Helicopter parents, as I wrote last week, refuse to let their kiddies suffer consequences. These folks are the first ones in the principal’s/coach’s/ dance instructor’s office when their child complains about unfair treatment.

Not my mom.

No matter how many times in grade school I whined about how mean my teacher, Sister Deloris Marie, was to me, my mother never changed her tune: “Well, Patty, you must have done something to irritate poor Sister.”

“Yea, like breathe,” I reminded her and then added dramatically, “But when I come home dead someday, you will know who is responsible.” And then I went outside to play kick-the-can. In my mother’s eyes, I was guilty until proven innocent and had Sister Deloris Marie notified my mother of me misbehaving, there would have been double-trouble at home.

Then the unexpected happened. A classmate’s mother came to our house to share that her daughter was bothered by how Sister treated me. It was a Hallelujah moment. My typically non-interfering mother, now forced to resolve the issue, set up a visit with Sister Deloris Marie, expecting, I’m sure, to hear she had a grave sinner for a daughter. I feared that intervention, knowing that had I done even one teensy thing wrong, my kick-the-can days would be over. Things must have gone well because neither my mother nor Sister tortured me after that conversation.

Unlike Mom, some parents turn a deaf ear to complaints of their kiddos’ bad behavior. One of the most bothersome Biblical stories about ignoring the children’s sin involves the high priest and judge, Eli, and his two scoundrel sons and fellow priests, Hophni and Phinehas. In 1 Samuel we read the dastardly duo stole money from the offering and slept with women who served outside the sanctuary.

Eli confronted his boys. “What’s going on here? Why are you doing these things? I hear story after story of your corrupt and evil carrying on. Oh, my sons, this is not right! These are terrible reports I’m getting, stories spreading right and left among God’s people!”

At this point, I expect to read that Eli responded the way my mom would have, had she been alive in 1100 B.C. You know, like take away his sons’ camels for a week or force them to repay the treasury by sheering a few extra sheep or demote them from temple priests to keepers of the doves. Nope.

He does nothing.

So, God does. His message—“Judgment is coming because you refused to discipline your sons”– cannot be misinterpreted. Who of us wouldn’t be on our knees begging God for a second chance to do the right thing and discipline our children? Not Eli. His comment? “He is God. Let him do whatever he thinks best.”

Get a donkey prod for this guy! These are his heirs, his flesh and blood, and he doesn’t have the gumption to beg God for mercy! What is wrong with this man? This is no slap-on-the-wrist correction. God even directs a prophet to tell Eli that his sons both will die on the same day. Read 1 Samuel 4:10-18. The father dies a few hours after his sons. It is a discipline that never needed to happen, had Eli parented like his kids mattered…

which, of course, makes me appreciate a mother who cared enough never to let me get away with anything. Thankfully, she saved God a lot of time making His point.

“Why is it that we try and keep from our kids the very thing that made us successful, our failures.” (anonymous)

You obsess over your child’s homework. And his diet, as if a hotdog for breakfast will doom him to a life of obesity. You interfere in childish skirmishes and insist your little angel is right, even if six witnesses disagree. You expect at least three phone calls a day when Princess enters adulthood. And every time Bubba loses a job or a wife, the Welcome Home banner is draped across the threshold of his childhood home where his clean bedsheets await.

Helicopter parents, hovering to micro-manage, please stop!

Many of this generation are babied, protected and entitled because the only location good enough for them is Easy Street. My plea to you is simple: Let your children struggle. Stop masking your kids’ mistakes by refusing to allow them to suffer consequences for their behavior. In my day (yes, when dinosaurs roamed the earth), parents believed their role was to grow independent children. Taking a few knocks was part of that process. No more.

Drake, my grandson, holds the local high school record for being penalized during his basketball practices this year.

Failure to bring tennis shoes? Run a few sets of stairs.

Being late? More stair laps.

Forgetting tennis shoes AGAIN? Add more laps.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

When it became apparent Drake had mastered the stairs but failed to elicit the desired rehabilitation, he was assigned the towel drill. Placing his hands on a towel on the floor, he ran from one side of the gym to the other in that bent position. In fact, he performed that drill so many times, when baseball season rolled around, he was the best-conditioned player on the team.

His parents laughed with each escapade. It never crossed their minds to complain or to rush to school with that forgotten pair of tennis shoes to cover for their child or to ask for a private meeting with Coach Young. Yea, them.

Recently, Fort Scott celebrated when eight wounded veterans caravanned through town. School children were given an opportunity to be dismissed from class so they could wave flags and cheer for the soldiers. They, like many of the rest of us, came together and showed our appreciation for those who fought to give us the freedoms we all share.

One mother felt differently. She was livid that her young child had to stand in the rain waiting for the caravan to arrive and drove to the site where his classmates were waiting, insisting he get in the car while she berated the adults who were there with the other kids.

Really? REALLY? I wonder if it dawned on her that those soldiers probably spent more than a little time in the rain, protecting our homeland. What message did she give her child about honoring the real heroes of our nation? (Not to mention, for goodness sakes, when we were little, we played in the rain.)

In the book Weird, author Craig Groeschel reminds us that our greatest priority as parents is to gradually transfer our children’s dependence away from us until it rests solely on God. To raise boys and girls who do not idolize their dads and moms; instead, they honor the only One who truly knows what is best for their lives…which probably includes not a few lessons about consequences.

Helicopter parents, please let God be God. Land that runaway plane of interference, turn off your blades of privilege and let your children’s failures be their lessons. Before it’s too late.

I asked God to stop the rain, to allow a rainless window of only an hour so people would attend the parade for the Combat Veterans. I texted prayer warriors. And every half-hour, I checked the radar. 100% chance of rain. Not to worry—meteorologists have been known to make mistakes. Besides, God’s decrees overrule anything weather forecasters predict.

Right?

Right.

Only this time, God didn’t intervene. As the Fort Scott police and sheriff’s officers lined up at the airport, no one complained about getting wet, and when the soldiers exited the plane, one of the officers told all of the staff to remove their hats—the hats that would somewhat protect them from the rain– in honor of those they were meeting. So, they stood there, hats over hearts, they, our own local heroes, saying thank you to their fellow protectors.

Leaving the airport before the caravan, I drove through town, praying harder for the rain to let up, and if that didn’t happen, that people would forego the bad weather and support the troops. I couldn’t help but tear up, seeing our American flag draping between two firetrucks on 10^th and National. Friends congregating nearby with a huge, homemade banner. Houses sporting the Red, White, and Blue. Community College students lining the median on Highway 69. School children waiting in the rain with flags and posters. (Thank you, Mr. Beckham, school administrators and teachers for making this happen.) Civil War reenactors sitting atop their horses while carrying American flags and saluting these national champions. And then there was the mother of a veteran, waving pom-poms, alone at the end of Wall Street, jumping and cheering.

Small town caring at its best.

Still, God did not stop the rain.

The day after the parade, I spoke with Jenn, my daughter-in-law who, along with Adam, her husband, worked tirelessly to organize this event. When I asked her what the soldiers’ favorite part of the day had been, she did not hesitate. They all agreed. “That people would stand in the rain for us.”

Get that?

It was the rain that blew them away (thankfully, not literally).

At that moment, it dawned on me. Who wouldn’t eagerly leave school or their job or organize a yard get-together on a sunny day for such an occasion? But our citizens refused to let bad weather prevent them from saying thank you for the enormous sacrifices these men made for us.

God did not stop the rain. No doubt because Isaiah 55:8-9 is true. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.

I need to remember that.

Rain or shine.

Eighty-three-year-old Howard, a tennis partner of Dave and mine in Mexico, commented about Carolyn, a Canadian friend who also winters in Mazatlan. Carolyn had been ailing for several months and had lost so much weight, she offered me all of her “big-sized clothes” because she no longer could wear them.

(Good friends do that, you know.)

Both men and I were discussing Carolyn’s weight loss. Howard said she looked feeble. It was an opening I could not resist.

“Howard, do you think I’m feeble?”

He took no time to respond. “I think you’re a tank.”

The cannonball had been shot. It was too late to reload.

I responded, as together as my personality would allow. “A tank? I’M A TANK?”

Backpedaling out of this potential war zone, Howard attempted to take a different aim. “A tank, in a good sense. Like a formidable force, an arsenal to be reckoned with.”

It was a nice save, I’ll admit, even if it was too desperate and too late.

For Howard, that is. It was the perfect time for Dave to defend me.

And he would have, I’m sure, had he been able to stop laughing.

Howard would live to regret that remark. Everyone who knows Howard—who, not coincidentally, headed the lab that worked on the first nuclear bomb and frequently uses military metaphors– soon learned of his verbal faux pas, which, of course, I couldn’t wait to share. His size-two wife was mortified, and our other friends at first were shocked by his directness. Then it became funny, the word spread and tank jokes became the norm.

To everyone’s—except Howard’s delight, I must add.

Was I offended? Absolutely not. I know Howard. I know his intent. As a military man, he honestly thought he was paying me a compliment.

And no, my head is not stuck in a turret. I am well aware that there are others whose “tank” comment would be anything but funny. The truth is, we are all concerned about Carolyn’s weight loss (which, I must admit, I have found.) Add to that the fact that when I play the net in tennis and the men try to break my nose with their shot, I say “Bring it on!” instead of acting wimpy. Howard knows I am tough, a trait I wear like a badge of honor.

No one likes to be around thin-skinned people who don’t take laughter seriously. In medieval times, those who viewed themselves with such self-importance that they acted with extreme seriousness were labeled “accidy,” which just “happens” to be one of the seven deadly sins. People like the Pharisees were viewed in this light. They poked fun at nothing, especially themselves. B-O-R-I-N-G!

I am the opposite. I laugh at myself. As a Christian, I must, if I am to obey God and love my neighbors. In 1 Corinthians 13:5, we learn that “loving” means we are not to be easily provoked or stirred to anger. When the fuse of offense is lit, I must check the intent and ask God to guard my heart and help my reaction.

I have watched marriages dissolve and friendships implode because one (or both) of the parties are hyper-sensitive. Innocent comments offend those who are so preoccupied with “self” that they fail to understand that we all are sinners, we all make mistakes, we all say things without thinking them through.

Please don’t misunderstand me. This column is not about comments intended to wound or destroy. This is about not taking ourselves so seriously. There is a huge difference, much like a tank to a pistol. To make it clear…Howard’s a pistol.

I’m a tank.

Mollie has a multitude of physical problems including Fibromuscular Dysplasia and Parkinson’s disease. Lael has rheumatoid arthritis. They are long-time friends, and the three of us were together last weekend in Austin, Texas, for Lael’s son’s wedding. Over the years I have watched both friends struggle with their health, refuse to complain, and fight not to give in to—or dwell on– their complications.

My trip to Texas was one of encouraging encounters, no doubt because the Lord wastes no opportunities.

Alone with a woman on the airport shuttle in Kansas City, I complimented her purse (so, so cool), and we began chatting. She works for FEMA. Recently she had helped in the Houston clean-up of a demolished house where she found a purple heart and dog tags from World War II and was able to return them to the aging owner who, as you can imagine, was ecstatic. So was I, after hearing her story.

Walking down the jetway, I struck up a conversation with a young gal who shared that she had never flown before. I told her the flight would be pretty bumpy (As proof, I was putrid green when we landed) and not to be alarmed by it because forty mph winds have a way of testing our stomachs but never the plane.

When I asked if she was on vacation, she answered that she was going to meet her biological father for the first time. Through Facebook, they had linked, and he had sent her a plane ticket. Talk about cool! (Had my connection to Austin not been so tight, I might have hidden behind a pillar in Houston’s baggage claim to eavesdrop.)

Then there was the young executive, returning from a NYC business trip, who sat beside me and proudly shared videos of his one-year-old son eating his first corn dog and later playing with a garden hose. I told him what every grandmother tells a young parent about cherishing every moment because these babies grow up way too fast, etc., etc., etc. Our conversation flitted like a moth to a flame, and I ended up learning he teaches baseball to inner-city children in his spare time. More cool stuff.

Three total strangers had brightened my day, helping somewhat to minimize the airline losing my luggage. Still, the best was yet to come.

Mollie picked me up at the Austin airport, and even though her palsy was more pronounced than I expected, she was upbeat and reassuring, praising God that her disease had claimed only one arm and not two.

My friend invited me to attend her Parkinson’s boxing class which, I learned, slows the progression of the incapacitating disease. I told Mollie that this could be an exercise class where I finally might have a chance!

The technique focuses on both cognitive and physical demands. Some repetitions require counting backward from 100 by three’s. (So, okay, maybe I wouldn’t have a chance after all!) Other actions involve boxing glove strikes numbered for specific positions. Upper-cuts, for instance, is called out by the instructor as “five” for the left hand and “six” for the right hand. And get this! The leader, Dr. Shirley (Chow) had been raised in Fort Scott! Cooler yet.

Mollie encouraged all of the attendees, especially those with advanced deterioration, and it was clear they all loved her and her cheerful attitude. I left there refreshed and not a little sweaty.

The best part about my time with Mollie was to catch up on all she and her husband, Cal, are doing to serve God. They lead Celebrate Recovery meetings, teach Bible studies and are testimonies of a healed marriage because they “got real” with Jesus Christ by understanding the Bible is not a “how to learn to fix yourself” book; rather, it is a “how to learn of God’s mind-blowing love” book. They love God passionately, no matter their circumstances.

And that, Readers, was the coolest part of it all.

“Grandma, is that a fanny pack you’re wearing?”

“Yes, Mo, it is.
“You’re really wearing a fanny pack?” (Underwear on my head could not have embarrassed her more.)

“It’s easier to travel without lugging around a purse.”
Jenn, Mo’s mother, intervened. “There’s nothing wrong with a fanny pack, Mo.”

Mo’s eyes widened. She was embarrassed. This grandma wasn’t cool.

We were in Ireland celebrating Jeff, my oldest son’s, St. Patrick’s Day birthday. Fortunately, I was prepared for the “sleet and snow” forecast for our seven-day trip (four in Ireland and three in Scotland).

Galoshes, poncho, umbrella. Check

Sweatshirts, under layers, coat, gloves, winter hat. Check

Swimsuit—in case our hotel had a jacuzzi and to further embarrass my grandkids. Check

Jenn, her children Drake and Mo, and I decided to brave the sleet and take the Dublin city bus tour. There were a few problems locating the starting point, like how our map was confusing and every passerby I asked spoke French or Chinese. When we finally spotted the “Easy-On-Easy-Off” bus a block away, I began sprinting to make sure we weren’t left behind. No doubt my attempt at running was not a proud moment for my grandkids. Must have been the fanny pack…or the multiple layers of clothing I was wearing…or perhaps a combination of the two.

Waving like a wind-up toy, I scampered towards the bus, alerting the driver we needed to board. As we neared, the driver opened the door and hollered for us to hurry up. What do you think we are doing? I wanted to answer and had I any breath left, I might have. Leading the charge, I collapsed into a seat in the middle of the bus. My family followed.

The driver–paid to pretend he likes tourists–wasn’t a fan. He turned and asked to see our tickets, tickets that we should have purchased a few blocks away and not here at a traffic light that had turned green but because some crazed grannie and her family were running straight towards the front of his bus neither this driver nor those behind him made the green light. Mo and Drake were mortified.

I didn’t care. I did what I had to do. We would not be left behind. Which is never fun. And sometimes, eternal.

Chances are unless you were born in the last decade, the words “Left Behind” ring a bell.

Left Behind is a series of 16 best-selling religious, fictional novels by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, dealing with the end times. People were fascinated by the books, as proven by the 80 million copies sold, and for many, it was the first time they realized the seriousness of the end times. Why? Because too many Christians are embarrassed to share the truth of Scripture. Jesus wasn’t. In Matthew 24:40 he simplifies what will happen when the end comes: “Two men will be in the field; one will be taken and the other left.”

Husband and wife will be shopping at Walmart. One will be gone. One, left.

Two friends will be driving on the freeway. One will be gone. One, left.

People will be worshipping in church. Some will be gone. Some, left.

The determining factor? The way they have glorified God by loving Jesus and each other. It won’t matter what color, what race, what gender. It won’t matter how many miracles they performed or what church they attended, and it certainly won’t matter if they are wearing a fanny pack around their waist or underwear on their heads.

In spite of what their grandkids think.

We celebrate Easter this Sunday because Jesus died and was resurrected so that you and I can spend eternity with him. In Matthew 18:2-4 he lays out the blueprint for what we need to do.

Jesus called a little child to him and put the child among them (his disciples). Then he said, “I tell you the truth unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven. So, anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.” (bolded lettering mine)

The somber words lack loopholes. If you and I want to get to Heaven, we must be like children: vulnerable; needy; dependent. Gary Haugen, author of Just Courage: God’s Great Expedition for the Restless Christian, writes that these aren’t adjectives most Christians use to describe themselves. The majority—and I include myself here—are cut out for a “more muscular” approach to the life of Christ.

Haugen’s book was recommended to me by my son, Adam. On page one, the author speaks of his college experience when he read John Stuart Mill’s 1859 essay “On Liberty.” In explaining why words lose their meaning, Mills used the example of Christians who have the ability to say the most wonderful things without believing them. I get it.

Take the words we say, for example. “It’s better to give than receive.” “Judge not, lest you be judged.” “Love your neighbor as yourself,” Haugen questioned how differently he would live his life if he actually believed those things. (I would add “If we lived like the Resurrection is real.”)

He ultimately would find out. Rejecting the safe, easy path, Haugen instead would yield himself to God’s calling and give up his job as a prosecutor at the Department of Justice to start a non-profit organization determined to rescue helpless individuals. As founder of the International Justice Mission (IJM), Haugen has spent the majority of his adult life rescuing young girls trapped in the sex trade industry, abused orphans and widows, and slaves (yes, actual slaves—more than 40,000,000!) tortured while laboring in work mills. Through some of those projects, Adam came to know this remarkable man.

Rarely do I recommend a book, but this is an exception. Page after page, I could insert my name in Haugen’s pre-conversion lifestyle description:

• I prefer safety and security and too often will miss the adventure instead of gambling on the unknown.
• I would rather be an adult than a child “where I can still pull things together if God doesn’t show up.”
• I do not have set times for prayer. (Haugen models his organization’s dependence on prayer after Mother Theresa’s who couldn’t imagine doing her work for more than 30 minutes without prayer.) When Adam joined Haugen at his headquarters, he was amazed when an 11:00 A.M. bell rang, all work stopped and everyone prayed. Why? In Haugen’s words, “We don’t do this so much as a matter of discipline but out of desperation.”

Haugen’s book is a call to action for Christians who know there is more than words, who feel a sense of disappointment in the way their life is turning out, who want their life in Christ to be more significant, more vivid, more glorious. He calls it a “holy yearning for more.” I call it “making Jesus’ Resurrection real.”

If those words describe your heart’s cry to serve God more authentically, Just Courage: God’s Great Expedition for the Restless Christian is a great place to start.

Blondin was a 19th-century acrobat, famous for his tightrope acts 160 feet above Niagara Falls on a rope which was over a thousand feet long. His feats varied from being dressed in a sack to walking on stilts to pushing a wheelbarrow full of potatoes to riding a bicycle. One time he stopped in mid-section and cooked an omelet on a small portable stove. At one exhibition, Blondin asked his audience, “Do you believe I can carry a person across the falls in this wheelbarrow?” Of course, the crowd shouted that yes, they believed! Then he posed the question, “Who of you will get in the wheelbarrow?” Of course, no one volunteered. Dave, my husband, and I were invited to our son and daughter-in-law’s house to help plan an upcoming camping adventure for a group of high school baseball players. Adam and Jenn had purchased 30 Bibles for the two-day event. The theme? Trust. Adam asked four coaches and two close friends–Curtis, a Special Forces Operator, and Zach, an Army Ranger (who would leave three days later for his 11^th deployment)—to help. The teens, divided into two teams, would follow a map to specific locations where they would be given assignments to find a locked box with instructions as to what they were to do next. In order to get the code to unlock the box, they were assigned Biblical parables or selected verses to read as a group. They would radio to the adults their interpretations of the passages. Among other benefits to the athletes, it was a unique way to show them that answers to life’s problems could be found in the Bible. As we adults discussed the best way to organize the event, the subject of “belief” came up. True “belief.” Not just believe that George Washington was our first president, but the kind of belief that changes our hearts. The kind that makes me confident about jumping into a wheelbarrow to cross Niagara Falls, trusting completely in the one pushing. As it turned out, in 1859, Blondin’s friend and manager, Harry Colcord, showed such confidence. He was strapped to Blondin’s back, and the pair set off across the tightrope. As they reached the halfway point – the most dangerous section of the rope – Blondin said to his friend, “Harry, you are no longer Colcord; you are Blondin. Until I clear this place, be a part of me – mind, body, and soul. If I sway, sway with me. Do not attempt to do any balancing yourself. If you do we shall both go down to our death.” Harry trusted his wiser, more experienced friend, and carefully the Great Blondin continued along until at long last the pair safely reached the other side. God invites us to do the same. To become one with Him. The parable in John 15:5 explains how this works. “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” In other words, there is a oneness that is necessary for Kingdom work to be accomplished. Two are joined and move in sync. Sever the two and death will occur. I can think of no greater feeling than when I am “one” with God when I trust (believe) I am moving according to His desires and not mine. As for trusting Blondin to be my partner? No way. But God? He can carry me across life’s tightrope anytime He wants.

“The nuns trust us!” The Gringos folding clothes at the Catholic Orphanage here in Mexico were elated. For weeks a team of 30+ have met at the complex to clean, repair, demolish, reconstruct and paint what has been ignored for decades. We are faithful in showing up and diligent in this massive undertaking.

In spite of that, the nuns remained cautious about opening the Bodega, a storage unit the size of a three-car garage crammed with bags of donated clothing. Fearing that we, like dozens of other groups, are fly-by-nights, they would not risk their treasures being stolen. After all, this was money for them. The clothes they reject are either sold as hand-me-downs or as rags.

But this week was different. The elderly nun showed up with the cherished Bodega key to allow Peter, our organizer, to peek inside. Immediately he pulled Alison off my paint crew and asked her to check it out. Alison’s main job at another orphanage is to organize its Bodega, and she’s good at it, but she never expected to see a mess of this magnitude.

Where to start? Fumigation. With floor-to-ceiling mounds of garbage bags, some which have been there for years, one could only guess what critters were nesting in the piles. Once that task was finished, seven women were assigned to the Bodega.

Peter purchased folding tables, and it was there the ladies labored over each bag. Oddly, it was the nun who was the pickiest about what clothes were kept. When a cute pair of girl’s jeans was pulled from a bag, it was she who told the volunteers those jeans were “out of style.” The nun had an opinion on every article of clothing or material the women unpacked.

By the third week, the ladies were elated when the nun had errands to run and left them alone. No longer was she concerned that the items would be stolen or put in the wrong bag. They had earned her trust. Word spread and our entire volunteer community celebrated.

When the nun confided in Peter that two teenage girls were becoming defiant and disrespectful, Peter had to convince them that he could provide a psychologist to help. Gradually, when the nuns realized that Peter was committed to doing what was best for the orphanage, their trust in him increased. It was then they gave him permission to paint the entire complex.

Trust is a must. No matter who is involved.

Nun with volunteer. Parent with child. Boss with employee. Spouse with spouse. Teammate with teammate. Coach with athlete. Teacher with student. Friend with friend. Doctor with patient. Pilot with passengers. Christian with God.

Viable relationships are dependent on such confidence.

Yet sometimes those we trust let us down, don’t they? And we feel betrayed. We forget that all of us are sinners and ignore Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all of your heart…”

Not the itsy-bitsy, happy-heart corner that celebrates when we find a parking spot or lose a pound, but “all” of our heart, even the part—especially the part– that aches when things aren’t lining up the way we know they should be (and would be in a perfect world). We are to trust, the practical outworking of faith, to allow God to fumigate the trash we have accumulated in order to give us a fresh start. For some of us, that task, like the bodega, seems overwhelming. Fortunately, God doesn’t see it that way. All He asks is that we give Him the key so He can start.

One bag at a time.