Weird name for a Blog? It just kind of seemed to fit this journey of my life. I've been a little emotional these last couple of days and thought perhaps I could figure it out if I wrote about it.
We've had quite a run of break ins to our property - 2 in the last week. That could have a lot to do with it. Because we have surveillance cameras, we can see the perpetrators. It doesn't necessarily help catch them, but it does give me some closure to at least know when they were here and what they took. Just before we went to Cuba a fellow was right in our back deck and helped himself to 2 boxes of M&M Chicken Fingers (thanks to our son Mike for solving that one - we couldn't tell what the boxes were tucked under his arms, but Mikey figured it out!!) The fact that he was actually in our back deck really upset us. When we got back from Cuba, another fellow jumped our 6' fence and got into the garage and emptied 2 fire extinguisher - filled my Jeep - and went through Ken's hunting stuff and took knives and white camo gear. He also was in our back deck - left the freezer wide open and the lid off of the mincemeat tarts (didn't seem to care for them!!). Anyways . . . we've had a 15 year old on our bedroom floor this week. Ken was very distraught and I seemed to take it all in my stride - got my car towed . . . talked with the police . . . until about Thursday when it started to hit me. I read an article in the graphic that set me in a tailspin. It was in the national section - a native band member from Alberta commenting on their petition to Ottawa to have the right to vote off of the reserve band members who where too violent or causing too much trouble. I was livid. Send them where??? To us. I felt something flick a switch in my heart. Up to this point, I had been able to stay away from the whole prejudice thing no matter how many times the person violating our property turned out to be a native. All of a sudden I was so angry at the native people and the dysfunction of their youth. With this switch came a heaviness of heart and unhappiness. I know this is a long story, but I don't want to forget it...so bear with me. Then a neat thing happened. Ken and I were heading out to McDonald's for coffee one morning and we saw this hitch hiker holding up a Russian flag. I quickly called my Dad and sicked him on him!! Thought he could share the gospel! Turned out he was a vibrant Christian who travels the world selling flags to cover his cost as he share the gospel. They had a wonderful visit and Dad fed him and sent him on his way. Well, about a week or so later, he was passing back through town and called up Dad. He brought him home and fed and showered him . . . took him to MCC for new boots and a coat and gave him a bed for the night. (Mom was really praising me at this point - not!!) Before they sent him on his way the next day, they called me to come meet him. When I met him, I instantly did not like him. I didn't like the way he looked, I didn't like the way he spoke, I just didn't like him. (Nice Christian, eh?) Then I started to listen to him. I began to get past the outer appearance. I realized I was in the presence of someone pretty amazing. Before he left, he insisted we pray. We humored him. Really. That was what it felt like. We humored him. I am so ashamed. Then he started to pray. I began to weep. Literally, tears and snot poured off of my chin and I could do nothing about it because we were holding hands. I was on holy ground - as I have never been before in my life. I wondered if this is how the two felt on the road walking with Jesus after they realized who He was. I was broken. When he finished praying my Dad prayed. Then he (the traveler) looked and me and with authority said - You pray! Did I pray!! I poured out my heart before God - overcoming the discomfort of my parents being in the room - no offense intended at all. When we were finished and I had dried off my face, he began quoting in his quick heavily accented English, the scripture about the Pharisee and the poor man praying in the temple. He quoted the whole thing from memory as if he were the one that told the story in the first place. And then he pointed to me and said "meditate on this scripture". I said I would. As he began to leave he turned back and said. "Make sure you meditate on this scripture today". I have never had anyone directly tell me to do something with such authority. So I pondered. And I pondered. Was I like the Pharisee? Was I looking down on others . . . thinking more of myself than I ought to? Ever so gently the man in the paper and his story began to enter the picture. I thought I was better than the natives who were breaking into my home. Prejudice is really just another word for hatred. Hate was not sitting well in my gut. It was making me miserable. I turned my back on it right then and there. And still I pondered. I wanted to know. Am I like the Pharisee? The rest is for another day. And sad to say, there is more. I am definitely a sick sinner saved by grace. Much thanks to my dear friend - a strange little hitch hiker - an angel unawares. I will see you on the other side.
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