The Honor and the Glory

After I said yes to the apartment ministry last March, everything moved really quickly. The details fell into place beautifully. For example, my son Ethan and his wife agreed to rent my house, and their lease was up the same month that I wanted to move to the apartment complex: August. This was a blessing to all of us since they would be paying hundreds less per month in rent, and I wouldn't have to worry about my house being well cared for in my absence.

Another important detail was securing a handicap-accessible unit since my sister Amy would be living with me, and our mom would stay with us part of the time. The apartment that was available to tour in June was the perfect place for us: it had a handicap space right in front of it, and the hall bathtub had been converted to a walk-in shower. Further, it was located directly next to the World Relief clubhouse where we'd had the coat drive that started this whole adventure. If we lived there, we would be able to step outside our door and take a few steps to arrive at the park where women and children played each evening. 

That unit, however, was about $300 more per month than the two other available four-bedroom apartments on the ground floor. "Lord, this is the place I want to live," I prayed. "Please, would you bring the price down for us? Even so, not my will, but yours." 

One of the details that did not work out as planned was having to take both of my cats with us. I had hoped that Ethan would reclaim Arwen since she had been his cat in the beginning. Even though she is my favorite cat--sorry, I can't help it--I knew that no one would be willing to take the other cat, CiCi, because she is mean to everyone except me and Allyson. Two cats seemed too many for a cramped apartment with no garage for the litter box, and I tried to convince Ethan to at least take Arwen on a trial basis. 

Ethan regretfully stood his ground. They already had three cats and a dog, and they couldn't add any more animals to their household. 

The Two Cats Sharing Some Tuna Juice

Since the only place their litter box could go was the closet in my office and part-time bedroom, I decided to do something I'd wanted to do for years: I bought an automatic litterbox, the computerized kind that not only cleans itself after every use, but even tells you which cat went, and how long it took. My friend at work had assured me that this box was virtually effortless and had absolutely no stink.

She was right about there being zero stink, but only because both of my cats refused to use it. Even though I let their other box get even smellier than normal, they utterly ignored the fancy round box with the pristine litter. I tried everything I could think of, including planting a turd or two in it so that one cat would think the other was using it and get jealous. They were not fooled. 

As the date of our move approached, I asked everyone I knew to pray that the cats would use their new box. Someone did use it, but only once. I was getting desperate, fearing I had wasted a lot of money and that I would have to cohabit with a smelly litter box. 

One evening at dinner, I asked Mom if she would pray that the cats would pee and poop in the box since Amy and I had already prayed several times. Having never been presented with such an odd prayer request, she began her prayer rather sheepishly. Once she got warmed up, however, she prayed fervently and very thoroughly. "Lord, I ask that Arwen and CiCi would have a desire to pee and poop in their new box," she prayed. "Let them feel comfortable in it and think, 'This is a good place to poop.'"

I pressed my lips together hard and turned my head away from Amy even though my eyes were closed; I could hear her barely contained snickers, and that made it harder to hold my own laughter in. When Mom wrapped up her prayer with, "And we will give you all the honor and the glory for this," Amy and I both lost it and burst into laughter. Hearing the words honor and glory juxtaposed against the topic of cats peeing and pooping was just too much.

My fear that Mom would be offended was immediately allayed when she, too, burst into uncontrollable laughter. "I've never prayed about something like that," she said, as soon as she could speak. 

"Thank you for praying, Mom," I said. "I'm sure God will answer your prayer."

That evening, Mom suggested putting catnip in front of the box. I happened to have some on hand, so I sprinkled it liberally on the high-tech mat which had been designed to trap scattered litter. 

Within an hour, I found Arwen rolling luxuriously all over the mat. Next, CiCi emerged from the garage through the cat door and zipped like a pinball all around the living room. I knew she'd been rolling in catnip, too.

The catnip must have been divine inspiration, because the next day the litterbox app alerted me that someone had used the box... two times. Over the course of the next week or ten days, the cats used the box sporadically, but they also used the old box. After a week or so, I quietly removed the other box. 

We all agreed that it truly was glorious. The box was always clean, and there was very little smell even though the garage was very hot. All I had to do was scoop more litter into the silicone tray each day and empty out the litter drawer once a week. 

Meanwhile, the handicap-accessible apartment that I'd wanted dropped into my price range. I was thrilled! On the day I signed the lease, though, the leasing agent half whispered, "Are you sure you want that unit? The lady who lived there said there were a lot of mice."

Now I knew why Arwen needed to make the move with us. She is a skilled hunter, able to kill any creature that invades our home, from water bugs to garter snakes. "Oh, I'm not worried," I assured the agent. "I have two cats." 

The last detail to work out was a big one: Amy needed to find someone to adopt her beloved dog, Macey. The apartment had a limit of two pets. We asked everyone we knew, but no one knew of anyone who wanted an elderly Chihuahua mix. Hearing Amy's heartfelt prayers brought tears to my eyes. She asked God to help her let go of Macey and to trust Him to place her with someone who would be blessed by Macey, just as Macey had been a blessing in her own life. 

Amy with Macey Shortly After Her Stroke

We were down to the wire by the time I posted a request on the NextDoor app, a social media site similar to Facebook but for neighborhoods. Most of the responses were overwhelmingly negative because people assumed we were discarding the dog because she was old. But a woman named Heather said that she had been looking for a Chihuahua because she'd lost hers almost a year before. She had just started praying about finding a dog when she spotted Macey's picture, which revealed an uncanny resemblance to her old dog. 

We brought Macey over to meet her the next day, and it was love at first sight for both of them. After a couple of playdates, in which Macey lay in the bed and watched dog movies on Disney, she went into her new home without hesitation. Although Amy was sad to leave her, she knew that Macey would be dearly loved and spoiled much more than she would have been in our house. 

We've stayed in touch with her new owner, and we are delighted at this glorious answer to not only Amy's prayers, but also Heather's.

Everything was now in place for our move. But that's a story for another day. 

Any Place, Any Time, Any Manner - A Personal Invitation

I have so very much to tell you. I'd better start at the beginning. Last November, I participated in a coat drive with my church at a local apartment complex with a very large refugee community. I watched in astonishment as women and children from all over the world streamed to the World Relief clubhouse inside the complex, forming a line the length of a city block; I'd had no idea all of these people lived in my own city. Most of the women wore head coverings, and few of them spoke English.

Only a couple of women were allowed entry at a time, and they could only take coats for children who were present with them. No matter how ill-fitting a coat might be, or whether a boy had to take a pink coat, the children and their mothers were overwhelmingly grateful. Within an hour or two, we were completely out of coats, and I cried in frustration. Why had I not purchased more coats myself? 

Sometime during my brief shift that day, I felt a strong tug in my heart. I wanted not only to help these women, but to know them, to be a friend to them. Before I left, I spoke with a World Relief volunteer and picked up a brochure with the application information. 

I fully intended to fill it out and start assisting newly arrived families with adapting to their new surroundings, but I could never seem to find the time between working full time, cooking for my special dietary needs, and trying to keep my house somewhat clean. 

Around January, I started a Priscilla Shirer Bible study called Discerning the Voice of God with the women in my family. At the beginning of the study, Priscilla asked us to start praying about a specific situation in our life where we needed to hear God's direction. I decided to pray about whether to volunteer with World Relief. If I couldn't even find time to fill out the application, I wondered, how could I find time to volunteer? Still, I couldn't stop thinking about those beautiful women and their children. So I continued to pray as I did my homework each week.

"Is this the right time for me to volunteer?" I asked. "Or am I too busy? What can I do to make more time in my life? Would you please give me a sign about what you want me to do?"

One Saturday morning in early March, less than a week after I prayed for a sign, I had a burning desire to return a little drain cover to Ace Hardware. That part had been sitting under my kitchen sink for a year, maybe two. I'd run across it when my niece, Savannah, helped me organize the cabinets and pantry. 

When I walked into the hardware, a vaguely familiar woman in the checkout line out waved at me. "I know you!" she said. 

"Yes!" I agreed, as we both searched our memory for the connection. After a few moments, I said, "You were the table leader at some of my Bible studies." 

"Yes, that's right!" she said. "How long has it been since we've seen each other? Maybe 10 years?"

"That's about right," I said. "Man, I miss those Bible study days. We did so many great studies at that church." 

"Yes, the Bible studies were great," she agreed. "But there comes a time when you have to stop just studying the Bible and start doing what it says." 

"Yes!" I agreed, thinking of my discontentment with life as usual over the last several years.

We stood for an obnoxiously long time at the head of the line, catching up. Angie told me she'd recently retired and started a nonprofit organization benefiting Afghan refugees.

"Really??" I asked incredulously. "That's very interesting, because I've been praying about volunteering with refugees." I told her about the coat drive at the apartment complex.

"Oh, I go there all the time," she said. I know lots of families there."

"Wow!" 

We exchanged numbers, and I figured that would be the end of it. But within a few minutes, she had sent me a text:

"So good to see you again! I would love to take you with me to meet some of the families. I'm planning to go on Wednesday from 11-3 if that would possibly work for you."

I shook my head in amazement. Here was a personal invitation to participate in refugee ministry. I'd call that a sign, wouldn't you? 

Over the next few weeks, I visited an Afghan lady with Angie and helped a couple women with online applications. I wanted to do more, but work was very busy, and I couldn't take any time off. 

In frustration, I asked God, "Why would you connect me with a refugee ministry when I don't have any time to volunteer right now?"

The next evening, Angie sent a text asking if I'd like to do a prayer walk at the apartment complex that Thursday... at 6:40 a.m.!

If you know me very well, you know that I utterly despise getting up before dawn. I started to say that it wouldn't work for me, but then I heard a voice in my head asking, Didn't you say you wanted opportunities to participate in refugee ministry? This is outside work hours. What's stopping you from going? 

I confessed to Angie that my flesh didn't want to do it, but I told her I would do my best to be there. 

In the early-morning darkness that Thursday, Angie and walked around the parking lot and prayed with one of her friends from a discipleship class she was taking. His name was Caleb, and I learned that he lived at the complex. He planned to become a missionary in the near future, and he would stay there for nine months to acclimate himself to the culture of his chosen people group. 

"How does the program work?" I asked. "Does the organization have units here?"

"You just rent an apartment," he said. "You can have roommates if you want to." 

As the inky blue sky gradually became suffused with pink, an absolutely crazy desire steadily grew in my heart. After we'd said goodbye to Caleb, I told Angie, "I'd like to live here. I don't have to go overseas to be a missionary. The nations are gathered right here." As I talked, a plan began to take shape. "I could rent out my house. If I lived here, I could get involved with the ministry efforts without having to drive anywhere. I could meet with the women in their homes and invite them into to mine." 

She urged me to pray about it. 

The more I prayed over the next few days, the more excited I felt. As I contemplated the sacrifices I would need to make, though, two things hit me hard: not having a washing machine, and giving up my giant, light-filled kitchen with its wall of windows and many cabinets full of various beloved but seldom-used kitchen gadgets. Could I really be happy cooking in a tiny apartment kitchen? 

On Saturday morning, two days after the prayer walk, I read a passage of scripture for my Bible study homework that cut me to the heart: the familiar story in Matthew 19 about the rich young ruler who most likely decided not to follow Jesus because he was unwilling to part with his wealth. For the first time, I looked beyond what I always thought was the main point: that the man was greedy. No, the most tragic part was that this young man had the opportunity to walk with Jesus in the flesh, and he passed on that! He could have seen Jesus raise Lazarus and open blind eyes and feed the 5,000. Instead, he settled for enjoying his money. 

My eyes filled with tears as I applied the story to my own life. Would I seriously consider missing out on all the amazing plans Jesus had for me just because I wanted to keep my kitchen? My mind went back to a moment in the middle of the night in July, 2019, when I felt the call to evangelism. My response had been to fall to my knees in my prayer closet, saying, "Cualquier lugar, cualquier tiempo, cualquier manera" (any place, any time, any manner). 

Now, as I relaxed in my quiet time chair, I said aloud, "Yes, Lord. Yes, I will do this. If you open the door, I will live in that refugee community." 

TO BE CONTINUED

What I Would Have Said

In the 25 years after my first husband Byron and I divorced, our relationship gradually grew from tense cordiality to a mutual commitment to co-parenting, and finally to a friendship rooted in decades of shared experiences. Nevertheless, I was still a little surprised at how frequently I found myself thinking fondly of Byron this past Christmas season. 

Starting a few days before Christmas, I kept hearing the song "Here Comes Santa Claus," and each time, I smiled as I recalled Byron walking through our house singing along with it at the top of his lungs. He always made me groan with his own silly lyrics in places, typically something involving farts. Recalling these happy moments from so long ago triggered other Christmas memories from our 11-year marriage, such as the way we liked to do all of our shopping in one marathon trip to Target.

Christmas Banquet, Circa 1993

All of this reminiscing brought me welcome joy in the midst of the last-minute frenzy that marks my shopping and preparations these days. Several times, I thought, "I should send Byron a text to let him know I'm thinking of him fondly," but each time, I simply made a mental note to text him later. There were stocking stuffers to buy, presents to wrap, food to cook, and stockings to stuff.

The last time I heard the song and thought of Byron was on Christmas morning, and I really wanted to send him a Merry Christmas message, but I didn't pause to do that during my hurried breakfast preparations, nor after Ethan, Sumer, Allyson and I had eaten and exchanged gifts. Instead, I raced to feed the cats and pack my car for the three-and-a-half-hour drive to my oldest sister's home in Nacogdoches.

I arrived late in the afternoon, just in time to open gifts with Melody's family, our mom, and our sister Amy. I thought of Byron again as we unwrapped gifts, remembering the way he'd give money to my little sister Emily and ask her to buy me a bunch of clothes. It was always so fun to see what she'd picked out; she had much better taste in clothes than I ever did.

Definitely, definitely I would send him a message on the 26th, after things had settled down, I thought.