Category Archives: Opinion

Patty LaRoche: The Prophet’s Error, Part 1

When I first read 1 Kings 13:1-34, I was frustrated. With each additional reading, I became more frustrated. God gives so many people second-and- third-and-fourth chances, but this poor guy gets one. And it’s not even his fault. Well, not much. He just lets down his guard for one teensy, weensy minute.

Throughout the entire chapter, this prophet is referred to as a “man of God.” No name. Just “a man of God.” Obviously, he’s done something right. As the story unfolds, this man of God travels from Judah and confronts King Jeroboam who is setting up worship at the altar at Bethel, defying God’s decree that there would be only one altar—in Jerusalem.

The man of God is there to rain on Jeroboam’s idol-worship parade and prophesies that one day a descendent of King David named Josiah will sacrifice priests on that altar. (This came true 340 years later.) For proof, “the altar will split in two.” As one who hates David’s dynasty, the enraged king points to the prophet and commands his attendants to arrest him. Immediately the king’s arm shrivels up and the altar splits apart. This is no minor detail. Proper ritual required the sacrificial ashes be disposed of in a “clean” place (Lev. 4:12; 6:10-11). Contact with the ground nullified the sacrifice. Big trouble for the king.

I can only imagine Jeroboam’s horror. He begs for the man of God to intercede to the Lord to restore his hand. God answers his prayer.

So far, the man of God has lived up to his name.

In return, the king invites the prophet to his palace for a meal and a gift. The man of God answers the king, “Even if you were to give me half your possessions, I would not go with you, nor would I eat bread or drink water here. For I was commanded by the word of the LORD: ‘You must not eat bread or drink water or return by the way you came.’”  The man of God obeys and takes another road home. Clearly, he desires to follow God’s directive.

Word spreads, and an old prophet in the area hears from his sons about the miracle at the Altar of Bethel. He saddles his donkey, chases after the man of God, finds him under a tree and invites him to return for a meal. The man of God reiterates what he has told the king.

The old prophet answers, “I too am a prophet, as you are. And an angel said to me by the word of the LORD: ‘Bring him back with you to your house so that he may eat bread and drink water.’” (But he was lying to him.) So, the man of God returns with him and shares a meal.

Do you have the same questions I have? How was Prophet #1 to know he is being deceived? Why did Prophet #2 go to such efforts to seduce this man of God? Was it so he could brag to his friends that a celebrity had been in his house?

Trust me, there are no answers to these questions. All I know is, at this point I’m really ticked off at Prophet #2.

Let’s pick up in verse 20: “While they were sitting at the table, the word of the LORD came to the old prophet who had brought him back. He cried out to the man of God, “This is what the LORD says: ‘You have defied the word of the LORD and have not kept the command the LORD your God gave you. You came back and ate bread and drank water in the place where he told you not to eat or drink. Therefore your body will not be buried in the tomb of your ancestors.’”

WHAT????

No apologies. No “I’m so sorry.” No “I’ve really screwed up this time.” No “Lord, take me in this man of God’s place.” Nothing (except prophesying his visitor’s doom).

See why I find this frustrating?

If you’re needing a little more frustration, just wait until next week when we will look at the rest of the story.

Patty LaRoche: The Need to Pray

In 1952, Albert Einstein was delivering a lecture on the campus of Princeton University. A doctoral student asked the famous scientist, “What is there left in the world for original dissertation research?” With considerate thought, Einstein replied, “Find out about prayer. Somebody must find out about prayer.”

F.B. Meyer, author of The Secret of Guidance, might have consoled Einstein with his writing: “Prayer is, for the most part, an untapped resource, an unexplored continent where untold treasure remains to be unearthed. It is talked about more than anything else, and practiced less than anything else. And yet, for the believer it remains one of the greatest gifts our Lord has given us outside of salvation.”

Still, the majority of Christians reject this miraculous resource.

For the past few years I have used a power tooth brush. Built into it is a little timer that shuts itself off after two minutes. Flossing adds another minute. Gargling and rinsing, a few seconds more.

From beginning to end, no more than four minutes is used…the same amount of time most Christians (according to statistics) spend in prayer. If that isn’t tragic enough, most of those five minute prayers are spent asking for something. No wonder our faith remains powerless. We expect the Creator of the universe to stay on call to meet our every desire, ready to jump when we order Him to, yet our teeth get the same attention He does.

What’s wrong with this picture?

I recently read a story of a minister observing a young boy kneeling in church praying fervently, repeating the words “Tokyo, Tokyo, Tokyo.” The preacher approached the boy after he finished his prayer and said, “Son, I was very pleased to see you praying so devoutly, but tell me, why did you keep saying “Tokyo, Tokyo, Tokyo”? The boy answered, Well, you see sir, I just finished taking my geography test in school, and I have been praying for the Lord to make Tokyo the capital of France.”

The story is a perfect illustration of how we use God. “Here’s my list, Lord. Don’t take too long to answer.” Thomas Aquinas once wrote, “It is clear that he does not pray, who, far from uplifting himself to God, requires that God shall lower Himself to him, and who resorts to prayer not to stir the man in us to will what God wills, but only to persuade God to will what the man in us wills.”

Oh my, the cry is desperate! Even Jesus, giving the disciples an example of how to pray, used the phrase “Thy will be done” while speaking to his Father in the Lord’s prayer. It has nothing to do with “my” will. We need to learn to pray to accept what God has for us, good and bad. Does that mean that we don’t petition God to hear our pleas? Absolutely not. It simply changes our focus from “Me” to “Him.”

Mother Teresa’s life-changing message resounds with confidence: “Prayer is not asking. Prayer is putting oneself in the hands of God, at His disposition, and listening to His voice in the depth of our hearts.”

Perhaps Einstein just needed to know whom to ask.

Patty LaRoche: The Gift of Giving

Last week I wrote about Akrasia, the state of acting against our better judgment. We “almost” do the right thing but then come up with a kajillion excuses as to why we shouldn’t follow through. During this Christmas season, I have come up with 15 ways we can be a blessing to others. I can think of no better way to turn our “almosts” into action.

  1. Give a compliment, especially in crowded lines where nerves are frayed.
  2. Call the Customer Service Line listed on your receipt and take time to give an employee credit.
  3. Donate blood.
  4. Shop local. Adopt a family and deliver presents for them to open on Christmas day. Once a month, surprise them with a gift card, movie tickets or a bag of groceries on their doorstep.
  5. Find a neighbor with a need and meet it. Trim their tree. Shovel their snow. Weed their garden. Wash their windows.
  6. Speak to a school counselor to obtain the name of students in need. Adopt that student anonymously and meet his/her needs during the school year.
  7. Serve at a homeless shelter or volunteer at a nursing home.
  8. Have your children run cold drinks out to your garbage man, postman or school bus driver.
  9. Bake goodies for the local police and fire department…once a month.
  10. Surprise a homebound person with a pizza.
  11. Pay for someone’s gas (hint: better a Volkswagen than a semi-truck).
  12. Offer to take down the Christmas lights for the elderly or a single mom.
  13. If you know of a wife, mother, or family of a soldier serving overseas, come up with ways you can fill their loneliness and meet their physical needs.
  14. Give a gift of sponsorship to feed a child, provide clean water for a community, rescue a child from sex slavery, or whatever it is you or the gift receiver are most passionate about.
  15.  Share what Christmas is really about.  If you do nothing else on this list, do not neglect this last one.  Believe it or not, lots of people know only that Jesus was a baby, there was no room in the inn and the angels sang.  That’s about it.  They don’t know why He came.  They don’t know who He came for.  You need to share with them the truth.

Luke 19:10  For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.

It will be the best gift you ever can give.

Patty LaRoche: The “Almost” Lifestyle

Several years ago, The Ad Council, the world’s leading producer of public service advertisements, produced a series of commercials for their “Don’t Almost Give” campaign. One such ad shows a homeless man curled up in a ball on a pile of rags. One ratty bed sheet shields him from the cold.

The narrator says, “This is Jack Thomas. Today someone almost brought Jack something to eat. Someone almost brought him to a shelter. And someone else almost brought him a warm blanket.” After a brief pause, the narrator continues: “And Jack Thomas? Well, he almost made it through the night.”

“A-l-m-o-s-t.”

Does your vocabulary contain a few “Almosts”? Mine certainly does.

I “Almost” chose a celery stick over potato salad at last night’s potluck.

I “Almost” called my hurting friend, but didn’t because she’d irritate me by gabbing on for hours.

I “Almost” didn’t fold my arms and mumble when the lady in the grocery store express lane insisted the clerk take her 40 items instead of the 20 allowed.

I “Almost” complimented my pipe-cleaner-look-alike friend on her weight loss.

I “Almost” helped my husband clean out the garage yesterday.

Almost. Almost. Almost.

Unfortunately, not all Almosts are inconsequential. Some of you know what I mean.

You “Almost” read to your child at bedtime.

You “Almost” went an evening without a drink.

You “Almost” kept your promise to pray fervently.

You “Almost” rejected the porn sight on the computer last night.

You “Almost” stopped before sending an ugly text.

You “Almost” made Jesus the Lord of your life.

Socrates and Aristotle developed a word to describe this type of behavior: Akrasia.

Akrasia is the state of acting against your better judgment. It is when you do one thing even though you know you should do something else. From Genesis to Revelation, we learn of characters that were guilty. Adam and Eve. Noah. Moses. Abraham. Saul. David. Rarely do we meet a Biblical character who isn’t an “Almost” type guy.

Perhaps during this Christmas season, we all should be intentional not to demonstrate Akrasiastic behavior and instead, turn our “almosts” into actions.

Next week I will post some ways we can do that very thing, to honor Christ as central to our life story, to bless others and, in return, receive the greatest blessing of all.

Patty LaRoche: Dealing with Customs’

Every day, thousands of people cross the border between the United States and Mexico with no problema. Passports are checked, a few questions are asked, and sometimes the driver is told to open his/her trunk. Within minutes, cars are leaving one country and entering another.

My husband Dave and I understood the protocol.

Sort of. Entering Mexico for an extended stay, drivers register their vehicle at the border, pay $600 for a windshield sticker and drive south, where they then may legally drive in Mexico. When they leave Mexico for the final time, they turn in the sticker for a refund. Easy enough.

Unless their names are Dave and Patty.

First, some background. This past summer while in the U.S., we sold the stickered mini-van. Dave removed the sticker so we could turn it in, register a different vehicle and enter Mexico. Once in the Customs’ office, we waited 30 minutes in the car registration line before explaining to the young gal what we were doing. She made no attempt to understand my Spanish. Or my Charades. Fortunately, a bi-lingual man came forward to interpret. The news wasn’t all that bad. We needed to drive around to the other side of Customs to a small guard shack where we would turn in our sticker.

Which is what we did. Which is where that guard said we needed the sticker AND the mini-van (something about the VIN number). Dave explained that we sold it. “You have to have it to re-register.” “But we sold it.” “You have to have it to re-register.” “But we sold it.” The agent sent us back to Customs. We now found ourselves in the miles-long, bottle-neck of Thanksgiving traffic heading into the U.S. We could see ahead to the cross-road we needed—the empty cross-road—but had at least an hour’s wait to get to it.

My typically-patient husband’s next question shocked me. “What do you think would happen if I drove over the grassy field to get back to where we started?” I told him the guards with the assault rifles would probably blow out our tires. Or our brains.

No problema. Putting the car into gear, Dave took off across the field. We were Bonnie and Clyde, had they lived another forty years. Fortunately, the guards were tending to more important things, like emptying out pick-up beds looking for illegal Americans. Or perhaps they were simply amused at two old fogeys bouncing along the moguled terrain.

Back at the car registration window, we waited in line, found someone who spoke English, and asked him to interpret to the cranky young gal. She didn’t care. No mini-van? No car registration. It finally was determined that we could register this car in my name but Dave could never, ever register a vehicle in his name until he presented the mini-van at the border. Ever!

I think this is a problema.

Sometimes there are systems in place with which we might not agree. Telling the Customs’ agents that we are really nice guys, listing our works in ministry, even showing gifts we are taking to the orphans would do no good. The protocol is in place, whether we like it or not. We should have figured out ahead of time what those rules are because now it’s too late.

Isn’t that the same with our eternal lives? The Bible makes it clear there is a protocol for getting into Heaven, and it has nothing to do with being really good guys or doing missionary work. It’s black and white and has no loopholes, no matter what I might think, no matter how much I might protest or try to explain why I didn’t spend some time on earth figuring this out.

In John 14:6-7a, Jesus explains this to his disciple Thomas. I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. There will be a time when it will be too late. And that, as we all know, is a problema none of us want to face. Thanks to God and His mercy, getting into Heaven is a lot easier than getting into Mexico.

Patty LaRoche: Thankful for the Good and the Bad

My dear friend Frank responded to my Thanksgiving article in which I listed several things for which I am thankful. “Don’t forget good weather…and bad weather.” Simple message with a poignant prompt. I need to be thankful for everything because God many times uses the bad more powerfully than He does the good.

Then, this morning, my husband’s daily Baseball Chapel devotional, submitted by Arnie Knecht, titled “Thanksliving,” reminded me that this holiday wasn’t about a day of thanks; it was about a life of thanks. In Knecht’s words, “Thanksgiving is good. Thanksliving is better.” It is a lifestyle involving how we respond, knowing God “has saved us from a hopeless end and given us an endless hope.”

No matter what He uses to get us there.

Twelve of us were to share a Thanksgiving meal this year. We all are condominium owners in the same complex here in Mazatlan, Mexico, and over the years have become close friends. Deb and Jim offered their unit, and Deb led the charge in organizing things—including writing hysterical minutes when the women met to discuss the details. After all, it mattered whose oven had two shelves and whose had one, who owned a gravy boat and whose stuffing recipe was best. Jim purchased an additional table, and both were set a day ahead with linen cloths, fine china and crystal. Since Dave and I were the last two to arrive and were driving, we were given a list of grocery items the girls could not find in Mazatlan. Captain Deb was prepared for everything.

Except an emergency trip to the E.R. Thanksgiving morning. Deb had awakened her doctor-husband with severe abdominal pain. Because she was recovering from a recent car accident, Jim was concerned it was related. As they left for the hospital, we five wives met in Deb’s condo to create a Plan B for our late afternoon dinner.

Mary asked me to lead us in prayer for Deb and Jim. It was a precious moment of calming reassurance that we were sharing a special experience and gave us the teamwork attitude we needed. Sharon shifted recipe responsibilities as we assumed the duties originally assigned to Deb. Joyce offered her condo for the dinner, but Deb’s would still be the gathering place for much of the food preparation. Their units were ten floors apart but in the same wing, so the elevator became our best friend.

The men transported the second table, the extra chairs and all the place settings to Joyce’s condo, and we were in culinary business. What one couldn’t do, the other could. Sharon rolled out the pie crusts; Carolyn perfected the fluting before making a quick trip to the herb garden to pick fresh rosemary for the turkey. Three worked to skewer the turkey skin over the stuffing while another video’d the surgery. (Three chiefs, no Indians.) In between our assignment at Deb’s, we all returned to our own units to prepare our assigned dishes and then regrouped at Deb’s to make sure everything was covered. We spent the day laughing, cleaning up each other’s spills, comparing recipes and communing in sweet Thanksliving.

Deb’s trip to the hospital was not on our agenda, and when she returned home later that day, we all agreed that God had given us a treasured Thanksgiving memory. Had Deb not become ill, we all would have spent the day in our own condos preparing our dishes, our husbands would have watched football, and later we would have joined together for our meal.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Jim had asked my husband to say the prayer before our meal. Dave’s words were full of thanks, especially that Deb and Jim were home, and that God had done more than we ever expected.

He’s good at that, you know.

“Good weather…bad weather.” Thanksliving at its finest.

Patty LaRoche: Giving Thanks

Psalm 9:1– I will give thanks to you, LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds. On this Thanksgiving weekend, I thought it would be fun to list some of the things for which I am thankful. In no particular order, here they are:

 My husband, Dave. He loves me when I’m pretty unlovable.

 Veterans, police officers and fire fighters—the true heroes in our nation

 A home with 12 steps from my bed to the coffee pot

 Wearing white after Labor Day

 Time spent in my Bible

 Transparent friends who share their hearts and aren’t afraid to admit they mess up

 Butterflies, turtles and blue herons

 Salt

 Phone calls, not texts, from my kids (Feel free to forward this to my children.)

 Lumber yard employees who know what I want when I don’t

 Watching my grandkids play sports (or doing anything, for that matter)

 Indoor plants that survive my gangrene thumb

 Mascara

 My Monday morning Bible study group

 Mail delivery and trash collection

 Pickleball and the friends I’ve made because of it

 When a recipe turns out like the photo-shopped picture (I’m imagining here.)

 Yoga

 Extended warranties

 Mosquito zappers

 Smiles from people I don’t know (Thank you, Walmart greeters!)

 Stilwell lake neighbors

 Highway bumps that wake you up when you are leaving the road (Trust me, I know.)

 Lays’ Kettle Potato Chips—seriously the best!

 Indoor toilets

 Elastic waists

 Shared recipes (Thank you, Jara Martin and Julie Readinger.)

 Warm socks

 Laughter—the kind that takes your breath away and makes you snort

 Dancing to oldies’ music

 Inspirational movies (Hidden Figures is a must.)

 An oven timer that has saved me countless burned concoctions

 Horses—any kind, any size, any age

 Mazatlan, Mexico, and the friends we have made

 My Kindle

 Pizza delivery

 Game nights

 You, my readers

 And most importantly, Jesus Christ.

Patty LaRoche: Interruptions

“I don’t mean to interrupt people. I just randomly remember things and get really excited.” I saw that plaque in a diner and knew exactly what it meant. If I don’t share my thoughts immediately, they will be gone…immediately. Still, I force myself to refrain because it’s downright rude to interrupt. I mean, how many times have you been telling a story when someone one-ups you or changes the subject and takes over the conversation? Without ever asking you to finish yours? I-R-R-I-T-A-T-I-N-G!

A newly-purchased sign, hanging in my step-daughter’s kitchen, counters that quote. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?” Nikki purchased it, hoping a relative gets the point.

And no, I am not that relative.

I’m really not.

On the day of the eclipse, I was at my friend Marti’s house. She was watching her granddaughter, Isabel, and was explaining the solar phenomenon to her. As Marti and I talked, Isabel exploded with random thoughts. Each time, Marti gently told her granddaughter that the adults were visiting and she needed to wait her turn. Isabel tried to be patient, and then she did what every well-mannered child does when she can wait no longer—she raised her hand and waved it frantically. Her behavior was delightful.

Many adults could learn from her example.

Of course, we all know that all interrupting is not bad. Some news should not wait, like telling me my chicken enchiladas are on fire or the neighbor’s dog is chewing on my patio furniture. In reality, life is all about interruptions, isn’t it? Henry Nouwen, a Roman Catholic priest and theologian, wrote, “My whole life I have been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I discovered my interruptions were my work.” I get it. Most of my articles are based on something happening I wasn’t expecting.

Our life’s narrative is constantly being rewritten because of interruptions. In the past year, several of my friends have found that to be true. Cancer. A hurricane. An unexpected pregnancy. Divorce. Bankruptcy. Addiction. Mental illness. Death.

The Bible is jam-packed with interruptions. A young girl’s life was interrupted to be told that she would bring the Messiah into the world. Jesus was constantly interrupted by evil spirits or arrogant religious teachers, moments that gave him an opportunity to remind his listeners of grace. Judas interrupted Jesus’ celebration of the Passover with his disciples and again with his prayer time in the Garden, all leading up to the incredible sadness after Jesus’ death being interrupted by the life-changing news that his grave was empty.

And for those whose lives are based on that resurrection, there remains one final interruption for which we must be prepared. We find it in Thessalonians 1:16-17: For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

It’s an interruption we can’t afford to miss.

Patty LaRoche: A Protest or Ungratefulness?

I see you…I see you, professional football player, as you kneel down during the playing of the National Anthem…I see you, with your arm raised in protest…I see you thinking you are doing something to unite people over social and racial injustice. I see you…

But, more than that, here is what I really see…

I see a man pushing the wheels of his wheelchair as he returns home from a foreign land unable to function as he once did, due to fighting to protect you as you kneel on the ground.

I see a young widow, dressed carefully in black, mourning the remains of her husband, hugging a coffin on the tarmac of an airport. I see that same woman clutching a perfectly folded flag to her bosom as taps is played at his graveside. I see her young son, tears streaming down his face, knowing his father would never come home again.

I see graveyards full of tombstones, here and overseas, with names of those fallen, with dates showing a much-too-early death. I see so many, from so many different wars and conflicts, crosses and stones. They are too numerous to count.

I see the sacrifices made, the hearts broken, the tears shed, the shattered lives all in the name of freedom… all in the name of that red, white and blue piece of cloth that you choose to protest.

Social and racial injustice? You who make millions of American dollars for playing a game in a country where you have more opportunity to make a better life for you and your family than anywhere in the world? Really? The hypocrisy of it astounds me.

First of all, if you really want to protest, give your money and time to make changes. Give to those less fortunate than you. Help those people get an education, buy them food and shelter. Show them opportunities to make better decisions. Teach them that they have a purpose in life. If you really want to protest injustices…

Protest the treatment of veterans, who have to wait extremely long periods of time for healthcare, who are living under interstate bridges in boxes, who are committing suicide. Today over twenty of them will take their lives out of hopelessness and despair.

Protest the people whose goal in life is to make sure an unborn baby doesn’t see the light of day. There will be around 3,500 of them today. There is no greater injustice than that.

Protest the loss of religious rights as some atheist complained so much that public prayer by a group of young players on an athletic field is not allowed.

When I see that flag, when I hear that song, when I sing those words, I give homage to those who died for this land, who continue to protect this land, who don’t know if and when they will ever see their loved ones again. Some say that they died for your freedom so that you can take a knee. I say they died for your freedom so you can stand proudly and be thankful that God has blessed you enough that you can live in a country of so much opportunity.

Go ahead…Go ahead and kneel…Go ahead and be ungrateful.

I am watching…as are millions and millions of others.

We don’t see a protest of unity… we see a protest of disgraceful ignorance.

Source: Anonymous

Patty LaRoche: Preparing for Death

Occasionally I receive an email that makes me laugh out loud. That was my reaction when I read the following:

Two 90-year-old women, Rose and Barb had been friends all of their lives.

When it was clear that Rose was dying, Barb visited her every day.

One day, Barb said, “Rose, we both loved playing women’s softball all our lives, and we played all through high school. Please do me one favor: When you get to Heaven, somehow you must let me know if there’s women’s softball there.”  

Rose looked up at Barb from her deathbed and said, “Barb, you’ve been my best friend for many years. If it’s at all possible, I’ll do this favor for you.”

 Shortly after that, Rose passed on.

 A few nights later, Barb was awakened from a sound sleep by a blinding flash of white light and a voice calling out to her, “Barb, Barb.”  

“Who is it?” asked Barb, sitting up suddenly. “Who is it?”  

“Barb – it’s me, Rose.”   

“You’re not Rose. Rose just died.” 

 “I’m telling you, it’s me, Rose,” insisted the voice.  

“Rose! Where are you?”   

“In Heaven,” replied Rose. “I have some really good news and a little bad news.” 

“Tell me the good news first,” said Barb.  

“The good news,” Rose said, “is that there’s softball in Heaven. Better yet, all of our old buddies who died before us are here, too. Better than that, we’re all young again. Better still, it’s always springtime, and it never rains or snows. And best of all, we can play softball all we want, and we never get tired.”  

“That’s fantastic,” said Barb. “It’s beyond my wildest dreams! So what’s the bad news?”

 “You’re pitching Tuesday.”

You’re at least smiling, right? Maybe even chuckling. How can you not? Still, the message is sobering. What if you and I substitute our names for Barb’s? What if we were told that we had less than a week to live? If you’re like me, all my time would be spent on relationships, hugging longer and more intentionally, making phone calls that should have been made months (years?) ago, having deeper, spiritual conversations with those close to me, asking forgiveness of those I’ve wounded.

Last week, I attended the funeral of Tim Bloomfield. Tim woke up Tuesday morning, having no idea it would be his last. He and his wife Sheryl were going to run errands. He called his brother, ended the conversation with “Later,” and hung up.

But there was no “later.” And the same will be true for all of us. Every second could be our “latest,” bringing us closer to eternity. We must prepare, and no, I’m not talking about getting our arm in shape for the Heavenly softball match. I’m talking about what Jesus referred to as “the greatest commandment:” Love God above all else, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

And that, Readers, is no chuckling matter.

Patty LaRoche: Overlooking a Wrong

Being wronged is never easy, no matter how menial the offense, because the chance to demonstrate our faith is always on the line. “I’m right, and you’re not” lurks like a caged animal desperate to escape. Because of my trust in Google Maps, I was in that cage last week.

Dave and I chose a four-star, Chinese restaurant—obviously so-ranked by starving reviewers– that, although eight miles out of the way, promised a grand buffet worth the drive. Clue one this wasn’t a popular restaurant was the lone car in the parking lot which, as it turned out, belonged to the hwc (hostess/waitress/cook). Multi-tasking at its finest. The menu wasn’t extensive—there was no buffet—but it had several chicken dishes, so I asked which ones had white meat. Simple question.

In her thick, Chinese accent, our hwc mentioned three, with General Tso being one. To avoid any language barrier, I spoke slowly. “General-Tso-is-white-meat?” She assured me it was. “Not-pressed- chicken-but- real-white-meat?” Yes, it was. Dave gave me his look which let me know I’d gone too far. In his opinion, we should not be fussy in a restaurant. Even if he asks for a hamburger well done and it arrives mooing and swatting flies, he won’t complain. If I, on the other hand, ask to speak to the management, he skedaddles for the bathroom.

While our entrees were being prepared, our hwc refilled three times the three sips we had drunk from our water glasses, brought Dave chopsticks and repeatedly asked if we would recommend the hot and sour soup to our friends. She was desperate and I felt sorry for her. I said I would.

But I won’t.

When our food arrived, Dave’s shrimp fried rice looked scrumptious. My “chicken” was a crusty shell encasing a pea-size portion of dark meat. DARK—white’s opposite. I munched on the two broccoli pieces and the rice, and because we were the only customers and our hwc was trying so hard, I opted to say nothing. I know. Shock! Shock! “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” I’m sure I heard angels applauding. Or perhaps it was Dave.

No, it had to be angels.

When our check was presented and my chicken leftovers removed from the table, I was flabbergasted by what came next from our hwc: “Why you order General Tso since you say you like white meat? Next time you come, you need order white meat.” Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

While I decided if what my heart was meditating on should stay there or be uncaged, Dave hastily pulled out his wallet, paid the bill and reminded me that we were in a hurry. (We weren’t.) I knew I had a choice. I could be honest and help this poor lady not make the same mistake in the future with someone less loving, or I could make Dave happy and remain silent. I opted to please my husband. After all, it was a long ride home. Too, when it came down to it, it could have been worse.

At least my chicken wasn’t mooing and swatting flies.

Patty LaRoche: Forgetting the Past

Isaiah 43:18 (NIV): “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.”

I’m not sure there is better—or more difficult—advice.

If your mind is like mine, it chooses to cleave to the past like contact paper to fingers, even though by dwelling on the injustices done to us, we will miss out on what God has for us now. That’s because our brains cannot dwell on two things at once. We are incapable of reliving our past and our present at the same time. Get that? Incapable.

My mind has a tendency to love history, and no, not the “Name the presidents in order” kind of history. The history to which I’m referring is that which happens when Dave and I disagree. It can be something as simple as him telling me that it’s frustrating to wake up to dirty dishes in the sink. I now have a choice: I can make a mental note to never go to bed without cleaning up, or I can thank him for sharing with me what he is feeling and promise to never, ever, ever do that again.

OR…

I can tell Dave that (a.) dirty dishes have no eternal repercussions, (b.) since there’s nothing wrong with his hands, he is perfectly capable of taking care of the dishes if they bother him so much, or (c.) he has a critical spirit that needs addressing because this is not the first time he has found fault with something I have done. And then I will replay whatever has happened over the past, say 43 years, that I have found irritating. (When it comes to remembering these details, I have a photographic memory.)

You can guess how well this all works out. I just have the hardest time remembering that my past is not my destiny.

Unless, that is, I choose to live there.

Paul’s letter to the Philippians gives a better suggestion. Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us. (3:13b-14 NLT)

The challenge of the past is not to see the mistakes of others. It is to train me to remember my mistakes so I can work towards becoming the kind of person God wants me to be. Where I was once selfish, I now can be tender-hearted and other-oriented. Where I was once angry, I now can be loving and kind. Where I was once lackluster about my sin, I now can be pained by how I have pained God.

The truth is this: my heart will not change if I cling to my past. I am to deal with it honestly and then displace it. An old Peanuts cartoon has Lucy standing in the outfield of Charlie Brown’s baseball diamond. As a fly ball sails toward her, she remembers all the other times she’s dropped the ball. And she drops this one, too. Lucy calls out to Charlie Brown, who’s standing on the pitcher’s mound: “I almost had it, but then my past got in my eyes!”

And I assure you, Readers, if we want to “receive the heavenly prize,” that is a ball we cannot afford to drop.