Bike Shop: A Father's Sacrifice

Thinking about my dad today . . . how he worked hard, sacrificed.

As a fulltime missionary with Children's Bible Mission, he supported his family with church donations. No extra cash really, especially at Christmas with three children to think about.

I don't think it dawned on me as a child that Daddy did some of the work he did in order to supplement his missionary offerings.

Jobs like putting bikes together at the Western Auto located on Main Street in our tiny town. Most afternoons during the holiday season, I'd walk from elementary school to the lot behind the store. Yards away as I crunched over the gravel, I'd see Daddy in a small white shed, door open, bent over a bike, tightening a bolt.

Whistling a tune, he'd pull out his trusty bandanna and wipe sweat from his brow. Even in the colder months, Daddy stayed hot.

His face split into a generous smile when he saw me approach. We'd catch up on the day for a few minutes, then I'd turn and skip away home.

A simple exchange. Yet it meant the world to me. Mostly in hindsight. At the time, it just was . . . after all, that was my Daddy. A constant. I didn't really stop to think about this comfort I curled up in. I merely experienced it and went on my way.

Yet now I see how that earthly touch is similar to my relationship with my heavenly Father. A constant comfort that at its best is simply experienced, not necessarily mused upon, but delighted in as it unfolds day by day. A child coming to her Father, enjoying His presence, His provision, because that's what a child does with a faithful Father.

My Anna

My Anna. That's what I call her. Just a wrinkled widow woman, an old country gal really, with a pure, simple devotion to Christ that showed up in her prayers. A visual reminder to me of another Anna, the widow mentioned in Luke 2:36-38 who pointed people to Jesus, served the Lord faithfully, and gave thanks to God.

From the first day my Anna stepped in to my ladies' prayer group, bowed her head and prayed, I knew she was different. Real. No fluffy words to impress, simply one friend talking with another. One day, she was in need of a refrigerator. She prayed humbly, but with expectancy. She knew the Lord would hear and answer. And He did, only a few days later.

Over the seven years we actively prayed together, my Anna taught me to seek the Lord in all things; to never fail to thank Him in all things, and to embrace Him as my number one husband. In prayer, she would often quote portions of Isaiah 54:4-5: Fear not . . . the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more. For your husband is your Maker, whose name is the LORD of hosts; and your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel, who is called the God of all the earth.

Women flowed in and out of my weekly prayer group, but my faithful Anna stuck with me until God moved my family to another church. So precious was our weekly time together, that I didn't want to lose it. So on occasion I would stop by her house and tap on her door. A big smile would emerge on that wrinkly face when she opened the door and saw me standing on her stoop. She'd urge me inside to exchange updates, then we'd pray together, just like old times.

The years passed, and my Anna grew more frail. One day as I pulled up to her house, I noticed a "For Sale" sign in the yard. My heart dropped to my stomach. Was she dead? I'd been dreading this moment for a long time. I walked across the street to her neighbor who often looked in on my Anna and shopped for her. She told me she was now in a nursing home and gave me the name. Saddened, but with a sigh of relief to know where she was, I thanked the neighbor.

Determined to keep our relationship alive, I visited my Anna, noticeably more feeble than when I'd seen her last. She didn't remember me but enjoyed hearing the stories that resulted from our prayer times together. Like the time a young man gave his life to the Lord during an Easter service. The time when our oldest daughter committed her life to full-time missions in India. The time when another young man in the grip of drugs and alcohol finally surrendered to Jesus.

With great praise and pleasure, to this day, I realize God is still working in answer to our prayers . . . for a church in demise for so many years, now resurrected and on a new path of growth. For a husband who struggled with pornography but who I now know was actually the strongest during our seven active praying years.

I still visit my Anna, and we still rejoice together over answered prayer. Through a teary, toothless smile she says, "I still love Jesus."

"I know," I tell her, stooping to plant a soft kiss on that ever wrinkling cheek.

She pats my hand. "Now you come back and visit now, ya hear!"

And I do, thankful that though she doesn't remember who I am, in her frailty, in both our frailties, we share a heartbeat that distance and eventually death can't stop, for our love for Jesus binds us for all eternity.

Three Scarves

Ginny Warner, Free Images

One end of the scarf I wear during my walk works loose from its shelter inside my jacket. The fringed edge flaps freely in the March breeze, igniting the memory of another scarf from long ago.

A silky, flowered one worn by my mother while retrieving clothes from the line. An equally breezy day in my mind's eye . . .

She tugs her coat closer about her, hurries to unclip a pin, drop it in a bucket, then continues the ritual as I watch from the porch step. With the click of each wooden pin, comfort wells up within me. The simple soothing sound . . . the sight of my mother, ever faithful to her domestic tasks. Present.

Arm loaded with a basket of air-freshened clothing, Mama sweeps past me in a bluster. When she pushes on the door with her hip, the aroma of chicken and dumplings wafts outside, enticing me to follow. The cozy kitchen is Mama personified. I breathe deeply its treasures.

Later, Mama pulls me close to her side for a bedtime story about Jesus and His love for me. Her wind-whipped face smells woodsy as she lowers to plant a kiss on my cheek.

And I'm off into dreamland, only I'm not dreaming, merely reflecting on another scarf.

One wrapped around the head of a Muslim woman, faithful to Allah, yet precious in the sight of the one, true God. A new friend, led to me by Jesus, my Savior, who longs for her to know Him.

So, I tuck in my scarf and remember . . .