When the Shock Brings Truth

I was electrocuted twice as a child. The first time was with my 80-year-old great-grandmother. That was bad. But the one that stands out most in my mind was the other one. 

I must have been about ten. Braids, bell bottoms, and a smattering of freckles I tried to scrub off on a daily basis. I had followed my older sister and her next-door-neighbor friend into the woods. I’m not sure if they knew I followed them or if they intentionally tried to ditch me. I imagine it was the latter, as I was a tag-a-long and wanted to be included at any cost. Even if I was the “villain” in all the make-believe games or given the Barbie doll without the head, I was fairly determined to be a part of anything my older sister did, and so I persevered. 

I trampled the damp path through the woods alone, as the others had gotten far ahead. The path weaved its way between patches of skunk cabbage and over plank-boards bridging mud holes. For a ten year old, it seemed a good long way from home, though it was probably yards from the girl’s house. 

My sister’s friend had a small barn tucked at the edge of the path. She kept her horse there, within the boundary of an electric fence. By the time I reached the outer perimeter, my sister and her friend were swinging around the dilapidated hay loft, already full bore in some game I was missing.

I should have assumed the fence was hot when I went to climb through it. I’m not sure why it hadn’t occurred to me, especially since we had horses too, and it wasn’t my first rodeo with electric fences. I guess I wanted to join the fun, and my focus was on the loft. If you’ve ever been caught on an electric fence before, one of the first things you learn is that you can’t get off. When I gripped the wire to shimmy through it, the voltage spliced through my body, contracting every muscle I owned. My fists clenched the wire in the current and couldn’t be opened. Not for anything. The rule of thumb is there’s no getting off until someone unplugs the power. My great-grandmother had tried the first time to wrench me free, and that just got both of us stuck.

I don’t know if I screamed or if my sister and her friend had seen me, but the power shut off some time after, maybe only seconds later. The girls rushed down and circled around me to make sure I was okay. The buzz of current remained under my skin, leaving me weak and shaky all over. Wrung out and zapped. I could barely stand, but I assured them I was okay. I was fine. 

They ushered me up the twisting path, back over the bridges and through the skunk cabbage toward home. Those details are a little blurry to me, either from the shock’s aftermath or time’s. But there are some details I’ll never forget.

As we climbed the girl’s driveway and my own came into view, my father stood at the edge of our drive waiting for me. To this day, I don’t know how he knew he needed to be there or why he was looking for me. How he knew I needed him so badly at that moment. 

But there he was. 

When I saw him, I ran to him. He held me, and everything let loose inside me. The pain of the shock. The hurt of being left out. The shame of going through all of it just because I wanted to belong so badly. It came in a deluge of tears that never found words. Grimy and unkempt sobs that bled down my cheeks and held nothing back. 

My sister still teases me about it. She’ll say that everything was fine until I saw Daddy. That I had gotten over it ten minutes before, shrugged it off, righted myself, and marched through the woods all better from my escapade. Just up until the point I saw him. Then I crumbled. Soaked it for all the attention it was worth, she’d say. 

And she was right, in part. But here’s the deeper truth. Here’s the thing I understand now from this side of life:  

That in that moment, wrapped in my father’s strong arms, beyond feeling safe and secure, it was okay not to be fine.

It was okay that the burden was too heavy to carry. That I could no longer hold the weight of it, not just the physical pain, but the heaviness of shame and unworthiness. Insignificance. That I had trekked through mud and stinky weeds to belong to something I was never a part of. To try so hard to fit in. It was okay to no longer have the strength to wear a plastic smile and pretend everything was all right, that I was untouched and unaffected by the shock waves that ripped through my world.

Because maybe I wasn’t.

And maybe they look different today, those waves, but they’re still there. I still pretend to have it all together. To be smart and organized and on top of everything. To hide the cobwebs in the corners and the laundry in the basement. The shortcomings and the fears. And though I’ve made peace with my freckles, the adult version of my mask is the same. I just want to be loved. To be a part of the good stuff. To be okay.

When I look in my Father’s eyes and gather up close in His arms, when I come to Him with muddy tears and shaky knees, His words wash over me: I know where you’ve been, child. I understand the hurt and heartache you feel. The heaviness you cannot bear. The pain you try to conceal. I see it all because you are Mine. I know your deepest need. I see YOU. And I love you just as you are. 

And it’s there, in that place, we let it all out. We give it to him. The walls. The facade. The pretending. Our heart settles. Our breathing regulates. And we don’t have to work so hard at being okay. 

Because who we are is just who we’re supposed to be.

And when we come face-to-face with that kind of love, we no longer have to lie.

I am dry. And I thirst for Him.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul longs after You, O God (Psalm 42:1).

Today I am dry. And I thirst for Him. 

I had a vision once when I was in Mexico. It happened in the middle of the night when I had gotten up to use the bathroom. The moon was full over the desert ranch as I passed the window, and its light spilled a cascade of silver on my newly planted garden below. The tilled soil. The baby plants. All of the day’s labor. And somewhere in my mind, wherever visions are planted, I was barefooted in that garden. The mud squished between my toes as I danced. I danced with the Lord, beneath the moon, my arms raised to Him. Free and unhindered like a child, with hope and joy bursting from my heart. And I said to Him, “If you will plant it and grow it, I will share it.”

We lived in a land of great need. Of hunger and poverty. Scarcity in life. And that little garden was what I had to give. It was my part to bring hope into the hurt others. And I was longing to share it.

Only, it never amounted to much on my watch. I am not so great with plants, and the hot sun, little rain, and sandy earth are hard to compete with. Nothing really grew. We got a few vegetables, that was it. Nothing to feed the hungry. To meet the deep need of those around us. And there has always been a little part of me that mourned that garden. I think I believed somewhere inside, I had made a promise to God I could never keep. That I had failed Him.  

To know me is to understand. I am a child who seeks approval. Who desires to be recognized. Who tries very hard to be perfect. I am that child who hears a thousand good things yet crumbles underneath the weight of one bad. Not outwardly. No, you will not know it. 

Writing is vulnerable for one like me. It opens me up to opinions, both good and bad. Accolades, acknowledgements, judgements. And I can try as hard as I can to please, but I will never gain approval from everyone. I will not be perfect to the world. And so, I will fail. I will ingest the highest praise and the lowest rebuke, all of it, and it will be a reflection, not of what I do, but who I am. 

You say, but you are a child of God, you should gain your identity from Him. Yes, you are right. But often I do not. And criticism can devour me one whisper at a time. 

So, my writing has taken its toll. Sometimes I don’t know what to say. Or I am afraid to say the wrong thing. One friend after reading something I wrote said to me, “I thought I knew you. Now I don’t know who you are at all.” 

No, maybe not. Maybe I don’t know either.

My husband says to me, “You need to write more. It is a gift that God is using in people’s lives.” And I say in my heart, But I am empty. I have nothing to give unless the Lord gives it. Unless I hear from Him, I have nothing for anyone. 

You say, that is the right perspective. But it wasn’t. You have to hear the I am empty part. 

I have nothing to give.

I am a dry and weary land. And I thirst for Him.

We had a ladies’ retreat at the farm this last weekend. Twelve women in the upper room. The worship experience was overwhelming. One of the songs says: 

Lord, take me back. 

Back to the beginning. 

When I was young. 

Running through the fields with you. 

…Running through the fields with You.

And He took me to that place I had met Him in the garden. Under the moon. When I had kicked off my shoes, threw off all care, and danced with Him. Where my dreams and hopes were birthed. That place I wanted to change my world. To have the greatest impact for Him. 

He took me, also, to that same garden where I had failed Him. Where the soil was dry and cracked and did not bring life. That place where I had nothing to give. He took me there. 

And He said to me: My child, don’t you see? It wasn’t about the plants in the ground. It wasn’t so small as that. It was about what I’ve planted in you. In you. I have done the work. In the soil of your heart, I have planted my garden. 

I will nourish it. I will water it.

It will grow. 

And you will share it. 

On the way out of the retreat, through tears I shared with my dearest friend what the Lord had shown me. That it wasn’t about the garden in Mexico at all. That He had planted in the soil of my soul. And someday, I would know exactly how He was using it.  

She turned to me and said, “Wasn’t it in Mexico, during that same exact time you had the vision of the garden, when the Lord gave you the gift of writing?”

Yes. It was.

So, my friend, here is a seedling planted just for you and just for me. The Gardener will tend to whatever it is He has planted in your heart. He will till the dry and cracked land. He will nourish it back to life. He will grow it to be all it is meant to be. 

And you will share it with your world.

Whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a fount of water springing up to eternal life (John 4:14).

The Stray

Photo by fancycrave.com

If you were a stray in my childhood, I collected you and brought you home. I wrapped you in cloth, found out what food you ate, fed you—by eyedropper sometimes, made you a shoe box with tissue paper nest, put your box by my pillow, and stroked your fur or feathers until you calmed and slept. Baby mice, baby birds, baby rabbits. Anything lost or abandoned or too weak to survive on its own. I had a place for you in my house and in my heart.  

I thought of myself as an animal Mother Theresa. And I imagined if I lived in Calcutta, I would do the same with people.

My husband jokes that he was the final stray I brought home.

When we moved to Mexico, I carried my love for animals with me. Many days out on the desert ranch, I helped village children learn compassion and gentleness toward the animals they came in contact with. This wasn’t always an easy task because the outlook on animals is different there. For the most part, they provide a means to an end—food, protection, transportation. Very rarely are they coddled or adopted as a pet, especially in the villages. The people often struggle with feeding their own family, let alone a dog or cat. And without funds for spaying and neutering, the homeless population grows exponentially.

Extremes exist on both ends. Both cultures—whether we neglect or pamper. This isn’t about that. This is about what happens to a heart turned cold.

Many nights on the ranch, we cooked our meals outside, in the open air. We built fires and sat around them enjoying food, rest, and good stories from the day. Smells travel far on desert wind, and we often had uninvited guests on these nights. Strays looking for their next meal, their next comfort.

A few of those homeless dogs who found their way to the ranch we adopted and took them into our pack. But we had trouble with them eventually as they never fully lost their street sense. On occasion, they would attack the farmer’s livestock and damage our relationships with our neighbors. So, we stopped taking them in.

Our own dogs, two German Shepherds, helped with border control. We never trained them, they just lived off our cues. When a stray dog came onto the property, our dogs would determine how to respond by our actions. If we welcomed the animal, they would too. If we yelled to scare them off, the chase would ensue. Most often, the strays high-tailed it off the property. Our dogs would stop at the fence line and then return to the fire, a job well done.

When the work day began next morning, we’d shore up our fences and tighten our barrier against further intrusion.

One day, however, things went all wrong. I can still see the dog without effort, even years later. His image embedded in my thoughts. Rooted there to remind me of something eternal. The dog was a tan and black terrier cross, with desperate eyes. He came onto the property slowly. Slinking from the fence line, closer and closer to the warmth and smells and laughter of the circled fire.

When he got too close, I stood. My dogs came to attention. And when I yelled, “Yaah, get out of here!”, our dogs took up the chase. But the visitor did not run like most. Instead, he cowered. Curled himself in a ball while the large shepherds barked and nipped at him. He growled and nipped back, but would not be moved.

I stepped closer and reached down for a stone. The people taught us that if you are afraid of a street dog, just pretend to pick up a stone and they will run off. They know stones.

When I faked the motion, the intruder ran a few paces toward the fence, then crumpled again in the dirt.

“Get out of here,” I yelled with little response, except to rile my own dogs more.

In one final effort to be free of the trespasser, I launched the rock in my hand. Never had I had such precision in my aim or even considered the consequence of my actions. The stone found its mark and the crouched dog let out a yelp. A bitter cry from a heart of despair.

I froze in place. Dropped my arms and cried for the choice I had made. Maybe you think it’s no big deal, or you empathize with my heartache. Either way, think about the questions I considered …

What am I doing? How—how in heaven’s name—did I get here? And when did throwing rocks become justified in my mind?

I called my dogs off and approached the intruder. He remained huddled on the ground, but barred his teeth expecting the hurt to continue. But he didn’t move. Because when you have nothing left, how do you give up on the only string of hope you have?

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Then I gave him something to eat, and he never came back. But I haven’t forgotten him.

The outcast. The exiled. The unclean. Pushed to the borders and left to starve—physically, emotionally, spiritually. And we wonder why they huddle in the streets and on the corners. Why they curse and snarl, and sometimes steal. We wonder how they got there, and how we came to the place of shutting them out. Or even throwing the stone in our hand. How?

I was not who I imagined myself to be.

Why do you enter my gate when I don’t want you here? Why do you refuse to leave when you make me so uncomfortable? I have nothing for you.

Ah, but I do.

I have a shoe-box and a cloth. I have tissue paper and an eye dropper. I have a gentle hand to heal your wounds and a smile to calm your fears. And I have the One to give you—one much better at loving you than I am.

The one who removes stones from hands and hearts.

And in Him, friend—when I come to the end of my meager offering—you’ll find your hope.

The Al-lure

I spent several afternoons on vacation watching the fishermen on a pier in Naples, Florida. I’m not into fishing, or boxing, yet both seem to take up space in my novels. Besides the wisdom from a questionable man who boasted of wrestling a 30-foot shark up the side of the 40-foot pier, here’s what I have learned about lures.

*Novice warning: This is NOT a fishing lesson, as I know absolutely nothing about fishing. However, after being on this journey for half a century, I know a little bit about lures. 

Here is my simplified version:

1. Lures are shiny. They are attractive and get our attention. The lighting enhances their features, and their dance beckons the onlooker. Some flit and flop and become loud in our heads. Others wait patiently, quietly, remaining an unobtrusive, ever-present appeal, anticipating the very moment our defenses are down.  

2. Lures are chosen with great care to catch just the right fish. One lure might draw you in. A different one me. You might need a minnow. I may need a worm. The avid fisherman knows exactly which one. And the careful choice will incorporate just the right shape and size and color to be the most effective in the right moment.

3. Re-casting again and again allows the lure to be placed both in front and behind the eye of the beholder. Forward and back, glamorizing what’s ahead and also what’s behind. How we relish in and dream of the “what could be’s,” the possibilities and prospects of the unknown, while we repaint and redecorate the “what has been” until it gleams brighter than ever and calls us back to the ghosts of our past. Ah, those were the days. If only …

4. Lures masquerade as something we truly need. In fact, we question whether we can live without them. Believe me, that fish does NOT need a mouthful of plastic gunk with a hidden death hook. Yet, he goes for it, time and time again. Why? Because it LOOKS like just what he needs. It mimics the true thing. The real nourishment that will satisfy all of his hunger.

5. And lastly, lures in life are crafted and used by the wrong hands. So, never would you see the Fish Hatchery Executive Manager—the one sworn to fish birth and growth and all good things fishy—never would you see him at the end of the pier trying to snatch his little ones. No, you see the fisherman, whose desire is to catch, kill, and eat. That’s his job. That’s his determination. How many fish do you know that have been caught at the end of a line to find the reality of all their dreams come true? And yet, so often we trust it. We believe the lie. Biting “hook, line, and sinker” (pun intended) into the lure that will lead to death.

"Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour" (1 Peter 5:8).

Now, possibly not in fishing, but certainly in life, the Master Fisherman—the True Fisher of Men—needs no lures or hooks. His gentle voice and scarred hands are enough. No lies or empty promises. In fact, if you see them, you can be sure He is not holding the pole.

He is the real thing. Not the fabrication. Only He can truly meet the craving in our hearts and the longing in our soul.

I pray today you find Jesus, the Master Fisherman, to be everything you need.

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