"The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have." V. Lombardi

During my Cold War era days of service with the United States Marine Corps, I kept a 'ready bag' packed to grab and go on a moments notice. Inside was the absolute minimal gear I would need to get by if dropped into an Area of Responsibility (AOR) until resupply was available.

It takes a lot of training and mental fortitude to leave one's family behind unsure what their foreseeable future might hold while you rush to do your job and save the free world from godless commies...

Sorry. I guess that brainwashing sticks with a person long after their time in service is done.

Yes, I have an emergency bag packed and plan in place in the event of disaster or revolution. As a loving husband and father of three, I wouldn't feel comfortable not being prepared. I've gone as far as preparing a Survival Package that contains crucial information that my family will need to know in the event..well...you know...I don't make it. Shelter, water and food plus a driving desire to survive can bring a person through circumstances that might be unimaginable to them today.

So, what would be my five 'extra' things I would grab before leaving? Actually, I've already thought this one through:

1.  My personal Bible. I wrote about this Stone of Remembrance last November. We've been through tough times together already, and I know the reassuring message contained in its pages would resonate strongly in the most dire times.

2. A family picture album. I have one in mind already. Hope is a very powerful thing especially in a survival situation. A picture is worth a thousand words is cliche for a reason.

3. My grandfather's pocketknife. Granted, it wouldn't be much of a tool and far more effective tools are already in the emergency bag, but these single inheritance from my ancestry has not only a ton of stories packed inside...but also a lifetime of wisdom and life lessons.

4.  Several classic novels from the bookcase. Without the blitz of media-laced electronic entertainment, boredom will take hold quick. A nice change of pace from daily biblical stories would be an interjection of modern culture. What better way to keep that culture alive than nightly reading aloud from Steinbeck, Faulkner or Hemingway to pass the time.

5.  My journal. While my story is by no means special, it is uniquely mine. For the several years I've documented my thoughts, prayers, hopes and dreams, those pages are a glance into who I truly am. I would not only want my girls to have those pages, but to pass them on to their children to show them that loving God with all your heart is not just a memorable passage from the Good Book, but a true way of life. A forever changing way of life. I'm pretty sure that comes across loud and clear to this point of the journal.

I don't consider myself a survivalist by any stretch of the imagination. I'm also not an alarmist, but I do realize we live in an unstable world where politics or nature itself can explode at any given moment. Here's one last cliche to chew on:

Better safe than sorry

One thing I know with absolute certainty, regardless of my circumstances, God is with me always.

Connecting the Dots

Ever wonder if something was coincidence or if it was meant to be?  Is it a sign? Or is it just the flow of life?  These are some of the thoughts wandering through my heart this morning.  How interesting to recall stones of remembrance this morning.  How interesting that life caused me to switch my normal day of writing to this day.  I am writing this on Thursday for publishing tomorrow.

There was a time I would have been trying to connect the dots, hoping for a clear picture.  Yet, the cynicism of my character prevents me from hoping, from daring to believe that an answer is immerging.

I am pondering a very important decision.  I wish I had given more thought to this decision years ago.  I remember sitting at the computer ten years ago.  I remember thinking, it’s not too late.  The echo of “you’re a loser” was screaming in my soul.  Words do hurt leaving inerasable imprints on the soul.  I would go back to school.  Ecstatic, I opened the letter of acceptance from Vanderbilt Divinity School.  Ever practical, despite a scholarship, I counted the cost and said, no… tenaciously holding on to the dream, I looked to Trevecca.  In what seemed like a miracle of divine providence, I was able to start classes within days of application.  I would squeeze my large body into seats next to barely grown undergraduates – I was taking the class for graduate credit but sitting with undergrads.

Time moved on – ups and downs – a business opened, a business closed… but the school continued.  The two years for graduation turned into four.  Finally, I finished.  For ten minutes – or maybe a day or two – I felt like I was no longer a loser.  I wore a cap and gown for the first time in my life.  More importantly, I also found I was a great student and loved learning. 

Next stop – seminary, the goal the equivalent of a Masters of Divinity, the needed qualifications for the ultimate goal of DOCTOR.  In my head, I believed the myth that I would no longer be a loser if I achieved that... I quickly learned that a Master’s degree was not enough.  A sour and distracted professor who repeated the mantra of “I’m not optimistic that you can get a ministry placement” once again dashed hopes.  

Finally, I looked else were – acceptance at two EdD programs boosted my bruised morale.  I chose.  I chose Trevecca, my alma mater.  The air smelled sweet as I walked the familiar Trevecca paths once again.

That was a year and a half ago.  Today I will meet with my adviser to discuss withdrawing from the program.  Why?  The reasons are too many to list.  My age, my unemployability, my concerns for the burgeoning debt while facing retirement, lack of enough participation in my research study, my need for purpose and participation in life – as well as a host of small demons that rear their head.  I’ve discovered that an EdD is not a good enough degree either.  Only the exalted PhD will do.

But today, as I think of stones of remembrance, my mind goes back to that first summer intensive.  So excited and so scared I moved into room 101 of Georgia Hall at Trevecca.  For nine days I would experience what I had never experienced in my youth – life in a college dorm.  While I found myself alone and isolated most of the time, I still was excited about life and the experience.  I felt like I was coming out of a very long dark winter of hibernation.  I felt alive.  I felt I had slayed Goliath as I drove from campus that summer.

In a solemn act one day, our cohort was led in a stones of remembrance.  Mine was prism shaped.  We were to write on the stone our name, on the other side, why we were here.  I thought; I pondered.  It was a solemn moment.  I wrote “Glorify God.”  Stones were collected.  A prayer was offered.  We were given that stone again last summer to keep with us during the grueling days of the summer intensive.  It sits in a box on campus waiting for my return next summer.  But will I be there to collect it?

How odd to write about stones of remembrance on this day – on this day where my educational future is uncertain.  Is this degree more about glorifying God than about my future?   I can’t connect the dots.

A professor gave a devotional in one of my classes.  He talked of Penuel (Genesis 32:24-32).  He spoke of the lone graduate student, in the middle of the night, wrestling over the dissertation and the work.  He spoke of God coming and meeting the student.  Today, I will go to a retreat center named Penuel Ridge to see if I want to do some volunteer work there – I need to be out and contribute more – why not?  But how odd it is Penuel.

Today, as I ponder the stone of remembrance that says “glorify God” and plan a visit to Penuel, I wonder… is it a sign? Is there a message?  I do not know…

Altars of Desperation

Linda Maynard is a real trooper - despite lack of power and computer problems, she continues on...This is HER blog.

I can think of two times in my life that were so significant, that they were places that I built altars of remembrance.

The first was, when I was a 17 yr old. I was pregnant, out of wedlock. At the time, there was much shame attached to such a pregnancy. I was scared and felt alone. I had messed up my life but I think I was more bothered  that I had disappointed my parents.  Abortion was a word I hadn’t ever heard. Sometimes since then, I have wondered, if it was so open and freely available, would I have chosen that path? I can’t honestly say. I know I felt hopeless. I can understand what may seem to some as an easy solution.

I was contemplating suicide. It wasn’t just another “Oh life is just too hard“… I was making a plan and a way to do it.  When I was deeply thinking about it, the Lord invaded my thoughts with one that said something like this:

”Did you realize that you would be killing two people and not just one?” 

I honestly had not had that train of thought.  In that moment, I have to say, I cared about my child more than I cared about myself. That was enough reason to not go through with my plans.

I carried my son to full term.  Soon after his birth I made the agonizing decision to place him for adoption. It was an agonizing decision…but I wanted to give him the best chance at a good life.

The other moment was an volatile encounter with my husband.  We have been married for 41 years and I look back to a day when we were married about maybe 10 years or so.  We were both raised in the same denominational church and didn’t practice our faith when we dated, nor as newlyweds.

When our children were young, I became a follower of Jesus. I embraced the message of the Cross, realizing that before I knew “about” Jesus but now I “knew” Him personally.  This presented a huge problem in our marriage as my husband was angry, suspicious and irritated by my new faith. It seemed to me that my new faith was tearing us apart, rather than brining us closer.

I was new in my faith. I was confused. I loved my husband very much. As arguments escalated about my beliefs or church and Bible Study attendance, I didn’t know where to turn.  One day, we were in our bedroom and the fight continued. We were screaming at each other. I was angry, confused and not a little afraid.  I wanted to be a good wife and do things right but this was going on for months and was going nowhere.

I was so distressed that I had my Bible in my hands.  I started to rip pages out and throw them at him. I screamed:

“Is this what you want???…

OK…this is what you want…

I will destroy this book that is coming in between us!” 

I was making no sense. I didn’t even know half of what I was saying. He left the room.  I felt he had “won”  I was furious…I didn’t want to be controlled and certainly did not want to live like this. I decided, once and for all, the marriage was not worth it.

I was sitting against the wall, when the still small voice of the Lord spoke to me.  He literally brought me back to the altar on the day of our wedding and said:

“Did you mean it when you said before Me that 

you promised to stay with your husband 

for better or for worse…

in good times and bad…

till death do you part?”

I was shaken…He got my attention though. However, He was waiting my answer…could He take me for my word???

I knew things would not become any easier and would probably be harder (which they were for 13 more years) but I had a chance to find out if I was a woman who could be trusted with her word.

I stayed in my marriage and continued to grow with the Lord.

There still were many more times of conflict and I remember feeling resentful and lonely but it was a marriage worth saving.

I thank God that I did not murder my son. 

I thank God that I stayed with my husband.