What does it feel like to be forgiven? Let’s ask Terri Roberts from Strasburg, PA. Who is she, you might ask. She is the mother of Charlie – the man who in 2006 entered an Amish school, bound and shot 10 girls ages 6 to 13 before shooting himself. Charlie was a father himself. Five of those girls he shot, died.

Terri and her husband, along with their son Charlie, his wife and their children all lived in this same small community of 2800 people. Strasburg lies in the heart of Amish farmland in well known Lancaster County. Terri and Chuck Roberts live outside of town – next to Amish neighbors.

One of those neighbors is Henry Stoltzfoos – a man the Roberts have known for years. When Terri saw him through the window, walking up to their front door following the horrible ordeal, she could only imagine how this was going to go.  Terri knew that some of the girls that had died were the daughters of Henry’s relatives and friends. Before going to the door, she glanced at her husband (a retired police officer) who was still slumped over the kitchen table; a dish towel covering his face to control the flow of tears.

Taking a deep breath and fearing the worst, she opened the door. Henry’s countenance took her aback. Where she expected to see hate and anger – she only saw compassion. Seeing Chuck in total despair, Henry immediately went to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Roberts,” he said, “we love you. This was not your doing. You must not blame yourself.” When Henry Stoltzfoos left an hour later, Chuck was sitting upright. A great deal of the burden had been lifted from his shoulders by the unnatural, outpouring of love from his Amish neighbor.

When donations started to come in to help the victims’ families, the Amish families insisted that part of those funds go to the killer’s wife and children. They too, have had a tremendous loss, they said. At Charlie’s funeral, the Amish not only came in their funeral attire,  but moved into position to form a solid black wall between the family and media photographers. It was all Terri could do to keep it together when Chris and Rachel Miller approached her and Chuck to express their condolences. “We are so sorry for your loss,” they whispered. Terri was well aware that the couple had lost their beloved Lena and Mary Liz at the hands of Charlie’s rampage.

In her book, Forgiven, Terri explains how this was a moment of clarity for her. She now understood what the Amish man on the news had said to be true – forgiveness is not a feeling; but a choice. In her heart, she knew these sweet parents that had come to console her were as grief-stricken as she was. There choice to forgive her and Chuck, allowed her the freedom to forgive her son of the heinous deed he had done.

I  wonder how different life would be, now, for those that chose to forgive –  had they not. Or for Terri and Chuck, had they not received this forgiveness. I would imagine that hearts would have been quickly hardened and filled with an explosive of bitterness and hatred. Instead, a group of people – as difficult as it was, made the choice to not fall into a miserable pit they couldn’t climb out of. Not only did their choice impact their lives and those of Terri and Chuck, but it left an impression on anyone watching the news that night of October 1, 2006.

For weeks, people across the country were talking about it; how the Amish had lovingly responded. It goes so against what society expects, but oh my, when the stakes are the loss of innocent children’s lives, yet forgiveness is the choice,  it leaves an impression on our souls as deeply ingrained as a century old fossil.

Maybe this is why God commanded us to forgive (Ephesians 4:32) – not because it’s easy , but because it’s what frees us. He loves us and knows that living in harmony with our neighbors, (or any other relationship) is what lightens the load of all involved.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

We all have past Christmas stories and this year we will have the chance to make new stories. Although I am grateful for many heartwarming Christmas’s past I am choosing to write about a Christmas subject I knew nothing about until the last few days.

That is – Christmas Island and a couple of it’s inhabitants. That’s no ho-ho-ho. It’s a real place in the Indian Ocean, between Australia and Indonesia. Although closer to Indonesia it is owned by Australia. And get this – 63 % of the 135 km (33,359 acres) area is a national park, famous for its caves and coral reefs. The population of the small dog shaped island is about the size of my hometown – 1843 people. Why is it named Christmas Island? Well, because an English sea captain named it on Christmas Day.  I may be wrong, but I’m thinking English sea captains may be lacking when it comes to  imaginative skills – at least this particular one.

But, I suppose you could say the English sea captain was a “naming” pioneer of sorts as the fellas that named the Christmas Island Red Crab and the Christmas Frigate Bird obviously followed in his footsteps.  Can you imagine these three men,  sitting around a small round table in a pub somewhere in Flying Fish Cove (the capital of Christmas Island) and feeding off of each other’s lack of ingenuity? 

On the other hand, maybe these critters aren’t so wrongly named as this crab is endemic to Christmas Island and the Christmas frigate bird only breeds on this particular island.  As amazing as that is in itself, each specimen has other special qualities.

The Christmas Island Red Crab makes the same migratory trek each year to the sea – climbing over whatever is in it’s path. The park service personnel do their best to keep them manually swept off the roadways, but it’s no easy task to keep the estimated  150 million crustaceans viable. The purpose of reaching the sea is to take a dip which replenishes the’ crab’s body moisture and salts. Once the males are satisfied that their bodies have been reconditioned, they return to the shore and dig burrows for mating. The females, unlike the males, do not make the trek back but stay put to bear their young. Before the males start their journey back from where they came they dip one more time.

The Christmas Frigate Bird is a large seabird with a wing span of 7.1 feet. Unlike other seabirds, it’s feathers are not waterproof. I found this to be a bit dis-concerning. What happens to a poor seabird if he doesn’t have feathers that repel water? No worries – God made them masters of staying aloft – for as long as 10 days. They feed primarily on flying fish, tuna, herring, and squid which they grab from the surface without getting wet. And if, on a certain day, the fish just aren’t to be found, they resort to harassing other birds to the point of indigestion and regurgitating. Maybe not as good as fresh, but it will do!

I realize this hasn’t been the typical Christmas story, but on the other hand, maybe it’s not so atypical either. We’ve learned about some of God’s magnificent creations and gifts he’s given us through nature. His greatest gift, however, was given to humankind in the form of a baby in a manger, 2000 years ago on a Christmas night.

For God so loved the world, that He gave His one and only  Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16. If you’ve not yet accepted this free gift, you can make it your story this Christmas.

      

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

Even when our children are small, we can often pick out special attributes God has given them. For instance, my oldest son, Daniel, was an “on the go” child. He was much too inquisitive to enjoy sitting around on anyone’s lap for more than a couple of minutes. He fought sleep; fearing he might miss out on something. He enjoyed learning about everything. My youngest could lie down in a roomful of strangers and be asleep in a matter of minutes. He was more of a hands on learner; books were a bother. While Daniel bordered on Type A personality, Caleb was submerged in Type B -a fly by the seat of your pants kind of kid. But Caleb possessed one special trait that he was adamant about and this became evident when he was six years old.

Caleb met Justin the first day of kindergarten. He did not know the name of what made Justin different; he just knew that he was. And so did every other kid in the class. At parent-teacher’s conference that fall I learned that Caleb was befriending the classmate with Down’s syndrome. “Out on the playground he protects him like a mother hen would, getting after anyone making fun of Justin,” his teacher reported. “In class he makes a point to sit beside him in case he needs help which he often does.”

As the year went on, I heard more and more stories about Caleb’s friendship with Justin. Caleb would come home from school and often have a tale of his own to tell me. Maybe it was something he had helped Justin do or sometimes he was excited to tell me about a certain, simple task Justin had accomplished on his own. It was obvious that Caleb and Justin were becoming good friends, and I was proud of my son for taking an active roll in helping someone less capable.

I was the Emergency Room nurse the day the ambulance brought Justin into our small hospital. My heart sank. My son’s little friend – writhing with abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting. Had it been any other six year old, my first thought would have been “flu” or “appendicitis.”  But Down’s syndrome carries a high risk of the chance of malignancies. I wanted so much to know this wasn’t the case with Justin. Labs and xrays were taken and before I was off shift, my fears were confirmed. Justin was diagnosed with a Wilm’s tumor – a malignancy of the kidney.  I hurried to finish paperwork required for air transport to Children’s in Denver. My mind worried both for Justin and for my son. How was I going to tell my six year old his friend could die?

Caleb was playing quietly in his room when I got home. I plopped down on the floor beside him, handing him various Lego pieces while we chit-chatted about his day.  “Justin wasn’t in school today,” Caleb remarked. I took a deep breath and dove in. “I know,” I said, “Justin was brought in by ambulance today. He is very sick and we had to fly him to Denver.”  I thought this would begin a line of questions that might make it easier to have the needed conversation, but instead Caleb responded calmly with a matter of fact statement. “That’s where people go to get better.” 

Unfortunately, Justin did not get better. I worried how a six year old would process the death of a friend his own age. Would this shake his child-like faith?

I wondered whether I should take Caleb to Justin’s funeral service, but he wanted to go. I hated to think that his first funeral would be that of a young friend, but I knew it might help him accept the reality of it.

A week later, I watched through our picture window as Daniel and the neighbor kids rode their bikes down the lane. Heart breaking tears trickled down my cheeks as I watched Caleb running behind them again, trying desperately to keep up. I knew why he was leaving his blue Christmas bike untouched in the garage.  On the way home after Justin’s service he had very decisively said to me, “I’m giving Justin my bike. He couldn’t ride a bike here, Mom, but he can now.” That bike might as well have been in heaven, because to Caleb it was.

I pondered my words. I prayed. I sat on the couch with Caleb that evening. “Caleb,” I began, “you know what – Justin might want a red bike or a green bike. He can have any color he wants, you know.” I paused to let him think about that. “It was really a wonderful thing you did for your friend and I’m proud of you, but I think he would like to pick out his own bike.” Caleb was quiet and I prayed a silent prayer again. Just when I thought I might have hurt his tender feelings, he looked up at me with a huge smile. He nodded.

The next evening I watched again through the window. This time it was happy tears that trickled down my face. Who was leading the pack of neighborhood kids on bikes? Of course – a joyful, dark headed six-year-old on a blue bike!

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

This week I had a dream. Actually, I’ve probably had many more than that. Psychologists tell us that we all dream; usually 1-2 hours every night and that it is our subconscious processing the events of the day. I’m not one that remembers most of their dreams, but this one I did. I’m thankful it wasn’t a scary one that haunted me into my waking hours or a ridiculous (how did I ever come up with that) one.  This dream was so believable that it teetered on the edge of boring. None the less, it left me wondering why I had dreamed it. I have never felt like God has tried speaking to me through dreams, but because this one was so mundane I even wondered if that could be happening.

The first half of this dream I had actually lived out in reality  years ago. I was at work as a charge nurse and it was the week of Christmas. Our patient census was down in the small hospital, which often happened the week of holidays.  This facility was owned by the county and it cared about its employees. Instead of asking staff to take a low census day when everyone had Christmas bills to pay, they found other things for the nurses to do. And this particular day, the nurses could stay clocked in if they were willing to paint and hang wallpaper border in one of the newly remodeled, patient rooms. Most of the nurses were happy for a change of pace and jumped on board. As charge nurse, I and a nurse’s aid continued to care for the three or four patients that were still hospitalized.

The second half of my dream I had not experienced in real life, but I certainly could have. It was toward the middle of the shift and we were notified of two admissions coming from the ER simultaneously. I would pull one of the decorating nurses to admit one, while I admitted the other. No sooner did I step into Room 212 that Nurse Sally slithered quietly over to me, her back towards the others. In a perturbed voice, she let me know exactly how she felt.

“Can you believe it? This is awful.” I looked at her wide eyed, wondering what she was troubled about. Motioning her eyes upward and swinging her head in the same direction, she continued in disgust. “Look at that border! It’s more crooked than my thieving uncle.” I suppressed a grin and pretended to see what Sally was seeing. She continued to vent. “I beg you not to tell anyone I had any part of this.”

I was thankful the other girls hadn’t overheard Sally, but then how could they? The laughter and gaiety coming from the rest of the group drowned out anything Sally and I were speaking about. It didn’t take me long to  determine that Sally was clearly the only miserable one in the room and probably the only one with a concerning blood pressure. I didn’t have to be a nuclear scientist to figure out which one of these girls I should draw out to admit the new patient.

“Come on, Sally,” I said, turning towards the door. “I’ve got a patient coming up from ER for you to admit.” If there was anyone I could count on to do a detailed and accurate admission, it was Sally. I glanced over my shoulder to see one nurse giving me the round “ok” sign and the one on the ladder silently clapping. Sally’s attitude hadn’t gone unnoticed.

My dream ended as I solved the dilemma of a type A personality in a room of type B’s. But the dream spurred me to spend a bit of time this week researching dreams. Even though God can speak through our dreams, (Numbers 12:6) the most common way He speaks is through His Word. I decided my dream didn’t fit the criteria of coming from God, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t reinforce a positive concept. Yes, there are some things that are just more important than straight wallpaper borders. It’s not always healthy to get our panties in a wad, as they say. If we can relax, have fun, and still get the job done, it’s by far the healthiest choice. Those personality types that become easily irritated and critical of other’s actions are 7 times as likely to develop heart disease. So, as long as no-one is chasing me in a trench coat, I’ll welcome the dream that causes me to ponder on constructive and healthy behaviors – no matter the source.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

(If you enjoy this type of writing, check out the book page on this same site to find out how to obtain my Christian fiction novels.)

 

 

 

The Bible tells us that we all have at least one spiritual gift.  I believe mine is the gift of encouragement. (Romans 12:8) I love to encourage others, and sometimes I’m blessed to see that encouragement turn someone’s somber countenance into a hopeful one. Unfortunately, like most people, I sometimes neglect opportunities to make a difference for someone. But, whenever I think of Charlie, it serves as a reminder not to let those opportunities pass.

You see, Charlie was a sixty-some year old loner in the small town where I lived and worked. Everyone knew of Charlie, but no one really knew Charlie. Most of us didn’t know his last name and only his closest neighbors knew where he lived. But, it was almost a given, if one were to drive down Main Street they would see Charlie walking up one side or the other. I never saw him stop to visit with anyone or anyone stop to visit with him.

Charlie didn’t drive, he only walked; shoulders rounded and eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of him. If you looked closely on breezy days, you could see the end of his long gray beard swaying.  In the summer he wore a T-shirt with bib overalls, and in the winter he swapped out his t-shirt for a long sleeved flannel shirt. Everyone considered Charlie somewhat strange. The kids in town sometimes teased him while the adults just ignored him.

Then the unfortunate happened. Charlie was brought into the hospital where I worked as a staff nurse, diagnosed with a left cerebrovascular accident (stroke). Lying on the bed in room 116, he was a fish out of water. Not one of our four doctors had ever treated Charlie, making us wonder if he’d ever seen a doctor in his sixty plus years. It was probably a safe bet to say he’d never been in a hospital. The stroke had left him aphasic (unable to speak) and unable to answer any of our questions.

The stroke had also left him paralyzed – a proud man suddenly caged in a flaccid body. No one had ever known Charlie to have shared his body with anyone. Now strangers were dressing and undressing him daily. We sat beside him and placed food in his mouth. We gave him medicine he didn’t want. Every two hours we placed the urinal for him.  His blank stare and the tears in his eyes told us how humiliated he was.

The speech therapist came every day for five days, but she reported to the doctor that he was non-compliant and wouldn’t try. She followed suit and quit trying, as well.  But Lou, the physical therapist, wasn’t so easily discouraged. Twice a day, she worked with Charlie. She rubbed, exercised, and stimulated his limbs any way she could.

“These legs have walked a lot of miles, Charlie, and they’ll walk many more.” She told him about other stroke patients and how they were progressing. She gave him small goals to attain. When he stared tearfully out the window, she pretended not to notice.

Finally, Lou’s efforts began to make a difference. During a morning session, Charlie attempted to make slight, gross motor movements.  Lou noticed and praised him up one side and down the other. As Charlie’s efforts increased, his tears decreased.

We were all elated with Lou’s reports, but still Charlie remained silent. The speech therapist had told us Charlie should be able to make sounds, but the nursing staff was convinced she was wrong. It had been weeks without any attempt at verbalization.

But then, one quiet night, nurses at the nurse’s station heard a strange guttural noise coming from room 116. They tiptoed down the hall to Charlie’s door. With eyes wide and giving each other the thumbs up as they listened from the hall, they quietly rejoiced at the sound of Charlie practicing sounds. Gradually the night time utterances turned into syllables. A week or so later,  the aide that picked up Charlie’s empty water pitcher nearly dropped it. Charlie had just looked her in the eye and said clearly, “Water, please.” She grabbed the phone beside his bed as she leaned over the side-rail and hugged him. The entire nursing staff responded to her page to come to room 116 where they  heard a successful repeat performance.

Lou would say she was just doing her job. Maybe – but she taught everyone of us how far a little persistence and encouragement can go. This is why the  remembrance of Charlie always spurs me to plant that seed of encouragement. It may not change someone’s life or attitude immediately, but coupled with persistence, it just might make a life changing difference.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

(If you like this style of writing, check out my book page on how to obtain my two Christian Fiction novels, set in the Sandhills of Nebraska.)