And when he asked – “Who touched me?” – she knew that she couldn’t get away unnoticed.

This isn’t a story; it’s a life – a real life encounter with Jesus Christ.  A woman who lived an ostracized, powerless life found life in the powerful, personal touch of Jesus.

And she learned a powerful truth:  we cannot go unnoticed. We may want to; but he won’t let us.

….a few notes from our upcoming Manna of God Summer Bible Study in Bellville. Dates to follow…

“Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet”(Luke 8:47 NIV).

And I felt sorry for her.

To me, she lived a life of nevers. As a teenager, I thought of her as someone who had never had a date and never been kissed; to me, at the time, a fate worse than death. And combined with the fate of never having driven a car, her life was a tragedy. After all, what was better than teenage love and driving? What more did a young girl want?

As I grew older, I felt even sorrier for her. She was never well. Never healthy. Never free of a debilitating disease.  In fact, when she was a very young girl and had been diagnosed as a severe, brittle diabetic, bad became worse on a regular basis. From what I heard, anyway. And I heard plenty.

How the doctors told her she wouldn’t live to be 20, but she did.

How no one thought she’d graduate Magna Cum Laude from the University of Texas in the ‘60’s, but she did.

How when she was told by everyone who loved her that she couldn’t travel overseas to a communist country, she did anyway. And she survived losing her passport and wrangling with the authorities. Oh, and did I mention her vision was impaired?

How everyone tried to convince her she couldn’t work, but she always found a way to do something and helped support her mother, also an invalid, until the day her mom died. 

And then there was the finale, really, when Hurricane Ike began its final menacing descent on Galveston, she was, I think, the last to leave and only because she stood in the road, holding on to the leashes of her dogs, and a garbage truck picked her up and took her to Ball High School, where she eventually was evacuated to San Antonio. Against her will, I think.

Linda’s dad was dead, her mom ironed for a living, and they never had enough money, supported in part by relatives, including my mom who sent her money and care packages on a regular basis. Linda, by the American standard, was never a success story.

But when I went to her funeral this past week and sat at the graveside in the hot Texas sun with 14 other people who had driven hundreds of miles from various parts of the state to pay tribute to her life, I revamped – rather quickly – my thoughts about Cousin Linda.  

I had only gone to the funeral because it meant a lot to my mom, who wanted both her girls to be there. In some odd way, funerals bring out the best of us. Mom likes her girls, both now over fifty, with her in gatherings. She’s proud of us, and I really feel that in times like these. But I didn’t want to go because I didn’t know Linda besides the term cousin attached to our relationship. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had even talked to her. About her, yes.  Ironically, Ian remembers visiting with her and having wonderful conversations with her; but I don’t.  

I went to the funeral feeling deeply sorry for Linda, but glad she was no longer suffering;   I left  thinking, “Wow! What a life lived!” 

Many relatives and friends had beseeched God for over six decades to heal Linda, but God did not; instead, he gave her people -- a few, very special friends and a few, very special relatives.

One beautiful raven-haired woman met her in the veterinarian’s office when Linda, who was crying, didn’t have cab fare to return home. Their lives mingled together after that, and a friendship developed that lasted until Linda’s death. Linda couldn’t drive; her new friend could. And her friend repeatedly did in the years that followed. God didn’t heal her; but he answered a prayer.

One beautiful writer was forced out of her own urban hermitage, as she called it, when she discovered Linda was her neighbor, delightedly discovering their similar interests: both were educated women and avid readers and animal lovers and night owls. Convinced that Linda would have been a strong leader for women had her circumstances been otherwise, the neighbor also delighted us with stories of how Linda, whose volume of The Rise of the Roman Empire was dog-eared and worn, loved listening to late-night radio shows about alien abductions!   God didn’t heal her; but he answered a prayer.

One beautiful niece, who discovered Linda later in life, helped support her through many disastrous situations, including her seemingly oblivious manner towards her health. Linda lost that battle. If she was in the hospital eating exactly like she was supposed to, her blood sugar was still off the charts. She felt bad regardless of what she ate, so she ate what she wanted, including Fritos and Twinkies. Her grocery shopping drove the niece and her family crazy, but they loved her and helped take care of her. God didn’t heal her; but he answered a prayer.   

Then there was the story of the doctor who would actually send a cab for her so she could make her doctor’s appointments! Again, God didn’t heal Linda; but he answered a prayer.

And then there was my mom who loved Linda like she was her own daughter. I don’t think mom missed too many days without talking to her. She prayed for her, worried about her, sent her gifts, gave her money, and treated her like a cherished daughter, which she really was. On the day she died, mom had yet another care package ready to send to her. God didn’t answer mom’s prayer to heal Linda; instead, God sent my mom to care for her, to love her, to take care of her over and over again. God answered a prayer.

Dangerous, dramatic escapes from near-death situations and genuine, earnest friendships enjoyed over cream of wheat and margarine and equal. Stories of nobility and courage and determination mingled with stubbornness and a refusal to do it any other way but her own. Linda, weak by the standards of the world, was one tough cookie.   

My sister and I sometimes joke that we’re glad we’re adopted, glad we don’t have the stubborn McCoy gene that we see in so many of our relatives. But that ornery, stubborn, real McCoy gene (remember the McCoy-Hatfield Feud?) gave Linda the stamina to live a life against the odds. Even though it seemed otherwise, God gave her strength. God answered a prayer.  

From the dog who sat in her lap and loved watching basketball, the dog who supposedly knew how to work the remote, (not too sure about that one)  to true friends and caring relatives, Linda was loved and cherished. Her favorite expression – “Get me out of this mess!”  – will be repeated often.   

I think she walked the tightrope between crazy and sane at times, and I remember not wanting to push her off the wrong way. She was somewhat eccentric and stubborn, but dignified. Those who talked about her knew her well – her intelligence as well as her quirky idiosyncrasies -- as Linda did not live a life of pretense. And even though she drove those who loved her crazy with her stubbornness,  that same stubbornness made her a survivor. And they all agreed, she was a doer even though it didn’t seem like she could do too much.  

Linda might have lived a life of nevers, but there were never-ending stories of her tenacity and nobility throughout the memorial service, organized by my 92-year-old mom and her baby brother. I will remember Linda now, not as an unanswered prayer, but as living a life of answered prayers. God gave her people, not health. To me, she has become an invitation to peer beyond what is visible and see how God really works – bringing people together, giving us opportunities to help others, and making a difference in the lives of each other.

Linda wasn’t suppose to live past 20; she died at 64.  

And I wasn’t supposed to sit in the sun, but I would have sat in the sun a lot longer just to listen to more stories about Linda, the cousin I'll never think of in the same way again. 

But on Easter Sunday, as the family gathered at her church in Houston, the tiny cell phone became her giant nemesis when one of her mischievous grandchildren texted her repeatedly during the service, startling her and upsetting her and disrupting what should have been a more reverent time. But we were in the back pew. And bad in the back pew isn’t unheard of, even in church.

“Somebody keeps calling me,” she said to me.

“So turn off your phone, “I thought to myself. Believe me, I didn’t say that one out loud. Not to my once red-headed mother who is one of the real McCoys known for their fiery temper and the McCoy-Hatfield Feud. Nope. I knew better than to say that out loud in church. This time I kept my mouth shut. My mom didn’t want to turn off her phone; she just wanted the person to quit texting her.

And that was just the beginning.

The church music was loud, a contemporary service with drums and electric guitars and lots of speakers, modern music with lovely lyrics and upbeat worship, but for a 92-year-old woman with hearing aids, the loud noise was impossible; she prefers a quiet traditional service with the familiar Baptist hymnal music of “Amazing Grace” and “Standing on the Promises” and “The Old Rugged Cross.” But all of us -- her daughters and son-in-law and her brother and sister-in-law and grandchildren -- couldn’t make it in time for the earlier service.  

And then it happened. As the uplifting, lively praise music reached a crescendo, I saw my mom’s involuntary reaction:  hands covering her ears, mouth frowning like she was in arthritic pain, eyes squinting as she peevishly glared at the musicians from her vantage point in the back pew, my mom, dressed pretty in pink, was pretty unhappy. But oh how happy it made everyone else looking at her for she was darling. Always will be one of my fondest memories of her. Vibrantly alive, actively involved, there was nothing passive about this woman less than eight years shy of 100 years old. Fully present in the moment, she obviously wasn’t happy, and we knew it.

Yes, she loves Christ Jesus; yes, she typically worships with reverence; yes, she’s celebrating the day of her risen Lord. But she was irritated and uncomfortable and ready for lunch. Even on Easter Sunday.

Later, my sister told me that mom once jumped so hard when the music began that she knocked her hearing aids out of her ears, and Janie had to crawl under the pews to find them. What a story that made. I got a text about that one – after the service, of course. Texting in church isn’t a regular occurrence.

Bad in the back pew, however, wasn’t the only thing we were convicted of that Sunday. The Romans 8 sermon by Dr. Duane Brooks was powerful, essentially discussing how God loves us and how there’s not one thing we can do about it. Not one thing. Even bad behavior in the back pew.

But I was also convicted of something else simply by watching my mother. Sometimes we want what is bothering us, like the phone, to stop.  To stop irritating us. To go away. And we’re not happy or comfortable when it doesn’t. Not one bit.

So when it doesn’t stop – again, like her cell phone -- we have to be willing to put the phone up and turn the hearing aids down and live without these conveniences so we can concentrate on God. And if we can’t do that by ourselves, we have to ask for help for I realized, belatedly, that mom didn’t know how to turn off her phone.

By concentrating on God, however, we’re doing the best we can.

A dear friend told me recently, “Becky, do the best you can, not more than you can.” Not bad advice. Whether we’re 92 or 22, that’s not bad advice at all.

The back pew, as it turns out, isn’t bad at all.

But next time, we’ll take Gran to the more traditional service!

Who can separate us from Christ's love?

Can trouble or hard times or harm or hunger? Can nakedness or danger or war? …No In all these things we will do even more than win! We owe it all to Christ, who has loved us.

I am absolutely sure that not even death or life can separate us from God's love.  Not even angels or demons, the present or the future, or any powers can do that. Not even the highest places or the lowest, or anything else in all creation can do that. Nothing at all can ever separate us from God's love because of what Christ Jesus our Lord has done.

Romans 8:35-3 (NIRV).

Today, a dear friend moved out of her lovely home, which now belongs to my sister. 

I’ve gained the physical closeness of my sister, but I’ve lost the physical proximity to my friend.

It’s a bittersweet day. Gain and loss always seem to go together.

When I visited with my friend Donna Pilcik Rolater recently about her decision to sell her lovely home and move back to Dallas, closer to her children, the only word I could come up was:  bittersweet. Donna and her husband, Tony, will be missed by countless people whose lives are now better because this couple moved to Bellville years ago. And even though we are happy for the exciting things in their future -- a new grandbaby they will be living close to, for one -- we are understandably sad for the void they leave behind is deep and wide. Both Donna and Tony hit the ground running once they moved here, and neither have stopped. 

And what a legacy they are leaving behind. Whether it’s Tony’s active involvement in the fire department, where his professionalism has impacted the department and benefited all of us as he has served as chief, or Donna’s tireless support in countless Christian organizations, and I do mean countless, both of them walk the walk and talk the talk.  Their lives are a true exemplification of what it means to follow Christ.

Recently, while Tony was showing Janie around the property, Donna and I talked about their impending move, the brevity of life on earth, and the quick way it can be over, and her comment will always stay with me:  you want to be by the people you love the most.  Simple words, yet packed with power. And certainly helpful in making a life-changing decision.

When my sister Janie first saw the Rolater’s home, she asked our other sister Liese and me to pray that she’d  make the right decision. While we were doing so, Donna and Tony were praying for the right person --  a believer in Christ -- to buy their house. God’s timing is always perfect. And a bittersweet deal, God-style, was done.  

So as Tony and Donna begin their new life in Dallas and Janie begins her new life in Bellville, they do so loved and cheered and encouraged by many, and I have no doubt God will continue to bless each of their lives in a way that only He can do.

It had been one of those days. You know the kind when nothing goes right? No thing. Not even one. And I was exhausted and ready to go to bed for the weekend if I could have gotten away with it. And I should have gone to bed -- even for the night -- but I didn’t.

Instead, I yelled at Ian. For something important, I’m sure, like not taking out the trash last month or helping me with the laundry last week.  Something so important that I don’t even remember now what it was.

And then, in the midst of my irrational tirade, I caught a glimpse of myself, reflected in the window of our family room.

Wearing one of Ian’s old, white undershirts, covered with chocolate pudding (sugar-free, fat-free, of course) that had dribbled down the front, I had a bleached blond streak in my halo of tangled, ratted hair and black mascara circling my maniacal, yes maniacal, brown eyes.

And then -- the pièce de résistance -- globbed on my face over red splotches that had appeared on my 57-year-old skin was white baby Desitin for somewhere in an hour of desperation I’d read that Desitin dabbed on the face helped the skin! I mean, just look what it does for a baby’s bottom! Oh dear! And once more, to quote Conrad, “The horror! The horror!”

Aghast, I ran and washed my face and then immediately went to bed, realizing that the humiliating horror of what I saw reflected in our back window was actually an answer to my prayer for my reflection showed me, quite vividly, what I needed to change, and it wasn’t the Desitin even though that, too, was quite idiotic.  

Embarrassed, I was also relieved for God, undoubtedly, has a sense of humor. Seeing the ridiculous way I looked and acted was more than comic relief, however,  in the midst of a tragedy staged by a tired woman acting, no overacting, like she was on death’s door when all she needed was to go to bed and rest; but it was comical. And it was most definitely God’s answer to my prayer.

Lord, show me what I need to change.

And He did.

I’m pretty sure there are a few things I need to stop doing today. And I’m pretty sure God’s been watching a lot longer than a few seconds.

"Do what is right and good in the sight of the Lord" 

(Deut 6:18a NRS).

Or vice versa....oh, there's always that, too!

"Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. ⁸ Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. ⁹ But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. ¹⁰ That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Corinthians 12:7-10 NIV).

A former student, now a friend and fellow writer, nudged me out of a labyrinth I was wandering around in, not really looking for the end, just taking my time and enjoying the scenery as I sauntered to and fro a maze of procrastination. Stalling really. I prefer to write, not edit. To revise, not punctuate. To create, not airbrush the type. I love to write; the editing process is tedious. And my eyes are older now. Trifocal lenses and all. One nearsighted contact, one farsighted contact, and pink, dollar store reading glasses as well.   

I have a book to finish editing, and I was being lazy about editing it because I had other ideas for more books! The English teacher's curse is to correct and criticize (constructively, of course) and edit until sometimes the desire to finish is stalled. Clarity at all cost! Cut ruthlessly! Strunk and White lives! Editing with no end in sight isn’t motivational; creating anew is more enjoyable.

“I don’t want it to be another thing I start and don’t finish.” Her words were the Minotaur I needed to chase me back to the project at hand.

Ouch!  But thanks, Lacy Elick. Back to editing I go.

And please, anyone reading this blog, pray for me as I finish editing my book!  An English teacher is never satisfied. But “I don’t want it to be another thing I start and don’t finish.”

Jesus finished the work God gave him to do. Finishing is a good goal to keep in mind. And not just for a book. 

It wasn’t the coffee so much that I loved, even though the strong aroma of Starbucks House blend beans grinding was enough to wake me with enthusiasm each morning, but the taste once the unhealthy creamer was stirred in, heaping teaspoon by heaping teaspoon, really heaping Tablespoon by heaping Tablespoon.  Until the coffee was more white, than coffee.  I used to say jokingly that I liked a little coffee with my creamer.  But it wasn’t a joke. And I didn’t use just any ole’ cup either, but a bowl-size coffee mug, which I drank from, not only in the morning, but all day long. It was comforting. And I was addicted.

I’d hear people talk about someone who couldn’t stop drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes, and they’d muse aloud why in the world that person didn’t just stop. Well, I could tell them why. Addiction. I knew. I was addicted to my coffee. And addiction is serious. It's not easy. My biological father -- from what I’ve been told -- lived an alcoholic life.  

Anyway, Ian and I are on a health kick because our oldest son told his daddy that if he didn’t lose weight the safari people would charge him double for a seat in one of the smaller aircrafts while we are in Africa. That’s all it took for Ian – a former banker of 30 years – to be more serious about his weight. And one thing led to another and that desire has become, thankfully for both of us, the desire to become healthier. Which we needed to do. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for that miracle as we hadn’t been able to do it on our own. We needed a little help from those who loved us.

After several weeks of the unpleasant symptoms of withdrawal, complete with headaches and exhaustion, I haven’t missed coffee as much as I thought I would, and by substituting green tea the need for a hot drink in a cold school has sufficed. But for weeks – despite my healthier eating habits and multivitamins and gym workouts -- I’ve felt exhausted. Mentally, not physically. When a friend asked me the other day why I hadn’t been writing in my blog for almost a month, I sat down and thought about it. And I realized what had happened. I always wrote in the mornings – 4:30 or 5:00 AM, the earlier the better for me – but for decades, I always had my coffee when I wrote. Always. The two – my writing and my coffee -- were connected beyond what I had realized. Epiphany!

Part of exhaustion is when you stop doing what you love and only do what you have to do.

And that’s what I had done. For I love to write, musing on paper and pondering my thoughts and reflecting on life, for I never know where my writing might take me. So many times it’s a discovery that I only have when I write. Rambling realizations for sure at times, sometimes an epiphany or a Eureka! moment, or sometimes just because it feels good. But I love writing without stress, not editing for someone or correcting a paper or even teaching it, which I also love to do, but simply writing for the sheer delight of it.   

Part of exhaustion is when you stop doing what you love and only do what you have to do.

No more.

So glad a friend asked me -- point blank -- what was going on.

And here we are seven weeks later, healthier and caffeine-free. Yet now, according to our son, we won’t be on those little planes after all!

Lol!

I always remember my dad on Easter Sunday. For the first 13 years of my life, he was the proud father who gave his beloved daughters pink, sweetheart rose corsages to wear to church. For the past 44 years, he’s been the memory of a proud father who gave his beloved daughters pink, sweetheart rose corsages to wear to church. Not once have I gotten ready for church on an Easter Sunday that I didn’t think of my dad with appreciation, gratitude, respect, and love for the legacy he left behind in his girls. And I’m sure my sister has done the same. 

My sister is now moving to Bellville to a fabulous home where she can keep her horses in her backyard. The other day she told me that Daddy always told her he’d find her a place where she could have horses for my sister has loved them all her life. In fact, she galloped instead of walked and neighed instead of yelled many times and she even ate grass once because that’s what horses did.

So when she made the comment about horses, I wasn’t surprised. Daddy knew how much she loved them and he always tried to do his best for his girls. Then Janie said, “How happy Daddy must be that both his Finch girls are back home.”

With Easter, come so many opportunities to be grateful – especially and most importantly because Christ died and rose so we might live – but with that, comes the reminder of all the fabulous people who were once in our lives that are living right now because Christ rose from the grave. Men and women and children who are not lost from us, just absent from us for a little while.

So, Happy Easter, Daddy! Remembering you, with great love, on this Easter Sunday. Janie and I love you so much.

And thank you, Christ Jesus, for loving us and accomplishing what we could not.

He is risen!