The Woman Who Didn't Belong: A Parable

There once was a very large house on a very large hill that was lovingly maintained and owned by a man of obvious privilege.  The house was surrounded by acres of carefully manicured grass, fruit trees that produced in abundance, and a beautiful marble fountain crafted by a talented artist who loved and revered the master of the house as if he was family, and in fact, he was.

Surrounding this house and its property was an ornate fence of wrought iron.  It stood taller than a man and beheld enough beauty of its own to prompt passersby to admire it.  Between its twisting bars, one could plainly see all of the comings and goings of the fortunate souls who were permitted entry through the gate and allowed to partake of the master's generosity.


During the course of many years, hundreds of those who belonged inside entered through the gate but there were millions who could only stand outside and wonder what it was like within.  Over time, some on the outside grew jealous.  They spat in the dirt and shook their fist at the gate as if anyone inside would be moved by such a display. Most on the outside however, simply walked away and carried on with their little lives in their little houses inside their own humble little gates.

One day the master of the very large house received a very important visitor.  The visitor, a skilled physician, was long awaited and highly anticipated.  However, the good doctor was outspoken in his positions, stirring up the anger of the most prominent of the privileged guests.  They harrumphed and turn on their heels and stomped outside upon his arrival.  Unwilling to depart completely from the safety and comfort of the gate, they sat in the manicured grass outside and pouted. 

This created such a foofaraw that many on the outside returned to the gate with fascination to see what would happen next.  They wrapped their fingers around the iron work and craned their necks to see.  They were slightly disappointed to see the unflappable physician wave good-bye to the ones who didn't want his company and return quietly to the party that was being thrown in his honor.

Later, no one would recall quite how it happened: that a poor woman from the outside came to enter into the house.  It was surmised that she slunk in through a secret passageway for there she stood in the opulent foyer where she clearly did not belong.  And then, in front of an audience of shocked onlookers, she stooped down and knelt in front of the doctor.  She proceeded to lower herself until she was prostrate on the floor at his feet.  Hushed whispers made their way round the room about the condition of the floor and the condition of her soul, that she would humiliate herself so.

"Good doctor," she whispered in a trembling voice, stretching out her fingers and then curling them into her fists, as if she wanted to touch his feet but thought better of it.  "Your skill is renown throughout the land.  I am in desperate need of your services.  You see, my daughter is very ill.  In fact, she is on death's door.  Please. Can you help her?"  When no response was made, she whimpered, letting her tears fall on the expensive tiles beneath her. 

Finally, those who were closest to the doctor spoke, urging him to send her away.  Her begging and whining, they said, was bothering them and spoiling the mood of the party that was, if he needed to be reminded, in his honor.   

"I beg of you, Doctor," she said, ignoring them.  "You alone can save her."

"Woman," the doctor said.  "How can I help you when I came here to give my services to the people who belong in this house?  It is not right for you to take the food from the children's table and give it to the dogs."

Though everyone thought it, no one expected him to say it out loud.  His friends became angry that he would allow himself to be put in this uncomfortable position.  They knew him well enough to know he preferred to err on the side of compassion.  Furthermore, they did not mind doing his dirty work; keeping the riffraff who constantly flocked to him, soiling the hem of his garments in their undignified posturing, at bay.  It was nothing personal.  He wasn't here for them.

What they did not understand was that his response was as much for them as it was for her, for they would learn volumes from watching what she did next.

She did not become angry or indignant, as she surely would have been justified in doing after being compared to a dog and the act of saving her daughter as being the food fit for dogs.  Nor did she shrink away from him and retreat from the house with what modicum of dignity she might have retained after this pathetic show.  

She raised her head slightly and said, "What you say is true, Sir.  I do not deserve your kindness.  But even the dogs under the table are allowed to eat the scraps from the children's plates."

It was painful to watch.  Again, the doctor's friends urged him to send her away, reassuring him that he was not wrong to do so.  He silenced them with a mere look and bent down to the woman, took her hand in his, and helped her to her feet.  "Good answer," he said.  "I will be glad to help you."

And with that, the two departed as if they were old chums reconciled, leaving the mouths of his friends agape with incredulity.



This parable retelling of Mark 7:24-29 and Matthew 15:21-28 attempts to make sense of the one time in scripture when Jesus comes off as a bit of an insensitive jerk.  Yes, I said it.  Mark and Matthew recorded these events as they happened whether they understood them or not.  To me, this story that  describes for us the first non-Jewish convert in Jesus' ministry, is a stark reminder to every single Christian alive today that He owes us nothing.  We are not entitled to His grace, or even a split-second of His attention, and we have done nothing worthwhile to deserve it.  The woman in this story knew she was undeserving and yet she came to him because she was suffering.  How many of us today approach Jesus because we are hurting and desperate for hope?  Thank God for the blessing of affliction, which prompts us to move when we might otherwise stay at home to wallow in our sadness.  That He stoops down to us in our darkest places and invites us to His table should bring us to fall on our faces before Him.  Never doubt His goodness.

"You do not desire a sacrifice, or I would offer one.

You do not want a burnt offering.

The sacrifice you desire is a broken spirit.

You will not reject a broken and repentant heart, O God."

Psalm 51:16-17

Being Blameless

It's cold in here.  That's what I notice first.  I knew it would be.  Places like this are always cold.  It was surprisingly easy to get in this room.  I never even had to show my ID.  But it's just a small county jail.  A couple of heavy doors with a small square of bullet-proof glass at eye level (if you're a 6' tall man) to push through and here we are in the common area.

Monochromatic.  That's the second thing I notice.  The walls, doors, floor, ceiling, even the heavy iron picnic tables that are bolted to the floor are the same shade of pale gray.

Every thing is hard.  There are no soft surfaces.  I glimpse two women who are new to the facility being given their bedding before being sent to their room.  They can carry it--mattress and all--under one arm.  That's the softest thing thing I've seen and it's pretty pathetic.

I stand awkwardly just inside the door as it clangs shut behind me and meet the stares of the women who are such a stark contrast to everything else about this place.  They are soft and feminine and clothed in that obnoxious bright orange that people only wear when they want to be easily found.  Though they wear no make-up and don't have blow dryers or flat irons, there is a beauty in them and I can easily imagine what they would look like if they were dressed for company. 

There are about 17 women in this common area waiting for us; all of them inmates of the Cleburn County Correctional Facility.  We have no idea what they've done to get here but it's probably better this way.  The less we know the less we judge.  This way, all I can see are women who are already paying the price for what they've done.  I don't need to condemn; I am just here to sit with them for an hour.

They stand up and form a line that stretches to the back of the room.  One by one they embrace me, my sister, and my aunt in greeting.  They've never seen me or my sister before and have no idea if we are even worthy of their hugs but the fact that we came here with their beloved teachers, Ray and Esther Clevenger, is enough for them to know we are. 

I am not generally a hugger but I would die before I would refuse a hug from any of these women.  As I wrap my arms around them, I feel the flesh at their back, the unique form and shape and feel of each individual, and though I don't speak I hope to communicate with my touch that I am glad to be here.  No.  I am honored to be here, included in this bible study, wholly accepted by these women--no questions asked.  There are not many groups of women who would do that.  How can I help but do the same?

I find a place among them as we sit at the tables.  Uncle Ray tells them to open their bibles to where they left off last time: Proverbs 29.  Several women slide pictures of their kids out from between the pages of their bibles and lay them down carefully, touching each one tenderly.  "My kids," the woman next to me whispers as she positions the pictures around her bible.  "They're beautiful," I whisper back and I mean it.  They are adorable--all four of them, and I ache a little, wondering who is caring for them in her absense and when she will get to see them again.

I did not bring my bible.  Uncle Ray said they'd share theirs with us, so I sit and watch them find their places.  I am astonished at how much they have written in the pages of their bibles.  I love the sight of scripture that has been lovingly, painstakingly underscored, starred, highlighted, and wrinkled from use and misuse.  Those are words that have been poured over and meditated on.  Words that have convicted and comforted, wrecked and solaced.

The woman who sits across from me, a grandmother I would later discover, slides her bible across the table so that I can look from it and follow along.  Uncle Ray begins with verse 1.  He goes down the page, telling a story from his life to impart the meaning of each verse and how it applies to the lives of these women.  He makes his way to verse 10: "The bloodthirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul."  I struggle to understand the meaning of this King James text but the women nod, rapt, transfixed by his teaching.  I have been doing bible studies for a long time--I'm not sure if I've ever seen an entire group so 100% committed to every word spoken.  There are no yawns to stifle, no cell phones to check, no watches to look at, no fidgeting children to quiet, no appointments that cause them to leave early.  Every word he says and reads is soaked in by every listener.  I wonder how they have looked forward to this hour all week long.

For some of them, this might be the first time they have heard these words and I marvel at the life-transforming power of them.  There is no stumbling block of good deeds that gets in the way of their salvation.  They know their wrongs and they know what a precious gift grace is.  They are taught that they are blameless now, that they are the ones Jesus died for, and they do not take it for granted like so many of us "good Christans" who have never found ourselves in this confining world of orange and gray. 

While they listen to Uncle Ray's preaching and concentrate on the scriptures laid out in front of them, they are probably more spiritually sure of who they are as daughters of the Most High than at any other time in their lives.  This is their safe place.  They are safe from the bad friends and temptations and stupid decisions that landed them here.  They are safe from the psychological devastation of being judged--or worse--the self-loathing that probably haunts them day and night.  They probably walk back to their cells after this hour of bible study with new promises in their hearts and new confidence that they will do things right next time because they serve a God of second and third chances. 

I know how it feels to hear the powerful message of redemption and be so full of love and gratitude to God you're nearly bursting.  And I know how it feels a few days later when the memory of the message has faded, the glow has waned, and the confidence wavers. 

They leave the safety of the gray walls so abruptly.  When the court date arrives they are walked from their cell to the judge, not knowing what the outcome will be.  If they are freed, they are turned out without even enough warning to call for a ride.  They go right back to the environment that got them here.  No more Ray and Esther.  No more godly women flanking them at those cold gray tables, encouraging them, keeping them in the Word, keeping the flame lit.

It's a miracle more of them don't find their way back.

I think about these women all the time. I remember their faces and I wonder about them.  I lift them up in prayer and hope they find themselves surrounded by godly women on the outside who will continue to pour into them. 

A few days later, my mind still on the verses Uncle Ray explained to the women, I look them up in my own NLT bible.  I want to understand them better.  I zero in on Proverbs 29:10 which says, "The bloodthirsty hate blameless people; [as for the upright, they seek their life.]"  Suddenly I realize who the blameless are.  They wear orange, condemned by the county, but considered blameless by a loving God.  I get to choose who I will be.  Will I be the bloodthirsty who hate them?  Or the upright who seek the same new life they now possess?

It's an easy answer.

Responding to Grace

Tis not the work of force but skill

To find the way into men's will.

Tis love alone can hearts unlock.

Who knows the Word, he needs not knock.

Richard Crashaw - 1652

Grace loved Chester but Chester didn't love Grace in return.  She knows it.  You can feel her insecurity in the letters she wrote to him in the summer of 1906. 

My Dear Chester,
...I think I shall die of joy when I see you, dear.  I will try not to worry so much and I won't believe the horrid things the girls write...

You can also tell that Chester wasn't a very good person but Grace didn't mind.

...You have said you would come and sometimes I just know you will, but then I think about other things and I am just as certain you won't come....

She loved him anyway and held onto the hope that he would come for her.  She had given him everything there was for a girl to give to a boy and she waited anxiously for him to respond to her proclamations of love.  He never spoke affectionately in the 3 letters he wrote back to her dozens.  She even apologized in one letter for how affectionate she was in hers and tried to mimic his curt, businesslike tone.  But by the next letter, she was back to worrying over why he hadn't written, and proclaiming her love again, and wondering when he would come.

Unrequited love is so unfair.  I see Grace as a young woman who has taken a gamble by baring her soul to a man who may or may not love her back.  She stands there trembling and naked before him, while he remains fully clothed and buttoned up, from his hat all the way down to his boots, arms firmly crossed over his chest, revealing nothing, risking nothing.  That way she is the only one who stands to lose.

This happened once in the bible.  Not in a romantic way but the risk was no less inherent in the gamble Jonathan took when he proclaimed his undying loyalty to his friend, David.  1 Samuel 18:3-4: "And Jonathan made a solemn pact with David because he loved him as he loved himself.  Jonathan sealed the pact by taking off his robe and giving it to David, together with his tunic, sword, bow, and belt."  We don't know what David's response was because the bible doesn't give it.  The scene shifts abruptly and Jonathan is left standing there, naked and defenseless, and without a response to this lavish display.

We know a little bit about Chester's response to Grace through her letters.  He accepted her affection enough to get her pregnant before almost totally ignoring her.  She begged and pleaded with him to take responsibility and not be a coward, to come to her parent's house where she was burdened with her secret--his baby--and take her away.  She worried to the point of making herself ill and confessed to fainting when she received a letter from a girl Chester knew, admitting to things that Chester did in Grace's absence.  But it was too late for her to walk away with any dignity.  She needed him to come for her and she desperately wanted him to love her. 

Forget for a moment that life was different for an unwed mother in 1906.  These are things we all long for.  When we have physically, emotionally, and spiritually given all we have to give, we want it to be given back in full measure.  We will be forever incomplete and feel cheated if it's not.

In the surprise of the young century, Chester did show up at Grace's door, told her to pack her bags, and took her away.  You can just bet that everything about that day got instantly brighter for Grace, can't you?  The twinge of morning sickness evaporated.  The shadows on the front lawn, which once seemed so ominous and foreboding, were now merely dappled evidence of the sunshine which was finally going to beat down on her face as she joined her savior on the front stoop, carpetbag in hand, future secure.  I imagine the relief, the feeling of pure joy, that must have seeped through her veins at the sight of him standing there before her.  I imagine the way she must have thrown her arms around his neck and basked for a wonderful moment in the assurance of his love for her. 

They went to a resort in the Adirondacks and stayed in a hotel for the night.  Grace must have assumed he would take her to a chapel or to a Justice of the Peace to marry her quickly and quietly.  But he didn't.  The next day he killed her and dumped her body in Moose Lake.

Tragically, Jonathan lost his life too in a senseless killing.  Not because of David, though.  In fact, we learn in 1 Samuel 20 that David fully reciprocated Jonathan's friendship and loved him just as fiercely.  They often risked their lives for one another and kept each other alive when King Saul would have killed them both.  It was the original bro-mance!  So why did the prophet Samuel, author of his first book, leave us hanging for two whole chapters, wondering at David's response to Jonathan?  Maybe what's left out of the bible can be just as telling as what's left in.  Maybe by leaving David unresponsive, Samuel is giving us a sneak-peak at the coming of a Savior who would give of himself so lavishly, all that would be left would be his naked body, trembling, and dying in front of people who didn't know what to make of Him.  He still evokes a range of responses in us.  Some of us fall on our faces in a twisting anguish of undeserving gratitude.  Some of us weep quietly and make a simple promise to start going to church again.  Sometimes there is no response at all.  He knew this was a risk He was taking but it didn't stop Him from coming and giving everything there was to give.

What's your response?  Are you preoccupied like Chester?  Are you too busy living life, and having fun, and skirting responsibility, and doing things your own way to stop and notice what's already been given to you?  You can stand there with your mouth shut like David in chapter 18 and leave Him hanging.  You can even turn away from it and ignore Him.  That's your right as a human being who was made to choose.  But it's been done so you have to choose one way or the other.

You can choose to respond like Chester did when he dumped his gift in the lake, preferring life without it.  But your choice won't be ignored forever.  Grace was known by the people in Chester's life.  She was missed when she was gone.   The authorities drug the lake and recovered her body.  The truth could not stay hidden and Chester would have to answer for his choice.  He went to trial in a case that captivated America.  Grace's letters were read to the jury and when they heard her plaintive cries for his love, and felt her vulnerability as she sat and waited for him, it moved them to recommend execution for young Chester, who only ever wanted to have fun.  He died by electrocution on March 30, 1908.

Friends, if you think there is nothing more to this life than having a little bit of fun before you die, go ahead.  No one will stop you.  You may not go to the extremes Chester did to cling to that thin thread of independence, but you know your life will one day come to a grinding halt.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe in 70 years.  But know too that you have been given a lavish gift.  Consider it with awe and wonder.  Respond to it.  Reach out to Grace now.  Take its hand, and then let it throw its arms around your neck and say into your ear, "Finally.  I've been waiting for you."



Quotes from Grace's letters come from the book, "A Northern Light" by Jennifer Donnelly.  Information about Chester's execution comes from (I know, I know) Wikipedia.

Delivered

Evelyn settled herself into the cushioned chair, set her purse on the floor, and used her orthotics-clad foot to slide it under her seat.  There were 20 or 30 chairs in this small, shadowy room and thanks to the thoughtful design of stadium seating, the spectators would get a great view.  As if they had come here to watch a movie or a ball game and not to watch somebody die.

There was an armed guard standing in the corner, wearing a baseball cap of all things (the casualization of society, she called this), watching people trickle in.  There were a few she figured were reporters.  Who else would want to memorialize this event with a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen?  Some faces she recognized from the trial as families of the victims.  One of them was a victim.  Evelyn tried not to look at her.  She sat two seats away and one row down.  The woman had been shot and raped and left to die but somehow survived.  Her testimony at the trial was horrific and is probably what convinced the jury to vote unanimously for death.  In a perverted sort of way that Evelyn would have denied if anyone had asked her about it, she hoped the woman got some kind of satisfaction out of today.  Then at least one good thing would come out of her son's life.

She kept her eyes on the window in front of her and wondered if it was a one-way glass.  Maybe Richard wouldn't even know she was here.  Maybe it was best that way.  She thought of him as a boy and how he would stick out his hand, and wave a big goofy wave, and say, "Hi, Mom!" when he saw her, the way he did when she was 15 minutes late picking him up from school once.  He was the only student left and stood on the sidewalk with a teacher who lifted her watch and stared at it when Evelyn arrived.  Richard never doubted that she would be there for him eventually.  She hadn't once come to visit him in prison.  

Time had stopped for her around the time he was convicted 11 years ago.  She knew intellectually that he was no longer a boy and that a grown man of 29 would walk through the door on the other side of that glass, but she preferred to live in her memories, a time of promises made, before she knew they wouldn't come to pass.  Not in Richard's lifetime anyway.

The door to the room beyond the glass opened and Richard walked through in his baggy orange jumper, hands behind his back, followed by a physician and a man in a suit.  Richard said, "You want me to sit?"  Evelyn was shocked she could hear voices.  She thought it would be sound proof and panicked a bit at what she might hear in his last moments.  Despite everything, she didn't want to hear him suffer.  The man in the suit told him not to sit just yet and took the handcuffs off.  He bumped Richard lightly as he moved around him in the small space and Evelyn heard her son's voice again saying, "Pardon me," as he rubbed his wrists.

They nudged Richard toward a gurney in the center of the room and sat him down on a plastic green mattress and hooked him up to a heartrate monitor, which seemed to her like a waste.  Thin black velcro straps dangled limp from the sides of the bed, jostling with Richard's weight in a grotesque little dance. 

Richard was calm.  More calm than she'd ever seen him, though to be fair, the last time they were together he was on drugs.  For six excruciating years, his eyes were either dilated and darting all over the place or glazed over, hollow and sunken.  Now they were clear and blue.  His face was clean shaven.  He looked so...healthy.  There wasn't even a tremor in his hand as he stretched his arm out to have the inside of his elbow swabbed with alcohol by the physician, another waste of time it seemed to her, and have an IV started.  

He laid down and inched his body up the mattress a bit to position his head on the little white pillow.  The man in the suit fastened the velcro around Richard's arms and legs.  He mumbled something she couldn't hear and Richard looked up at him and nodded.  She thought Richard would be scared but he wasn't.  He was just expectant, as if he was being strapped into a ride at an amusement park and had just been asked by the bored, sweaty, zit-plagued employee if the straps were tight enough.  "Enjoy the ride," the teenaged boy would say, and it would have been vaguely appropriate here but that's not what the man said.  He asked Richard if he had any last words.  Richard stared unblinking at the ceiling and said, "Life is death, death is life. I hope that someday this absurdity that humanity has come to will come to an end.  Life is too short. I hope anyone that has negative energy towards me will resolve that.  Life is too short to harbor feelings of hatred and anger. That's it, Warden."

Evelyn gripped the arms of her chair.  It was all she could do to keep herself from standing up and facing the room and giving a proper statement for Richard.  She wanted them to know that he was sorry for killing his own brother with a 20-gauge shotgun.  He was sorry for shooting those two other women, raping one of them, and leaving them all for dead.  He had to be.  She wasn't mother to a monster. 

She labored for 26 hours to bring Richard into the world.  His head was stuck for so long in the birth canal, when he finally emerged it was misshapen and lopsided and covered in meconium.  His nose never did quite straighten out but she loved him even more for it.  "Look what we did!" she had whispered excitedly to her husband in the dark early morning hours after his birth.  "This is the one.  Our deliverer," she said, welling with pride over her beautiful boy.  He was born with the promise of greatness and he could get Evelyn back home where she belonged.  She didn't deserve to go back after what she had done but the promise had been made and she trusted that it would be kept.  Richard would save them all.

She reminded him of it often, even when he began resenting her for it.  The summer Richard turned 12 was when her faith in him began to waver.  He'd been in trouble more than he was out of it and she stood at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta and letting him have it.  In her mind, she liked to see herself as June Cleaver with her apron, flats, and pearls, in control of every situation, telling him why he needed to stop this behavior and come to his senses.  "We're all depending on you, Richard.  Don't forget that."  But in reality, she was barefoot, uncombed, exhausted, stressed to the point of sickness, and the pasta water had boiled over, hissing and bubbling, scorching the glass stove top. 

"I don't give a (the foulest expletive in the English language, in her opinion) about the promise!" Richard shouted.  Her fingers froze, just short of the knob to turn the heat down, and she stood like a statue while he railed at her.  "Andy never gets this bull(another vile expletive that makes her cringe to remember).  Why don't you do this to Andy?  You leave Andy alone and you're always on my back!"  Of course that was peppered with proclamations of hating her and wishing she was dead, but that wasn't what haunted Evelyn about the exchange.  Later, she scrubbed furiously at the stovetop with her brillo and Softscrub, stunned that he was jealous of Andy.  If anyone had a reason to resent her, it was Andy, who was always being overlooked and disregarded in favor of Richard. She didn't mean for it to be like that but so much was at stake for Richard and Andy just...was.  Andy, eternally sweet Andy, never held it against her.  He loved everyone and did everything that was asked of him without complaint.  He was probably professing his love for his brother right up until Richard shot him.   

Evelyn was constantly going over the years leading up to that nightmare in her mind, redoing scenes in her imagination that might have changed the trajectory, if only she would have known what Richard was capable of.  One scene she would have like to do over was the evening her husband had been working late in the fields.  Richard approached him and demanded to be paid for his labor.  His father laughed in his face and told him his labor was unacceptable, and that it took a lot of nerve to walk up to him in this field with his hand out, as if he owed Richard something.  Richard faunched and fumed and sputtered horrible things about hating his father then too. 

Evelyn would have gone beyond praying if she had another chance at that night.  She would have begged and pleaded with him, disgracing herself if need be, to get him to return to his father with a contrite and humble heart, knowing her husband would never turn him away.  Nothing would have worked though; she knew that now.  Richard's resentment morphed into an all-consuming bitterness.  The whole family walked on eggshells around him.  His anger bubbled to the surface any time he didn't get his way.  Drugs entered their house.  Richard dropped out of high school.  A stolen car led to jail, then probation.  Finally, the unthinkable in a field 16 miles outside town.  An act so heinous, Evelyn refused to believe it until she watched Richard in the courtroom, cold and remorseless, not denying that he had done it.

Richard came back to the house after killing Andy to sleep off a drug-induced high.  He woke up famished, drank half of a gallon of milk while he stood in front of the open refrigerator, and kissed Evelyn on the top of her head before walking out the door to take care of his "business," which she now knew was to pay off a drug dealer with money from an earlier robbery.

She shuddered in her seat, remembering that kiss, as the warden gave a little nod.  Someone somewhere was flicking a switch, or pushing a button, or depressing a plunger that was shooting poison into Richard's body.   Seconds passed and Richard twisted his head back, raising it up off the pillow, to find the warden who stood behind him. 

"Wow!" Richard shouted. Evelyn jumped in her seat at his outburst.  "That is great. That is awesome! Thank you, (that foul expletive again, an adjective this time) Warden!"  His head fell back on the pillow at an angle that looked like it should have been painful.  His mouth and eyes stayed open but everyone watching from the other side of the glass knew the end had come for Richard.  He was gone.  But the promise wasn't gone with him. 

It was foolish of her to believe that it would be her son.  Her own sins were too greivous.  She never thought in a million years that murder would be the result and she would give her life to undo her mistakes.  But she wouldn't spend the rest of her life grieving Richard either.  He always believed he had a right to his anger and his life reflected that.  He chose to hate and to hurt others.  Now, looking at his dead body, Evelyn could see that the one who was really destroyed was him.  

All around Evelyn, hugs were exchanged, sighs of relief that had been held in for 11 long years were expelled.  But the woman who had been raped hadn't moved.  She stared at Richard's body, seeming totally unsatisfied, maybe even feeling a little jipped.  She probably came here to see him suffer or cry like a pathetic, scared child.  Evelyn wished she didn't feel the inclination to apologize to the woman because her son wasn't more pathetic but there it was.  She was burdened for this woman who would walk out of the room this day with a choice to make as well.

People began to trickle out.  They had seen what they'd come for.  Now it was dinnertime and they would celebrate as they broke bread together at the TGI Friday's across town.

After 15 minutes the doctor entered the room and pronounced Richard dead.  They unhooked the heartrate monitor and wheeled the gurney through the door and out of sight.  Evelyn had already checked the boxes and signed the papers for the prison.  There was nothing left for her to do except to leave this room as well and go home to get on with the rest of her life.  She pulled her purse out from under the chair, hooked it over her shoulder, and stood up, realizing that the woman had remained in her chair, staring through the glass into the now empty execution room.  They locked eyes for a second and Evelyn looked away. 

"You had another child," the woman said rather than asked.  Evelyn choked out a hoarse, "Yes."  She cleared her throat and said it again, clearer this time.  On the one year anniversay of Andy's death, baby Seth had arrived via c-section to her aged body.  In the quiet, early morning hours after his birth, she had whispered to her husband through tears of grief, "The Lord has given us another son in the place of Andy."  Her husband had agreed at the time but as Seth grew, Evelyn realized that Seth was different than Andy. Seth was obedient like Andy, but he also had a love for God that came from somewhere beyond Evelyn's doing or understanding.

Evelyn shuffled through the narrow path between the chairs and timidly laid a hand on the woman's shoulder.  "Choose love.  Choose life."  She paused and said, "So that you can live long after this life is over."  The woman remained stiff and unaffected but Evelyn gave a motherly squeeze and left the room.

Seth had a son named Enosh.
Enosh
Kenan
Mahalelel
Jared
Enoch
Methuselah
Lamech
Noah
Shem
Arphaxad
Shelah
Eber
Peleg
Reu
Serug
Nahor
Terah
Abram
Isaac
Jacob
Judah
...
David
...
Jesus, the promised Deliverer, referred to himself as a Son of Adam (Man) more often than as the Son of God.  





This allegory of Genesis 3:15-4:25 is loosely based on the story of Texas inmate, Richard Cobb's execution in Hunstville on April 25, 2013 as reported by Michael Graczyk, AP.
http://news.msn.com/crime-justice/man-put-to-death-for-texas-store-abduction-slaying

Lot's Lot In Life

My first college roommate was named Lindsay.  She was tiny, athletic, artistic, had a ton of friends, and was an identical twin.  She was also funny.  One day, while hanging out in our room in Phillips Hall, her sister took a wipe off marker and wrote on the full length mirror that was on the back of our door, "I like to get naked and poop."  It was just good, harmless fun all the time with them because they were, above all, Christians.  I was not at the time and they drove me crazy. 

In 1998 the internet was still relatively new.  I lost my internet virginity in that room in Phillips Hall by signing up for my first ever email account.  Lindsay was much  more worldly than me, and had been online long enough to have an assortment of AOL messenger friends.  She would chat with them at all hours.   I would be laying in bed at 2am and hear the thunder of her fingers on the keys: "dadadadadada."  Followed by the cheerful AOL, "Ding-dong!"  And then she would giggle at the screen, her face glowing white in the otherwise darkness of the room.  At 2-freaking-am!!  It was all I could do to keep myself from pressing my pillow into my face, writhing around on the bed and moaning, "For the love of God, STOP IT, PLEASE!" 


And she had 8am classes and I didn't.  Every morning she was up before me.  I didn't mind that.  But there was something inside one of her drawers that she kept in a walmart bag.  The rustling of that stinking walmart bag at 7:30 am when I didn't have to be up for another hour was enough drive me batty.

But I never said anything. I may not have been a Christian at the time but I was a nice person and I was polite.  She and her perky sister didn't have the market cornered on "nice."  Even us heathens could pull that off.

Before long Lindsay had a boyfriend from third floor Phillips.  It was common knowledge that Lindsay and Nick had never "done it."  I don't know if he was a Christian or not but he respected her enough to hold out for her.  He was incredibly smart.  One of those people that you can just tell will go on to get a masters, or maybe even a Ph.D.  (He had a fondness for Carl Sandburg.  Being an English major, I thought I should too so I bought a book of Sandburg poetry at the college bookstore.  I never even cracked it.  The following year, some of my friends who stayed in touch with his visited the house he shared with several other guys.  I went into his room and saw that he had copied lines from Sandburg's poems with a sharpie on his walls and ceilings.  Out of a book he borrowed from the library.  I had never felt like such a fraud.  Last I heard he was attending a Grad school in Wyoming and was married to a girl named Sadie.)

I had a boyfriend too.  I wish I could say that I took advantage of the wonderful, godly example that God placed in my path.  But I can't.  I threw myself at him like a love-starved teenaged girl and held nothing back.  At the end of the school year, he had already packed up his room and needed a place to sleep.  I said he could sleep in my room (which I had hardly been in since we had met--couldn't stand to be around that holier-than-thou crowd, y'know).  Lindsay put her foot down and said she wasn't comfortable with it.  My boyfriend and I had to unload his car and sleep on the floor in his room instead.  I was so mad at her, I don't think I ever spoke to her again after that.  School ended (and so did our boyfriends) and we moved on and our paths never crossed again.

It's painful for me to dredge up all those memories.  I don't really like who I was then and I can't help but think of the what-if's.  What if I would have let myself be influenced by Lindsay?  How would my college experience and consequently, my life, have changed?  How much shame and regret would I have been spared? 

The reason I am thinking about them this morning is because I have been looking back on Genesis at the completion of my monumental nine month study and the story that haunts me the most is the story of Lot.  He seems like a relatively minor character.  Though he survived the destruction of Sodom, he will forever be remembered for his wife being turned into a pillar of salt and for offering his virgin daughters to the pack of disgusting animals that waited outside his door.  Great legacy, right?

He did have a small portion of faith.  How could he not, having spent so much of his life in the shadow of his uncle, Abraham?  To Lot's credit, he believed the angels who came to warn him about the impending destruction.  Though he had become desensitized to sin after so many years in Sodom, he knew enough of Abraham's God to know that He didn't mess around.  He went to his daughters' fiances (I bet he neglected to mention what he almost did to their future wives) and told them in Genesis 19:14a, "Quick, get out of the city! The Lord is about to destroy it."  The bible doesn't describe Lot's life in sodom but one can pretty well guess how far he had strayed from Abraham's godly influence by the reaction of his future sons-in-law to his terrible news.  "But the young men thought he was only joking," Genesis 19:14b.

After dragging his butt, arguing with the angels, hesitating, and waffling, he barely makes it out.  All he has are his two daughters.  He has influenced no one in Sodom, not even his own family.  He had an opportunity, having lived in a depraved land and having witnessed God move in the life of his uncle, of saving hundreds or thousands, or maybe even hundreds of thousands.  God would have spared the city for 50 righteous people.  45 righteous people.  40, 30, 20--even 10 righteous people would have saved them all (Genesis 18:24-32).  But Lot's witness was totally wasted.

Well maybe not wasted.  Nothing is wasted, right?  Every word that finds its way into scripture is there to teach us something.  Lot's life made no impact on the world around him but his story still shows us today how a person can be saved and still be useless to God.

Do you see why that haunts me?  I was like Lot back in college and Lindsay was Abraham.  I had been baptized.  I attended church as a child.  I knew God.  He gave me Lindsay to show me and teach me but I was not interested in that.  I wanted Sodom.  That was a time in my life when I was useless to God. 

But it wasn't wasted either.  The story ends well.  I followed that worthless boyfriend around, working where he worked over the summer.  After he dumped me and fell off the face of the earth, I continued working at the same place.  Three years later, near the end of my junior year of college, I was walking back from my lunch break and crossed paths with a handsome security guard with a dark crew cut and light blue eyes.  A year later we were saying, "I do."  Eleven years and three kids later, we are still going strong.

Lot's story ends well too, eventually.  One of his surviving daughters gave birth to Moab, whose family later became the Moabites.  Though they fought with and tormented Abraham's descendants, the Hebrews, all was not lost.  Ruth, grandmother of David, ancestor of Jesus Christ, was a Moabitess.



Friends, how would the people who know you best react if you told them about God?  Would they think you were joking?  Would they laugh in your face?  If so, then something needs to change.  We don't have the same sense of urgency as Lot.  Our world isn't going to end by dawn tomorrow.  But it will end some day.  And what we do with our time here--it matters.  The people we influence for good matters.  Lindsay's influence, though it was not felt at the time, it mattered.  Don't let your witness be wasted and drag your feet when the time comes to follow God out of this world like Lot did.  Who would have followed me if God had spoken to me at that time in my life and told me to warn everyone?  We get to read his story today to learn how to leave behind a better legacy than he did.  Take advantage of it.  You never know how your life will make an impact.

This is Home

I looped the strap of my carry-on bag around the metal stem of my suitcase, then looped it again so that it was all one intertwined black mass of nylon straps and heavy duty zippers.  I let it rest on my foot, an added measure of security in case some wacko tried to pick it up and make off with it while I stood there, looking around, taking in my crazy surroundings.  I tried to be smooth and seem as if I was just taking it all in with thoughtful fascination, or even better--with a sense of longing and sadness because I was about to say good-bye.  But the truth is that I was looking around like a lost child, eyes darting here and there, skittish, watching my back.  I was in unfamiliar territory in the middle of this airport in Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

There is an added layer of craziness when the language that is spoken all around me is not my own.  It has been an exhilarating and exhausting week of work, and sickness, and friendships formed, and preconceptions shattered, and watching God move in Honduras.  I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.  Really.  And I will come back if the opportunity ever presents itself.  But after 7 long days out of "The States," I am ready to go home. 

There are 14 of us conspicuous-looking Americans (though much less conspicuous after 7 days abroad), and many of us are minors.  Most of the grown-ups are slightly worn down after this week but the adrenaline starts pumping as we stand in clusters at the airport, checking bags, double-checking the flight status, triple checking the time on our wrist watches.  So many things can go wrong when one person travels.  Throw in a handful of teenagers and a foreign country, and disaster can fall in any of a multitude of ways. 

We vaguely and half-jokingly discuss what we'll do if a flight gets cancelled or someone doesn't get through customs.  I tell someone, "I don't care WHAT happens as long as this plane get me to 'The States.'  I can take it from there no matter where I am."  I said it with a smile but I was dead serious.  I didn't care if the plane got grounded in Ft. Lauderdale or Seattle or Timbucktoo.  I didn't care if we missed our connecting flight out of Houston and had to rent a car.  I  would be home and I could make it the rest of the way. WHATEVER.  I'd be home.  Even if I was still 1,500 miles away, I'd be home.  Do you get what I'm saying here?  After being out of the country for a week I was never so glad to be born an American citizen and get to call this great place home.  And I couldn't wait to be on American soil again where the language was mine, the roads were recognizable, the bathrooms had toilet paper in them, and all that good American stuff.  Home. 

Is there a sweeter word in the English language when one has been away for a while?  It instills such a longing for that which is warm, nostalgic, and familiar.  It's a place where you know you belong.  Where you're welcome.  Where you're accepted even though you were an idiot when you were a teenager and cringe to think of the dumb things you did while you were there.  You still want to go home and feel that comfort, that loving embrace, eat that meal that only your mom makes, see that little potpourri on the back of the toilet that's been there longer than you can remember. 

The airplane in Tegucigalpa took off on time and it got us to Houston on schedule.  I rushed through the International Arrivals hallway with the rest of my group, searching desperately for a bathroom since some of us were still dropping off little burning Honduran deposits.  Who cares?! We were HOME!!!  It looked like America, it sounded like America, it felt like America.  I handed my American passport to the customs guy with pride while he flipped through it, looking a bit bored, stamped it, and handed it back to me.  I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and say, "Wake up, man, and show a little pride!  You're an American!  You're the luckiest guy on earth!"

And then my prophecy came true.  The inevitable happened and we all missed our connecting flight.  Seriously.  How the heck are 14 people supposed to claim their bags, go through customs, recheck their bags, and get themselves two terminals away in 45 minutes?  Not gonna happen.  After being shuffled around for hours, we were told we would be staying the night in Houston and would leave bright and early the next morning.  Who cares?!  We were HOME!! 

I thought about that story a lot as I came to the end of my Genesis study.  It is the story of a people who long for home.  They all had to leave for one reason or another.  Adam and Eve left Eden.  Abraham left Ur, Lot left Sodom, Jacob left his parent's home after lying to his father and royally ticking off his brother, Joseph was taken out of Canaan and lived 93 of his 110 years as a foreigner in Egypt. 

After 7 days in another country, I just cannot fathom the longing he must have had.  He had one chance in all those years to go back home.  He was allowed to return and bury his father, Jacob.  And then he had to turn around and go right back to Egypt.  That must have been a pretty excruciating promise to keep. 

He is not the only Hebrew who never got to go back home.  There were the stubborn wanderers who waited to enter the Promised Land and never made it, Daniel spent a lifetime in exile, as did the rest of his generation.  And even though the New Testament 1st Century Jews were technically "home" they lived in a Roman outpost under Roman authority, and were never more miserable.  Even today God's people continually fight for what they believe to be their home.  I am not even dipping my toes into THAT debate, except to say that I have come to understand that there is no place on this earth--not a single place--that is truly home.

As good as it felt to be in America that day, I wasn't really home.  For though I was born in this body as an American citizen, what I REALLY am, is a citizen of heaven (Philippians 3:20).  What I felt when I walked through the International Arrivals hallway in Houston is a faint glimmer of what I will feel when I get to heaven.  What I feel when I walk in the house I grew up in and smell the familiar food cooking on the stove and see the same old décor up on the walls in that place where I belong--that is NOTHING compared with heaven.

It is dangerous to get so attached to a place on this earth that you are afraid to leave.  God still had work for Joseph to do in Egypt and even though it felt to Joseph like following God meant moving backwards, he was obedient to that and his life ended well.  He finished by passing on the eternal mindset to the next generation that they weren't home.  Not yet.

The end...finally...or not?

This week I am finishing up a nine month study on the book of Genesis.  That's 31 lessons (including 155 days worth of questions), two and a half legal pads of hand-written notes (totaling 77 pages), and 50 chapters out of the bible.  Ugh.  I am such an overachiever.  Seriously.  Who does this?!?

This is all quite a feat considering I moved halfway across the country right in the middle of that nine month study.  Genesis followed me from Missouri where I was a homeless wanderer, to Georgia where I am a temporary resident, because BSF happens to meet in both cities.

When it began last September, I was living in a tiny bedroom with my three kids in my parent's house.  My clothes were in underbed storage, my toiletries in a little basket in the laundry room.  Nearly everything I owned was in storage.  I was a nomad, waiting for the Army to give me back my husband and tell me where I would get to live next.

About halfway through, when Abraham was being told to pack up his family and leave for an unknown destination, I was packing up my family and leaving.  I had never stepped foot in the state of Georgia before.  I had never laid eyes on the house that would be mine.  All we had was a street address and a trip on the GPS that said we would arrive in 18 hours, or about 1,000 miles.

When my study ends this Wednesday, I will be in my own house again.  I actually have a walk-in closet for my clothes.  My kids each have their own room--something they've never had.  My house is twice the square footage of the one we sold in my old life.  I love it.  All those months of waiting seem to be paying off. 

It paid off for Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph too.  Genesis ends with a great climax.  Joseph has been redeemed, he's at the height of power and prestige, he gets to be there with his father, Jacob, who is on his deathbed.  All the pain, and toil, and terrible screw ups are resolved.  They have made sense of it all.  Life is good.  Finally.  God is good.  It's a great moment where you can really see how God has been working all along.  If you've gotten sucked into the drama of this family over the previous 49 chapters, and come to love the main characters and root for the underdogs, you just want to stand up and cheer at the end of this final act, begging for an encore.

And there is one.  At the ripe old age of 110, Joseph uses his precious last moments to make one final request of his brothers.  "When God comes to help you and lead you back, you must take my bones with you" Genesis 50:25.  Since my life has been one giant, painfully obvious metaphor up to this point, I have to wonder...how is God speaking to me through this ending? 

I think He wants me to know that Joseph never considered himself as "having arrived."  Life was good, yes.  They had the favor of Pharoah, they had food, and land, and sheep, and more kids than they could count.  But they were being told by Joseph, "Don't get comfortable.  This isn't the end.  It's not what you were meant for." 

I guess I'm not home yet.  Not just because my house is owned by the government (which it is) or because I have to pack up and move when they tell me to (which I do).  But because God has something better in mind for me, just like He did for the patriarchs. 

How much more exciting is that than a walk-in closet or a ton of square footage?