Investment

By Robin Steinweg

 Do I ever regret time in prayer?

Sadly, maybe before-hand. Like when the pillow is coziest, sleep beckons or I have tasks to check off my to-do list. 

Few things get interrupted like my time for prayer—at least initially. If I sit down intending to pray, the computer will blink at me, the phone will ring, an appliance will act up, the neighbor’s dogs will yap, the garbologist will take a break outside my house with the engine running, a plane will sound as though it’s going to crash, I’ll suddenly think of fifteen dozen things that need to be done without delay, and my dog will beg to go out. And that’s saying a lot, because I don’t have a dog.

The computer can wait.  In fact, I can turn it to face away from me. The answering machine can take a message or the caller can get back to me. I can unplug the appliance and check it later. I can close the windows. I can put in ear plugs. I can pray for the pilot. I can keep pen and paper next to me and add to my list as things pop into my head, and then keep praying. I can remind myself that I don’t have a dog, and tell the devil to get behind me, because I AM GOING TO PRAY anyway!

That’s what it might take—a commitment to pray no matter what. When my sons were little, they knew not to interrupt me from prayer unless one of them was choking or bleeding. Our day would be better if they let Mommy pray. As my wall hanging states, “A day hemmed in prayer seldom comes unraveled.”

And has there ever been a time that I wished instead that I had stayed in bed or run errands?

Just yesterday I nearly didn’t pray because of interruptions. Important things, you know? But I sent up some heartfelt requests for safety for my sons and husband.

In the afternoon my younger son perched atop the log ride at the amusement park where he’s worked for the summer. A sudden bolt of lightning scored the air close enough to him that he felt the static. They closed the park early, and he came home—safe.

Do I regret that I spent the time yesterday in prayer?

Hardly.

Instead, I grow more determined.  Not only to ask for things, but to thank God for listening to me, and to take the time to listen to Him.

Let me rephrase: it’s not taking my time. It’s an investment of my time, and it could continue to pay into eternity! 

Like Baby Bear

By Robin J. Steinweg

On Poppy Day Tom and I grocery shopped. We passed a Viet Nam vet in the entryway, poppies and an ice cream bucket with a slot cut in the lid on a card table. He was busy talking to some folks, so our poppy would have to wait.

On our way out, I shifted my grocery bags to dig in my purse for a donation. Tom took most of the food out to the car. The vet paused his talk with a lady to thank me, and I met his eyes as I responded, “Thank you.” As I did, the woman made an odd sound and nearly ran off. That was the last time I’m aware of that the vet stopped to breathe.

Our family has high esteem for war vets. Tom’s dad was wounded when in the Philippines and again on Okanawa, and my folks lost a couple of brothers-in-law to Hitler’s forces. I gave this man my respectful attention as he told of being stationed in Iceland (Greenland?), where the temperature was minus seventy-five degrees on a good day. He continued with a description of the vehicles that broke down and named all the mechanical parts it took to fix them.

I spotted Tom out in the car. The vet mapped out the terrain for a fifty mile circumference. Ten minutes and several SOS prayers it took before Tom got out of the car. I waved at him. He was coming to rescue me! I heard the automatic doors open behind me. The vet’s voice droned on. I turned to greet my hero, and he walked right past me to the community bulletin board. I sighed and nodded as the vet didn’t miss a beat. It took Tom five minutes to read every poster and ad. He came back toward me and this time I was ready for him. As he passed behind me I grabbed a fistful of jacket and refused to let go. He murmured, “We have frozen food, you know.” I whispered, “Help me,” but he didn’t hear me as the vet imitated an explosion. Tom took a step backward and my hand tightened its grip on his jacket. Something about an ice cave so dark it made your eyeballs ache. We both backed up a step, then two. Other people came and went. “An ordinary flashlight—Harriet, want to buy a poppy?—(Harriet flew out the door, calling, “Not today…”)—“Oh, tomorrow then, does she think I’m here every day, do you know what kind of flashlight we had to use?” Tom and I reached the door, which stood open because of the sensors. The recitation continued. My fingers had gone numb from clutching Tom’s jacket. I raised my voice, “We have frozen food melting.” No acknowledgment. We backed through the doors. Tom attempted, “Thank you, we need to go now.” We were several feet beyond the door now. “…the cavern was featured in a magazine…” “Thank you for serving our country,” I said, but he never hesitated. He was kind enough to speak louder so we could hear him right up until we started the engine.

Later I wondered how he could talk like that without stopping for breath. Maybe he’d learned circular breathing from trumpeter Wynton Marsalis. But more than that, how could someone be so completely insensitive to others as to talk them half to death? Then I recalled a neighbor lady from my childhood, and realized there is an opposite form of torture.

I was a young teen when I answered her phone call. Mom had told me to man the phone, as she’d been interrupted too many times that day. When I told her who it was, she shook her head rather wildly, whispered, “Tell her I went for a walk,” and abandoned me for the first and only time in my life. I picked up the phone and said, “I’m sorry, she was just going out the door.” Mrs. Schweigen said—nothing! I waited. Dead air. I looked at the phone and tapped it. “Are you there?” “Mm-hm.” Silence. “Um, I could have Mom call you back later, Ok?” “Mm-hm.” The quiet unnerved me. What should I do? I watched the kitchen clock. One minute. Two minutes. I’d been trained to respect my elders too thoroughly to hang up on her. I cast about desperately for another question to ask. I prayed Mom would return and rescue me from this deadly silence. I vaguely remember finally saying, “I’m sorry. I have to hang up now, I’m not allowed to stay on the phone this long. I’m so sorry, I’m hanging up now. Sorry. ’Bye.”

These incidents remind me of Goldilocks (except I could never be so rude as to walk into a stranger’s house uninvited!). Anyway, she found Papa Bear’s stuff too big, too hard, too hot, just too Too. Like the Viet Nam vet. Too many words. Mama Bear’s stuff was also too much—too big, too soft, too cold, too Too. Like Mrs. Schweigen’s too-few words. But Baby Bear’s things were just right.

That’s what I hope and pray my conversation will be. Not too much, not too little. Seasoned with the most satisfying amount of salt, the perfect mix of speaking, listening, sensitivity, caring for others. I want to be like Baby Bear! Just right.

I Don’t Like Spam

…pure doggerel from the pen of Robin J. Steinweg


I don’t like Spam in a can, I don’t like the taste.
I don’t like Spam in an e-mail—the time that it wastes.

Whether pink and wet and slimy or not,

Ground or sliced, cold or hot—

Innocent-looking but nasty inside,

When I see Spam I want to hide.

I don’t like Spam.

I don’t like Spam in a can, I don’t like the feel.
I don’t like Spam in an e-mail—the rot it can conceal.

To get Spam in a can, you must drive somewhere.

Spam in my e-mail floats in on the air.

Spam in a can is a choice you can make.

Spam in my e-mail sneaks in like a snake.

I don’t like Spam.

I don’t like Spam in a can, I don’t like the smell.
I don’t like Spam in an e-mail—makes me wanna yell.

Gelatinous mass of unpleasant stuff

                       Or

Abominable tonnage of verbal duff…

              I don’t like Spam.

Spam in an e-mail can bear my name.

It can look like one thing yet be nothing the same.

But Spam in a can you cannot disguise;

Chop, grind or casserole it, your nose will be wise.

So if the time came that I must choose
Between Spam in a can and the Not-so-nice News,
I think that I might just make the choice
To toss my can opener… and lose my voice.

                       I don’t like Spam!

EPILOGUE: I loved my password. I called it my own from the first e-mail I ever wrote. My fingers flew over the keys to type it. It was a word that had fond associations for me. I loved my password. Then one day a Spam message arrived with my return address on it. I opened it, curious. My own face smiled at me from a message I would not dream of typing. I was forced to rummage in the attic of rejected possibilities for a new password. Alas.

Though I might reflect on the futility of railing at Spam with my words, the exercise has at least given vent to my feelings. I have taken a stand against both a culinary fixture of my parents’ generation, and against one of mine. Then or now, I don’t like Spam.

Robin J. Steinweg delights in the Lord homeschooling; writing children’s books; directing, writing and arranging music; teaching students 5-85; leading worship; and listening for the Music of the Master’s voice. Among other things, Robin writes devotionals for the online magazine The Christian Pulse.

Introducing Robin J. Steinweg

Christmas for the Relocated

What do you do if Christmas is going to be different this year? It’s unsettling when holidays must be spent in a new place with new people.

My family was in this position a few years back.

We’d kept the same traditions for years. Now we found ourselves in a new place. The first year we did it all wrong, and I spent much of the Christmas Eve service crying in the ladies’ room. I neglected the most important thing: go to the One who understands and ask Him specifically to help (my prayers were more along the line of rehearsing my loneliness). Jesus was displaced from His heavenly home, born into a displaced family. He would have helped, if I’d asked.

The next year wised us up. The Lord led us to blend former traditions with new ones. We put up our favorite decorations and wrapped one gift to be opened Christmas Eve. To start a new tradition, The Lord let us be found by another displaced family. We went to a candlelight worship service together. Afterward, we went over for a light, easy supper and games. We sang some carols, prayed together and called it a night. A good night.

Whether you are displaced this year or know someone else who is, invite them to share the old and the new with you. Invite the Lord—who’s been there—to show you the way.

Menu for the Unsettled at Christmas:

1. Pray about it

2. Find another displaced family to invite

3. Serve easy foods

            a. Wisconsin Cheese (and cheese curds), summer sausage and crackers

            b. Christmas cookies and hot cocoa or cider

4. Play board games

5. Sing together, pray together

6. Your ideas: __________________________

Blessed Christmas!

Robin J. Steinweg thinks life is sweet right in the middle of homeschooling; writing children’s books; directing, teaching, writing and arranging music; leading worship; and listening for the Music of the Master’s voice. Robin writes devotionals for the online magazine The Christian Pulse.