kitchen. At the Formica table,
everybody was waiting. Mom stood at the stove with
her back to me, dishing up bean soup out of the deep
well at the back of the stove. That meant they had
already said grace. Grandma, feeding Henry at his
highchair at the end of the table, didn’t notice me,
but my five older brothers and my sister stared. I felt
even smaller than my almost four years. My mother
turned toward the table to serve the soup, balancing
three bowls. She nearly dropped them when she saw
me. “You’ve ruined those good pants! What’s the
matter with you? Go wash up!”
“I got stuck in the mud,” I said, my tears mingling
with the black smears on my face.
“Yuk; you smell terrible,” Fred said, holding his
nose.
I felt dirty, and not just on the outside. I smelled
bad, and I was bad. And my stomach was empty. I
could smell the soup, with its bits of ham. If I went
and washed up, I might lose out. For sure, there’d be
no ham left. I hesitated, one muddy shoe on top of
the other, biting a fingernail. My father, even though
he had his back to me, seemed to sense I was still
there, because he looked over his shoulder at me.
His dark eyes looked tired. He must have seen the
fear in my eyes because he said, “Go get cleaned up.
I’ll make sure there’s enough left for you, Snooks.
I’ll even save a piece of ham.”
I smiled really big at him, and with a little snort
at Fred, turned to go to the bathroom. I heard my
father say to him, “That’s enough, now. She’s just a
little kid.” He said that last part like it was okay to
be little and not know enough to keep out of the
mud. He came in from the fields almost as dirty as
I was, so maybe I was okay, after all.
~
“No. I stopped hating you a long time ago,” I
said to my father. Small purple eggplants shone
in the noonday sun. My parents were legendary
gardeners. Next to the eggplants, the Brandywine
tomatoes were starting to turn. Orange blossoms
and gleaming fruit peeked out of the big zucchini
leaves. A few feet away a bushel of onions awaited
the cellar, and, down the middle of the apple trees,
potato plants were blooming. The golden delicious
apples, like most of the others, were still hard and
bitter. Last week, however, when I phoned to say we
were coming, Mom had said the Wolf River apples,
an early variety, would be ready, and she’d bake a
pie. I loved her pies. For days, I’d been imagining
the taste of her flaky crust, enclosing the cinnamony
richness of soft apples. Dessert on the farm never
disappointed.
Nancy and Joe, my sister and brother-in-law,
were out of town that weekend, or they would
have joined us. They lived a few miles away, and, in
addition to helping Mom and Dad, they raised their
own vegetables at the farm. My other sibling who
might have come for the day was Al, but his wife,
Ann, had had surgery recently and wasn’t able to
travel. Another brother, Harold, lived in Illinois, too,
but he was an institutionalized schizophrenic. My
other brothers—Herb, Craig, Fred, and Henry, along
with their families—were spread across the country.
Today, it was just Dad, Mom, Jerry, and me.
Heart thumping, I forced myself to advance
toward my father. He stiffened as I put my arm
around his shoulders. I couldn’t remember the last
time I’d hugged him. Feeling his heat through the
thin fabric of his dirty shirt took me back to the place
where the hatred had begun.
~
It was an unusually warm October day, again wet
from a rain. After lunch, my little brother, Henry,
and I had been sent outside to play. I’d learned my
lesson, so I was wearing an old stained pair of shorts
that day, with a red flowered shirt. My frizzy brown
hair stuck out at odd angles. We’d picked several
hollyhock flowers and buds, and I was teaching
Henry how to make “ladies.”
“Here,” I said, guiding his stubby fingers, “put
the toothpick through the stem.” I held the bud end
as he jabbed the pick in.
“Now, put this flower on the other end of the
toothpick.” I held the open flower stem up for him
to attach the two pieces. “Isn’t that pretty?”
He just grinned. He didn’t talk much yet. As we
lined up a row of purple dolls, I felt like a real teacher.
That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up, ever since
I’d met Mrs. Carter, the kindergarten teacher, last
Saturday when Mom and I were at the grocery store.
She had made me feel important, squatting down to
my eye level, telling me about the picture books and
toy kitchen area in her classroom.
I was imagining the pleasures of kindergarten
play when Henry swept all our pretty ladies into a
pile, crushing them. As I opened my mouth to yell
at him, my father rounded the corner of the barn
behind us, and his midafternoon shadow engulfed
us both. I turned to tell him how Henry had ruined
my little schoolroom, but I changed my mind when
I saw the firm set of his face. He wasn’t in any mood
to listen to our little squabbles.
“Karen, come with me to the store,” he said,
holding out his hand. Gulping back my tears at
Henry’s destruction of my happy school scenario,
I grabbed his hand and jumped up and down. He
wasn’t in a bad mood, after all. And he wanted to
take me for a ride in the big Nash!
“Me, too!” Henry said.
“No, just Karen. You go inside. Now.”
Henry began to cry, scrunching up his face in
that silly way of his. I scowled at him. I got to do
something he didn’t. He swatted at me, missing
my leg, before he ran toward the house. He’d tell
Grandma how he didn’t get to go with us and she’d
stop sweeping the kitchen floor and read him a book.
But I got to have my daddy all to myself. When
you’re one of eight kids, you don’t get much time
alone with your daddy, so even if you miss getting
a book read to you, it’s okay.
We walked, hand in hand, across the barnyard. I
had to run, practically, to keep up. The chickens and
ducks pecked nearby, but nobody else was around
on this school day. It seemed odd Daddy would go
to the store instead of Mom. If he went to town, it
was to get parts or feed or seed. He’d take one of
the boys for their young muscles. But Daddy knew
what he was doing. I didn’t question him. As if he
could read my thoughts, he said, “It’s too wet to get
the picker in the fields, and Mom needs bread for
supper.”
“Can we get ice cream?” We’d had the treat for
my recent birthday.
“We’ll see.” I knew that meant to be quiet and
good and maybe, even probably, my request would
be granted. “Get your shoes on.”
“Should I change my shorts?”
“No, they’re fine.”
I ran to the garage where I’d left my shoes and
buckled them on quickly. I hopped into the frayed
front seat of the Nash, where I’d never ridden alone.
Mom always rode in the front passenger seat, with
Henry between her and Dad, now that he was the
baby. Today, I had it all to myself. I was the special
one today. The dark interior of the car smelled
like the King Arthur tobacco Daddy smoked in
his wooden pipe. I struggled to close the door as
the engine rumbled. I loved the sound, like a lion
roaring. After I got the heavy door shut, I sat on my
legs to see out the window better. The tires crunched
on the gravel of the driveway as we pulled away.
“Pretty hot for October, isn’t it,” he said.
“Yeah.” I couldn’t remember any other Octobers,
even though it was my birthday month. I remembered
the big chocolate cake Mom had baked, with
my name written in yellow icing. I got to eat a big
piece, even before dinner. Then I got to eat another
piece afterward—even better with the ice cream!
We pulled into a diagonal parking space in front
of Cross’s grocery store. I scrambled across the wide
seat to get out Daddy’s side of the car. He lifted me
up on the high sidewalk and stepped up himself. The
little grocery displayed all kinds of good food, but
Daddy headed right for the bread aisle. Picking up
a Honey Wheat, he turned toward the front of the
store, not stopping at the ice cream freezer.
“Daddy, you said we could get some ice
cream.”
“I said we’d see. I see it’s not on sale.” He frowned
at me as he pulled out some coins from his trousers
and handed them to Mrs. Cross.
“How are you, today, Alice?” he said.
“Pretty hot. Okay, though.” She handed him a
dime change.
“But I’ve been good,” I said, tugging on his
sleeve.
Mrs. Cross smiled at me. “You are a good girl,
aren’t you?”
Daddy unhooked my hand from his sleeve and
pulled me through the door. “We can’t afford it. Now
be quiet about it.” He lifted me into the car.
I was crying by then. “We’ll see” was almost
a promise, and you were supposed to keep
promises.
He sped toward home, but when we approached
our driveway, he kept going.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Out to see if the fields are still wet. Come over
here. You can drive.”
I dried my tears on my faded shirt, scooted onto
his lap, and grasped the big wheel. I was driving.
Wait until Henry hears about this. It’s even better
than ice cream!
When we got to the corner, half a mile north
of our house, I slowly turned the big wheel to the
left. After we crossed the creek flowing out of our
back fields, Daddy helped me turn onto the rough
ground of the half-picked cornfield. He stopped the
big Nash behind the tall stalks. Just over the fence,
a spring bubbled. When my big brothers took me
to play with them at the creek, we usually got a
drink from the spring. Maybe we’d walk down the
farm road that forded the waterway to see whether
there were any fish in the creek. I loved playing in
the water, and I wasn’t allowed to go to the creek by
myself, so that would be fun. Just me and my Daddy.
He never took me out just by myself. We’d probably
get a drink first. I was thirsty. I could almost taste
the fresh water.
But we didn’t drink from the bubbling spring.
Daddy didn’t show me the shiny fish in the water.
Instead, he held me in silence for what seemed like
a long time, his grip on me slowly tightening. What
was he doing? Why weren’t we getting a drink?
Abruptly, he laid me out on the car seat, squashing
the bread on the seat beside us with my head, and
began to touch me in ways that I had never imagined.
I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t
breathe. I stared in horror at his expressionless eyes,
fixed on me—but not in love.
Finally, he let me go. I scrambled to the passenger
door and pressed against it, even though the
armrest dug into my side. I hardly noticed. I stared
out the window at the bubbling spring. I felt dry as
a desert.
He restarted the car. “Now, you get back over
here and sit on my lap, or I’ll do it again.” He grabbed
my arm and yanked me back onto his thigh.
“Don’t tell Mommy. This is our little secret. I did
it so you’ll let your husband play with you, too.”
Play? Not like any play I knew. I never wanted a
husband if that’s what they did to you.
“What about the bread?” I whispered. It lay
half-mashed in the corner.
“We’ll say we dropped it.”
When my father pulled up in front of the garage,
before he even turned off the ignition, I bolted out
the car door.
He hollered after me. “Here, take the bread
in.”
I dared not disobey. Though out of his reach, I
was still inside his authority. I ran back to the driver’s
side and grabbed it out of his hand, careful not to
touch his fingers. The chickens pecked around my
feet as I hurried into the house. My mother, weeding
the garden, waved. I didn’t stop. Dropping the bread
on the kitchen table, I escaped to my bedroom. My
heart raced as I ran up the back stairs, crying. Annie,
my big dolly, was leaning in the corner. Wiping my
nose on my sleeve, I took her over my knees, pulled
down her pants, and hit her bare bottom. “You nasty
girl. You’ve been playing with George again. He’s a
bad boy.”
Throwing Annie aside, I picked up my baby
Cathy doll, and curled on the bed, hugging her to
my chest. I squeezed my legs together and rubbed
my eyes. My father had looked at me through his
bifocals. Maybe rubbing my eyes would get that
image out of my head. My whole body felt empty, as
if he’d gutted my insides. Through the open window,
I could hear the grinder out at the machine shed. He
was probably sharpening hoes to go help Mom in
the garden. Usually I liked to stand at the entrance
to watch the sparks fly, but now I never wanted to
watch the sparks again. The smallest one would set
fire to this wilderness inside me.

Copyright 2008 Karen Rabbitt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.