The Racing Pigeon Club

"How great is God—beyond our understanding!

The number of his years is past finding out."

Job 36: 26

     My husband and I were driving to Nebraska for a football game.  I was at the wheel.  A pickup pulling an enclosed trailer passed me.  On the back of the trailer was written "Siouxland Racing Pigeon Club."
     My first thought was, You've got to be kidding.  My second thought was more gracious. A racing pigeon club?  Really? How exactly does one get interested in such a thing?  As opposed to . . . quilting clubs, travel clubs, antique car clubs, ski clubs, or traveling nearly four hours every football Saturday to watch our alma mater play ball?

     There's a club for every interest and an interest in every club, hobby, sport, or diversion. There are also over 900,000 varieties of insects in the world, 400,000 different plants, and at least as many varieties of chocolate (or is that simply a personal wish?) 
     Is this volume of variety really necessary?

     Obviously, yes.  To quote a line from the movie "Robin Hood:  Prince of Thieves":  "God loves wondrous variety."
     For God made each and every species, genus, group, and classification.  He created them, "And God saw that it was good."  (Genesis 1: 21)

     Later that day, as my husband and I sat in the football stadium among 85,000 of our closest friends, I looked across the crowd and tried to see individuals, each with distinct qualities, talents, hopes, dreams, and destinies. God created each one with a unique purpose.  He wants to know each one on a personal basis, and longs to hear their prayers—and answer them. It's estimated that 106,456,367,669 people have ever lived. (I love the audacity of the "9" at the end of this number.) That's a lot of variety, that's a lot of unique purposes, that's a lot of Divine attention to detail.

     That's a lot of Divine love, over a lot of years. 

     Such numbers are unfathomable—to us.  But not to Him.  "But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day." (2 Peter 3: 8)

     We don't understand the need for this vast amount of variety, but God does.  I truly believe there is a reason for each insect, each flower, each person.

     Isaiah 40:28-29 says it wonderfully:  "Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom."

     And yet accepting this variety, pondering the immensity of it, marveling in it, we can also marvel in the fact there is only one God. One Christ Jesus, the way, the truth, and the light. One who is the great I-Am. (Exodus 3: 14)

     So during this season to be thankful, take a moment to look around at your world—which is the same yet different from my world.  Take note of the wondrous variety, be awed by it, remember our one God who created it all, and allow yourself a sweet indulgence to feel special.

    And very, very blessed.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

The Golden Silence

 "Behold, children are a gift of the Lord."

Psalm 127:3

     I understand children are a gift from God, but that doesn't stop me from suffering moments when I'd like a refund. Or an exchange. Maybe one child for two cats and a gerbil. Or a rabbit. Rabbits would be good. They're quiet. They don't eat much and they let you hold them on your lap without squirming away.
     And they don't walk like elephants. Only elephants—and my children—walk like elephants. There is a law of physics that applies here: the smaller the child, the louder the footsteps. A sixty-pound nine-year-old running through the living room has the ability to make our best china rattle like a 7.1 earthquake with aftershocks inevitable. Inversely, a 120-pound teen of sixteen can move from the front door to their bedroom so silently I'll raise my head like a doe in the forest, sure something has just passed close but unsure of its intent.
     My children are destined for the theatre. "Please pass the mashed potatoes" is delivered in a voice heard by the back row of any auditorium. The discussion that follows regarding whose turn it is to clear the dishes is worthy of a Laurel and Hardy skit (and we even have our own Laurel). 
     I love our three kids dearly. Yet sometimes I yearn for "a time to be silent".

     One weekend, I got my wish—though I had to get sick to do it.

     We were scheduled to drive to our hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska to go to a Cornhusker football game. But when I woke up Saturday morning the glands in my neck made me resemble a chipmunk stocking up for the winter. Not wanting to ruin everyone's fun I sent my family on their way, checked with a doctor, got a prescription and settled into our empty house. 
     Our silent empty house.
     No elephant footfalls. No "But Mom . . ." No slammed doors, Scooby Doo, or the tortuous beat of loud music. 
     Just the ticking of the clock in the entry. The hmmm of the refrigerator. And the whoosh of the furnace making me feel cozy warm as I snuggled beneath an afghan on the couch.
     "This is the life," I told the air. "I can do what I want, when I want to do it. I can eat foods that have no nutritional value. I can watch old movies with no one moaning about the lack of special effects. I can read. I can take a nap or a bath with no interruptions."
      And self-serving hedonist that I am, I did all of those things, wallowing in the solitude with as much ecstasy as Scrooge McDuck swimming in his vault of gold coins.
     But after my dinner of mint-chip ice cream and Diet Coke, after watching "An Affair to Remember", after crying over Father Ralph de Bricassart's death in The Thorn Birds, and after a bath where I emerged a prune, I took another listen to the silence I'd wrapped around myself and found it wanting.

     I missed Emily’s humming as she made a batch of cookies along with a mess in the kitchen. I missed the rumble as Carson hurtled down the stairs. I missed the sound of Laurel reading aloud to her invisible class as she played school. And our king-sized bed seemed empty without its king.
     With the noises of night closing in around me, I imagined a life without the sounds of my children. Their gentle snores assuring me they’re safe and sound in bed, the harmony of their voices saying grace before a meal. I imagined never hearing the title "Mom" whether it was tagged on a request for a ride to school or onto the thank you after giving the ride.
     As I tried to get to sleep I found the silence heavy—the silence that could have been if we hadn’t been blessed with three children. I turned on the television for company and fell asleep to the canned sounds of TV people going through the process of living.
     The next day when my family burst in with thudding feet, overlapping voices, and gusts of fall air, I was ready for them. Renewed. Patient again—at least for a little while.
     In the stillness of my weekend I found that silence is indeed golden. For it reminded me of something very important.
     My children are more precious than gold.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 

Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms