He’s something, isn’t he? He and his friends hang out on the pier where my stepdaughter Nanette lives in California. Last December, Dave and I were there, and on our early-morning walk, “Birdy” perched harmlessly along the rail. Other pelicans—not as large or arrogant—occupied space nearby, but my eyes were drawn only to this stately creature, wings outstretched, as if showing off his finest Yoga move.

On our return, Dave was several steps ahead of me, fascinated with the local fishermen’s catches. I lingered to watch an elderly woman, encircled by Birdy’s friends congregated at her feet, begging for their morning ration of bread crumbs.

Birdy, not one to lower himself to mere croutons, sat, loftily looking down at the feeding frenzy below. I was drawn to him, enticed by his self-importance. That’s when I shot this picture…and that’s when the unexpected became…well, in my case, the expected.

I turned my attention to where Dave had sauntered, just in time to get hit upside my head with what felt like a bowling ball, causing me to stagger enough that some passersby caught me before I rammed into the rail. Suddenly I was getting more attention than Bird-Feeder-Woman. “Wow! He hit you really hard.” “Are you all right? I’ve never seen anything like that, and I come here every day.”

(Like I said, “expected.”)

Apparently, Birdy had attempted to take flight, but his body acted more like a 747 than a normal, 12-pound pelican. Or he was punishing me for taking my eyes off of him. All I know is, my “harmless” bird-buddy was anything but. My head was proof.

Have you ever been stunned when something you considered harmless, wasn’t? It could be as simple as a bad shrimp or leaving your purse in a shopping cart or an impromptu bet gone bad. Or maybe it was something more. A life-long friendship turned sour. A brotherly investment in which you ended up holding the empty bag. A one-time, sneak-peek at a porn sight that betrayed your spouse’s trust. The list is endless. I’m betting we all have a Birdy story.

Adam and Eve sure did. Enticed by the “harmless” serpent, they tasted the forbidden fruit, and sin entered the world.

Samson sure did. One “harmless” look at Delilah caused him his ultimate blindness and death.

King David sure did. His “harmless” lust for Bathsheba turned to immense grief for him and his family.

Your Birdy won’t by my Birdy, but we deceive ourselves when we foolishly fail to recognize the warning signs. Birdy’s wings were not a harmless Yoga move. They were a “Get out of my way, Dummy! I’m getting ready to take flight” move.

Jesus warned us to beware of what we treat as “harmless”: sin and evil. He said: “Watch out! Be on guard” (Luke 12:15). Had I applied that with Birdy, I would have saved myself one gigantic headache…which, yes, I realize, is better than an eternal one.

A visiting pastor attended a men’s breakfast in the middle of a rural farming area. The group had asked an older farmer, decked out in bib overalls, to say grace for the morning breakfast.

 “Lord, I hate buttermilk,” the farmer began. The visiting pastor opened one eye to glance at the farmer and wonder where this was going. The farmer loudly proclaimed, “Lord, I hate lard.” Now the pastor was growing concerned. Without missing a beat, the farmer continued, “And Lord, you know I don’t much care for raw white flour.” The pastor once again opened an

eye to glance around the room and saw that he wasn’t the only one to feel uncomfortable.

 Then the farmer added, “But Lord, when you mix them all together and bake them, I do love warm fresh biscuits. So, Lord, when things come up that we don’t like, when life gets hard, when we don’t understand what you’re saying to us, help us to just relax and wait until you are done mixing. It will probably be even better than biscuits. Amen.”

I have to wonder if God isn’t doing a little blending in America. A country that started off so strong has taken a turn that (hopefully) is teaching us much, mainly that God remains in charge. He is fully capable of making warm, fresh biscuits out of some pretty unpalatable ingredients, and yes, some of us require a little more kneading than others.) So, if we agree that this blending is our answer, then 2 Chronicles 7:14 KJV gives us instructions on our goal: If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear.

To do that, we need to make Ps. 139:23-24 our daily/hourly prayer. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my concerns. See if there is any offensive way in me; lead me in the way everlasting.

Examining our own hearts is pointless, no doubt because we will find a way to justify our evil actions/attitudes. After all, we haven’t killed anyone. We didn’t loot those stores or throw iced water at the police officers. We merely sat in our comfy living rooms and watched on television as the wickedness of someone else’s heart played out. But that’s not what God calls us to do. He wants us to lay our ugly hearts at His throne and ask Him to reveal any wickedness in us (even though it is so much more our nature to find the wickedness in others).

Get that? Any wickedness. Any times when we have remained silent and not spoken out against bigotry and violence. Any times we have secretly celebrated payback between our race and theirs. Any times we have allowed others’ prejudiced behavior to affect ours. Any times we have not asked God to help us examine our hearts, to call our wickedness into account and to change our ways.

Last night I watched Just Mercy, the true story of Harvard law school graduate Bryan Stevenson’s defense of wrongly condemned Walter McMillian who was sentenced to die for the murder of an 18-year-old girl. Stevenson quickly learned that in the South, he, a black man, was himself a target, simply because of the color of his skin.

Refusing to return hate for hate, he founded the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama. He and his staff have won reversals or release from prison for over 135 wrongly condemned death row prisoners and won relief for hundreds of others wrongly convicted or unfairly sentenced. Black and white. Blending at its finest.

If God is stirring something in your heart like He is mine, then we need to agree to be part of the blending process. Granted, we’ve come a long way, but until we determine what we can do to make a difference, we will have a long way to go.

Theologian Dallas Willard wrote, “I’m practicing the discipline of not having to have the last word.” It’s a discipline I definitely need (just ask my husband), and I can’t help but wonder how much better off our country would be if everyone did likewise.

Recently we have watched unspeakable carnage as thug-protestors chose to get the last word under the pretense of seeking justice for the death of George Floyd by police officer Derek Chauvin. Buildings and vehicles were set on fire and stores looted as angry mobs defied curfew orders and stood nose-to-nose with officers attempting to seek order. Post offices, banks, book stores, CNN’s headquarters and a church were among the targeted areas. My girlfriend in San Francisco shared that protestors took over a freeway in nearby Oakland where some used baseball bats on windows of the stopped cars… their way of getting the last word, I guess.

I’m sure that we all have questioned the hatred in Chauvin’s act. How was he so determined to get the final say that he callously dismissed the desperate last words of Floyd, calling out for his mother? But Chauvin’s behavior is not the only one I find alarming. How could someone stand by and video an officer kneeling on a man’s neck and not intervene?

And then there are the violent rioters. Is it possible that they believe that answering hate with the “last word” of more hate is a justifiable action? Will the new Samsung television they just stole from Target improve racial tensions? Will the desecration of a monument to the victims of Armenian genocide (itself dedicated to fight racism) in Colorado help others recognize with more clarity the horror of Floyd’s death? Does the destruction of 580 pair of eyeglasses in a privately-owned optometry shop bring resolution to the injustice done to blacks? How does spray painting city buses or tossing fireworks into a jailhouse prevent further vitriol? Are we now filled with more compassion for the arsonists as we watch the newscasts of burned police cars, paid for by our taxpayer dollars?

The point is this: Do these violent rioters not know that their “last word” has done nothing to help reduce racism in our country?

How tragic, that instead of creating unspeakable carnage, they don’t follow the example set by the Des Moines, Iowa, protestors. According to the USA Today newspaper, following a tense situation, they knelt and then asked for police officers to do likewise, saying that they would obey the curfew and leave the area if the officers took a knee. “At the urging of a pastor from the community, senior Des Moines police officers Irvin Franklin and Jack Kamerick knelt and said a prayer.” Other officers as well as a group in riot gear agreed to the protestor’s request.

The “show of peaceful solidarity” proved that the “last word” can be one of unity and not division, and practicing it, like Willard suggests, just might be the answer we all are seeking.

Beginning in 2016, Lewis Miller and his floral elves began an ingenious project in New York City. Loading buckets of flowers into a van, they began to secretly create arrangements designed “to make people smile.” And just like that, with their pop-up installations, “Floral Flash Art” was born.

According to Miller, “Our goal is to create a positive, emotional response through flowers…If you can just stop, pause and just have one second of joy, that’s amazing because that’s one of the things that’s so lacking and it’s hard.”

Once a month, Miller’s workers begin around 5:45 A.M. and complete their task before sunrise. Their arrangements are found in trash cans and near monuments, subway stations, construction equipment, statues, and street corner hot dog carts. Passersby are encouraged to take a flower to brighten someone else’s day, and when the arrangements are removed, they are taken to local care facilities.

Lewis’s love for flowers began at the age of seven when he would create (and recreate) designs using the same flowers. As a teen, his first job was to pick weeds at a local golf course where the lone female member, a 70-year old lady, took a liking to the young man and asked if he would be able to create floral arrangements for her home. He was eager to try, and before long, he was designing for her frequent parties. The word spread.

And that’s the part of the story I love. It took one person to give a weed-picker a chance, and now that weed-picker has evolved into a world-renowned florist who is giving back. One elderly lady saw potential. Was it that Lewis didn’t complain? That he was clean-cut? Diligent? Punctual? Cared about the grounds? Whistled while he worked? I have no idea, but this golfer looked beyond the lowly position and saw something she liked.

I’ve been there. When Carol Kent asked me to speak with her agency, I had no credentials like her other speakers. I had authored no book, held no PhD, and had very little background in public speaking. Yet, she gave me a chance, and it was life-changing. Of course, we all know that the ultimate one who saw potential was Jesus. Not one of his disciples had impressive credentials, yet he groomed them to grow into a bold, brave group of believers whose impact continues to impact the world.

We might not have the talent of Lewis Miller, but we all are capable of turning a weed-picker into a smile-bloomer with words of encouragement, and I’m thinking that today would be a great day to start.

“The world needs more tackle boxes and less Xboxes.” The clever meme made me think of how life used to be. You know, when people sat on their front porches every evening, swatting mosquitoes and wiping their sweaty faces with weary handkerchiefs. Where they rocked in squeaky swings, visited with the parade of families out for an evening stroll, sipped on their iced tea, discussed the latest happenings and talked to their kids about their dreams and plans for tomorrow.

No invitation necessary.

And yes, I realize that younger readers have no idea what I’m talking about. Sad.

Nightly, men gathered on the steps, listening to their favorite baseball team on the radio, whooping and hollering when Stan Musial rounded the bases or Bob Feller struck out the side. No one considered hiding away in dark living rooms while Netflix or Prime TV became their life-line of relationship and entertainment. Who would waste their time on that when there were fireflies outside, beckoning to be placed in jars or turned into engagement rings? When fresh hop-scotch box lines were blurred by the footsteps of giggly girls, and young boys played stickball under the streetlight, no coaching allowed?

Car doors were unlocked, keys in the ignition, no club to lock the steering wheel in place, no alarm that shook the neighbor’s house if someone neared the car. Yards had no fences. There was no need for warning signs that houses were being monitored, no cameras attached to doorbells and garage eaves.

During the day, window drapes were open, inviting. Mothers prepared family meals, often taking extras to an ailing neighbor or elderly church member. They cleaned and sewed, spanked the front porch welcome mat and brewed fresh, sweet tea, waiting for the evening pattern to repeat itself.

Hospitality was key to civility and friendship. Everything shouted an invitation to join in. Be a part of our family. Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!

No more. The last two generations have moved towards privacy, and now, with Covid-19, they are realizing a new kind of isolation. Yet, the more isolated we become, the more insulated we become. Look around and you’ll see few front porches. Most home “socializing” has turned to the fenced-in back yard where the BBQ and patio and cornhole make it clear that people are to stay out unless invited in.

And yet, I find it ironic that today many are barking at the unfairness of being forced to stay away from other people. “Our rights are being violated”…you know, the rights to hang with people in close proximity, the “rights” that we discarded when we adopted the mantra “Mi casa es mi casa,” built homes with no front porches, closed our shades and self-isolated. Because that’s the way we wanted it. But now, we protesteth much.

So, I have to wonder, once the restrictions are lifted, will we open up our homes and engage in others’ lives? Ummm, probably not. Instead, we will return to our bubbles where we will meet in restaurants instead of our homes (after all, guests are soooo stressful), where we will spend little (if any) of our lives engaging with our neighbors. How many witnessing opportunities are lost because of our selfishness?

Dr. Rosaria Butterfield has written a best-selling book, The Gospel Comes with a Housekey,” challenging us to practice radical, ordinary, biblical hospitality as we use our homes to make strangers into neighbors, and neighbors into the family of God. This book is not for the excuse-makers. It is for those who want to see others come to know Christ.

So now, if you will excuse me, I need to brew some sweet tea, shake out my welcome mat and sweep my deck. Feel free to drop by. No invitation necessary.

A Catholic priest and a Methodist pastor from two local churches are standing by the side of the road, feverishly pounding a handmade sign into the ground with a large rock. The sign reads: “The End is Near! Turn Yourself Around Now Before It’s Too Late!”

As a car speeds past them, the driver yells, “Leave us alone, you religious nuts!”

From the curve they hear screeching tires and a big splash. The pastor turns to the priest and asks, “Do you think the sign should just say ‘Bridge Out’?”

Have you ever met a person who has a knack for complicating things? The other day, as some of us were visiting-while-distancing on our deck, a woodpecker began thumping away on a nearby tree. “Jon” was the first to locate the intruder. “He’s right there,” pointing to where he spotted the bird. None of us could follow his finger’s guide. “Right there. Go up to the first branch. Then it splits a little and goes a different direction. Follow that aways and then go right. To the left of that is the bird, hiding behind the leaves.”

T.M.I. Now it was my turn. I simply followed the sound of the pecking…and put on my teacher hat. “Follow the trunk to the height of our deck. Where the first branch splits to the left, follow it about five feet…” Specifics.

You get what I’m saying if you ever have tried to learn a new card game when the explainer cannot start at the beginning or dumb it down. My frustrations are in high gear whenever we play games with a certain, unnamed family member named Dave who has a tendency to assume that we get what he is saying. Although I’ve played the game 100 times, even I am confused. Most times, our kids or grandkids or friends will turn to me and ask for an interpretation…a dumbed-down interpretation. (I do not take that personally.)

Recently, I’ve been asked to give my opinion on a doomsday video that is circulating, prompting people to question if we are in End Times, and last night a friend forwarded an email in which a leading doctor proposed the Covid-19 is a conspiracy to depopulate the world. Both were way above my retired paygrade, so I forwarded them to brilliant friends who could “dumb them down” for me and give me their take on what they heard.

I quickly learned that some people are incapable of simple explanations. There was one, however, whose brilliance did not deter her from speaking at my level. (No comments necessary.) Line by line, she presented facts opposing what the reader had presented. Analysis such as “a sweeping generalization without one shred of evidence” or “If truth is subjective then each group has their own truth,” etc. were specific to the writer’s critique. Perfect! I copied and pasted her response to my doubting friend…who answered, “So what if truth is subjective?” Round and round we go.

After several days of watching videos, seeking experts’ opinions and attempting to explain the fallacies in what I was seeing/reading, I knew it was time for something drastic. The “bridge is out” story gave me my answer. People needed to “turn themselves around before it’s too late.” Period. I would do what I do best, dumb down my answer and share this: “I want to focus only on Jesus, and every minute I spend analyzing end-of-the-world theories is one less minute I have to think about him.”

Actually, that’s not dumbing it down at all. That might be the smartest thing I’ve said in my entire life.

We all need a little help every now and then, and sometimes it comes from the most unexpected places. It might be the Walmart employee who wipes down our cart before handing it off to us, or the hardware store salesperson with curbside service so we can buy the shovel to work in our garden, or even a picture like this to lift our spirits.

Let’s face it. Times are tough…uncertain…maybe even a tad bit discouraging. Chances are, if you’re like me, a little spirit-lifter won’t hurt.

But before we get to that, maybe we need to understand where discouragement comes from. The following story explains it well.

It was advertised that the devil was putting his tools up for sale. When the day of the sale came, each tool was priced and laid out for public inspection. And what a collection it was! Hatred, envy, jealousy, deceit or pride…the inventory was treacherous. Off to one side was a harmless-looking tool priced higher than all the rest, even though it was obviously more worn than any other tool the devil owned. “What’s the name of this tool?” asked a customer. “That,” the devil replied, “is discouragement.” The customer asked, “But why have you priced it so high?” The devil smiled and explained, “Because discouragement is more useful to me than all the others. I can pry open and get inside a man’s heart with that tool when I can’t get near him with any other. It’s badly worn because I use it on almost everyone, since so few people know it belongs to me.”

Discouragement does not come from God. It comes from you-know-who, and it shows up in many forms: rejection; impatience; anger; sarcasm; lack of energy; ingratitude; fear; blame, etc. The list is endless. Some people go to bed, put the covers over their heads, and try to sleep it off. Others put on a happy face and play super-Christian. (“Why no, nothing is wrong. Praise God, I’m fine.”). But those who seem to deal with it best understand the source of their discouragement and turn to the One who can make a difference. They find the answer in Ps. 42:11 (MSG)

Why are you down in the dumps, dear soul?
Why are you crying the blues?
Fix my eyes on God—

soon I’ll be praising again.
He puts a smile on my face.

He’s my God.

Our eyes cannot be focused on ourselves and God. When we need a little pick-me-up, it would be nice to have someone pull us from the front and push us from the back, like the toddler in the picture. But there’s a better solution: Begin praising God for His goodness and His blessings, an easy thing to do when we realize Who initiates our “lifting.” As Ps. 30:30 says, I will lift You up, O Lord, for You have lifted me up.

I don’t know who wrote this, but I love the optimism, the encouragement, the hopeful side to this pandemic. We need that confidence, don’t we? Bret Baier, a news anchor, daily offers a message of expectation when he ends his television program with this: “We are one day closer to putting this all behind us.”

I envision the day when Baier’s statement will be our reality and we can learn powerful lessons from it…lessons, I pray, we never forget.

We all know that this silent killer has sneaked in unnoticed, and as we battle this foe, I am mindful of another enemy we are warned about in Scripture. Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. (1 Peter 5:8) See any similarities?

Could there be a more frightening warning to those unaware of our enemy’s attempts to destroy? If we compare Covid-19 and Satan, we can’t help but recognize likenesses: Both prey on the weak; both remain unseen; both are contagious, and both appear intent on destroying humanity.

Still, if we remain vigilant, we can remain hopeful by understanding a few more things about these enemies:

• They sneak in unannounced. (“So what if I run a few errands I probably should postpone?”/“But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called ‘Today,’ so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.” Hebrews 3:13.)
• They come through friends (“There’s nothing wrong with hanging with our pals at the beach.”/ “Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm.” Prov. 13:20.)
• They come when we ignore the warnings. (“Wear masks”/“Put on the full armor of God.” Eph. 6:11.)

Yet as contagious as this virus is, as contagious as sin is, the antidote is simple. We must isolate ourselves from anything that causes us to fall victim to their death traps. We must be mindful that there are bad things seeking to destroy us, both in the physical and the spiritual world. We cannot allow ourselves to so much as sniff these deadly evils. Instead, we must do what is smart…what is hopeful. Trusting in our medical professionals is one way to do that, but to be eternally careful, we must turn our lives to Jesus Christ and know that he is the ultimate hope.

So, as the meme above says, “Hang in there, World.” How do we do that? The answer is found in Deuteronomy 31:6: Be strong and courageous… for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you. One day we will “put this all behind us.” The choice we make now will determine what will lie ahead.

That, Readers, is the Hope that matters.

As I previously have written, since Covid-19 I am on a mission to throw away everything I do not need. At this moment, I am sitting on the floor, staring at “keepers”: my Bible; refrigerator; microwave; a spatula; laptop; cell phone; and Dave, although I may rethink this if he keeps moaning when I threaten to get rid of his guns, used puzzles and Perry Como CD’s. I tackled this project when I became concerned about what will happen when I die and my kids go through my “things,” an endeavor inspired when some of my girlfriends, quarantined with their husbands, began sharing their irritations with their hubbies’ peculiarities.

The behaviors that at one time made my friends laugh have become fodder for torture. One husband “under no condition” will part with his collection of old, worthless lottery tickets. Instead, he spends time counting and stacking them. Another husband refuses to get rid of his life-size Elvis cut-out that stands in the corner of his gun room, the same room with holsters hoarding space on glass shelves. His latest purchase hasn’t found its way to that cabinet because he sleeps with it strapped to his waist, certain that he’s on someone’s hit list for his stash of toilet paper. One friend, mid de-cluttering old clothes, is threatening to set a match to her husband’s jogging suit collection from the 1970’s. According to him, you never know when someone will have a ‘70’s party, and he will be able to clothe the entire list of invitees.

Um-hmmm.

Anyway, because of Covid-19, I am beginning to appreciate what matters most: the “keepers” I leave my family.

A friend emailed me to say how bored she is. Covid-19 has forced her to become a recluse, and she has nothing to do.
“Nothing to do?” I respond. Really? Nothing? I ask her a few questions.

Have you checked your spice rack? If yours is like mine, your basil, sage, tarragon and thyme expired in 2016. How about your photos? Do you seriously recognize the people in each picture? (No, you don’t.) And why do you need multiple snapshots of the same redwood tree—yes, we applaud you using multiple angles–from Yosemite National Park? Trust me, these are not slides your friends want to watch at the next get together. Correction: make that ANY gathering. What about tax statements held hostage since 2010? (According to the IRS: “Keep records for 3 years from the date you filed your original return or 2 years from the date you paid the tax, whichever is later…”) Buy a shredder. On line. But don’t bring the package inside.

For those of you who are Amazon freaks and daily are visited by UPS, pretend your gift is filled with bed bugs. Open it with plastic gloves. Outside. Discard the box immediately. In your rude neighbor’s trash can. (I’m funny.) Clean your file cabinet. (My kids would have gone nuts, had I died and they had to deal with all the irrelevant paperwork I’ve accumulated.); clean out the garage (although this virus will have to last a decade for me to finish this task); dance to praise music; smash old hard drives from laptops you have replaced but not discarded; rake those leaves you ignored since last spring; and pray. More than you ever have.

Don’t waste an opportunity. Wash your hands multiple times a day to the tune of “The Lord’s Prayer” (exactly 20 seconds, unless you try to break the speed of sound like I did when I was in elementary school). Or be creative. One of my friends is keeping entertained by pretending to do lawn work every time a realtor brings a possible buyer to her next-door neighbor’s house. (Hey, don’t judge. You know, that “sin” thing.)

Each evening, our California friends are staying in their front yards, playing charades with their neighbors across the street. Should you want to remain inside, check out your accumulation of unread books. And then read them! Recommend great ones to friends. Send an encouraging email or text to someone who is alone and discouraged. The other evening, one of my friends texted five of us a great Netflix movie to watch: The Shadows of Motown. Then we group-texted, sharing our fun memories of that era as we danced to the greatest songs of all time (my opinion, yes). As for those puzzles long overlooked, start one, and if pieces are missing, work on another to see if the runaways have relocated (spoken from experience). Should the prodigal pieces not appear, bid your puzzle goodbye. Trust me, the pain is short-lived.

Pack up clothes that last fit in 1995. If you haven’t lost those 45 pounds by now, chances are slim—even if you aren’t—that you will benefit from them before the moths do. Join the local group of ladies who are making masks for the health care workers. Stop calling your financial planner asking for advice; he/she has no crystal ball. Thank those people who stock the shelves with needed supplies—you know, the ones we all have taken for granted. Support local restaurants and businesses that are offering curb-side service in order to survive. Go through your church directory and make calls to those without a support system. Offer to pray for them. And then, do it.

Anyway, you get the point. God has given us this time to reevaluate our priorities. We all must use this time for good. I hope this article has given you some ideas, should you be one of those claiming to be “bored.” And if worse comes to worse, come to my house to de-weed my yard. I promise to keep a six-foot distance.

Counting the dozens of toll booth workers’ hands I touched over our three-day drive home from Mexico, I began thinking about how easily the Coronavirus could pass from one person to another. Hadn’t I made contact with the gas station attendant when I tipped him for washing our car window? And how about those motel rooms were Dave and I stayed? Was the television control infected? Our room key? Germ magnets, for sure.

I had hugged our staff good-bye when we left Mazatlán. Did one of them feel a little warmer than normal? What about the four couples we had over Friday night for our “clean out the refrigerator” party before starting home the next day? One of them was over 80 years old, the age when we are the most susceptible.

Yesterday I went grocery shopping. Besides mine, how many other fingers had squeezed the avocados before choosing a ripe one? Had the lady who bagged my groceries washed her hands for twenty-seconds in warm water upon exiting the bathroom? Perhaps I should begin wearing disposable gloves. Perhaps I should wear disposable gloves to pick out a box of disposable gloves since someone’s ungloved hands had placed them there on that shelf. Or are those just as useless as the white masks that have been sold to those who don’t realize the virus molecules are small enough to filter through the covering? Maybe I should check Amazon.smile for a hazmat suit and stay under my bed. (Can dust bunnies be lethal?)

As I write this, I am looking at autographed letters ready to be mailed. Last night Dave sat down to sign his baseball cards and insert them into self-addressed, stamped envelopes. He did not know one person who had mailed those requests. This morning it dawned on me: some envelopes he licked to seal. Yikes! Perhaps I should Clorox his tongue.

We easily can panic over this outbreak, become paranoid about our activities and live in fear. Our friend Charlie and his wife recently attended a concert in Las Vegas. Charlie said that the crowd sat mesmerized by the orchestra…until, that is, he sneezed, at which point all 1,000 in attendance turned to glare at him.

The problem is that paranoia leads to conspiracy theories such as these that are proliferating: eating in Chinese restaurants is dangerous; the virus is linked to HIV; or COVID-19 escaped from a Chinese research lab. Some shops have installed signs banning Chinese people from entering. What’s next?

What message do we send when faced with a threat? Instead of reason, we scream “Panic! Take care of #1! Over-react!” Granted, we must take precautions, but there’s something else we need to do. Pray. Pray to the One who can do something about our concerns. Pray to the One who tells us not to worry. Jesus said, “And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” (Matthew 6:27) We need to pray for God to comfort those affected and to keep us diligent and mindful of ways we hopefully can prevent becoming a target. Martin Luther offered advice we all should remember: “Pray as if everything depends on God, then work as if everything depends on you.” Because it does.

The drive home from Mazatlán, Mexico, to Kansas is not easy. The three-hours on the toll road that began our first leg included 61 tunnels and two suspension bridges over deep gorges. Semi-truck drivers many times must creep along in order to make the steep mountain climbs. Because of that, about ninety-five percent of them have created a kind gesture for those of us who get stuck behind them on the numerous curves.

As we near them, they move to the shoulder and wait for there to be no vehicles coming towards them. They put on their blinkers when it is safe for us to ignore the double yellow lines and pass. It is not uncommon in the oncoming lane to have one semi straddling the double yellow while passing another semi. That is our clue to be kind and move to the shoulder.

Or get squashed.

Add to that unmarked potholes, an occasional cow crossing the highway, and men in black working in the tunnels, and it’s no wonder we pray the entire time we navigate this stretch. By the time we reach Durango, Mexico, Dave and I both have white knuckles and sweaty palms.

This past Saturday we were four-and-a-half hours into our journey when Dave realized that we would need more pesos to cover the $100+(U.S.) in tolls. Pulling over to the side of the road, he opened the back door to get into his backpack for the money. That’s when I heard the words that made me want to throw myself in front of the next semi that approached.

“Patty, where’s my backpack?”

“It should be right where you always put it. On top of your small suitcase.”

“Seriously. Where did you put it?”

“Why would I put it anywhere? It’s your backpack.”
“But you double-checked our condo to be sure we loaded everything in the car.”

“And so did you.” Let the blame game begin.

After hyperventilating for a few minutes, I had a brilliant idea. “I may have some pesos. Let’s count all the money we’ve got and see if we have enough to get to the border.”

“Patty, my passport is in my backpack. We can’t get into the U.S. without it.”

Of course, that wasn’t true. I could get into the U.S. Dave could be left on the side of the road to figure out what he needed to do. It crossed my mind.

Or I could be forgiving, laugh it off and drive back to Mazatlán with him. (The only part of that sentence that actually happened begins with the word “drive” and ends with “him.”) I was not laughing. I tried to be forgiving (especially since Dave was blaming me for this blunder), but having to retrace our drive through that mountain—making it nine hours of driving and about $15,000 in pesos only to end up where we started—made me homicidal.

Then Hubby dropped another bombshell. “We don’t have enough pesos to get back to Mazatlán.” I began making plans to jump from the first suspension bridge we crossed.

Dave presented our options: (1) “I can ask for mercy from the toll booth operator.” (No chance since Dave speaks about 10 words in Spanish, and none of them are in that sentence.) (2) “I can leave my watch with her as collateral and get it back tomorrow on our return trip.” (Same “No chance” reason as above.) (3) “We can get off the toll road, but that will add four hours of drive time.” (Sweet Jesus, please, NO!) (4) “Or we could find an ATM.” Which was the first sensible thing he said.

I think God knew that my unChristlike ideas were about to become a reality and I would end up in a Mexico prison because the first exit said “Aeropuerto.” Airports have ATM’s! There was hope. Dave and I both were surprised when I actually exited the airport with pesos and the machine had not eaten my credit card.

Sometimes we just have to be grateful for the little things.