Pulling Strings

 

 

My Testimony

 

“Carrie, you just can’t spend money we don’t have!” my father bellowed from the kitchen. “But Jim, I spent the money on presents for the children!” my mother yelled back in defense. My parents’ quarrel escalated and then I heard some scuffling, a shriek, and my mother’s footsteps pounding up the staircase to their bedroom. That night, I fell asleep in my usual detached state of numbness―accumstomed by then to blocking out the sounds of my mother’s muffled sobs.

It Christmas, 1969. My mother had spent $350 on gifts that year and my father was furious. I was fourteen years old, and every night I faithfully wrote in my diary. Of my parents’ fight, my diary simply says this:

Mom and Dad had a fight last night. Dad hit her, but Mom explained

what happened today. She says everything will be O.K. We’re broke.

Dad says we’re going to have cheap meals for about six months.

Equally dispassionate is the list of presents I received—the Beatle’s White album, a Donovan poster, the game of Twister, a new pair of slippers, an alarm clock, a stuffed bear, a pair of pantyhose, a silver jewelry box, some stationery, rose scented soaps, dusting powder, a book of jokes, and a can of Taverner’s butterscotch candies.

However, on Christmas day, right after our usual gift opening frenzy, I noticed a wide piece of fabric ribbon lying on the floor next to the Christmas tree. An intuitive thinker, I made a mental note. “I’ll remember the last Christmas we are still together as a family, by this piece of long red ribbon.” Although that Christmas didn’t turn out to be our last, three years later, my father accepted a position overseas. He was away my entire senior year of high school. When Dad came back to North America, he did not return to our house. Soon after, my parents were legally divorced and my father was remarried within five years.

For my siblings and me, life in our household went on pretty much the same way it had before Dad left. We missed him a lot but we saw him on weekends. However, Mom was devastated and she never completely recovered from the shock. Tragically, years later just before her death, she still maintained that Dad had been the love of her life.

Dad was a quiet gentle man, as opposite in temperament to my mother as one can imagine. A hard-working rank-and-file businessman, Dad marched off to the office every workday to fulfill his duty to his family. Every morning, Dad dressed for his job in a dark gray suit, a starched white shirt, a striped rep tie, and polished wingtip shoes. On weekday evenings, Dad volunteered his time on numerous church and community boards. And on Sunday afternoons, Dad regularly banged his red wheelbarrow around our large garden, clipping, mowing, transplanting, tying off and pruning, depending on the season.

On Saturdays, Dad put his time into his hobbies. He was a competent sailor and he loved to sail all kinds of weather—and the more foul the weather, the better. I noticed that Dad was happiest when he was playing Man Against the Elements. I learned to sail too. It was a thrill to stand at the helm of our modest sailboat with my eye on the thin nylon telltale, adjusting the tiller slightly each time the wind shifted.

One sunny afternoon, while sailing in the Pacific Northwest, it was time to make a tack. There was good wind blowing, and the boat was heeling over at a steep angle. Dad was at the helm and as his crew all moved quickly into position. Dad rounded up into the wind to slacken the lines, and I released the starboard jib line from its cleat. I let the line unwind itself from around the winch so the sail could fly free. There was a brief lull. Then, with the jib sail flapping, Dad pushed the tiller hard to starboard and the mainsail pivoted abruptly across the cockpit. The boat listed to port and we scrambled to our places on the high side. With one hand on the tiller, and his foot braced against the edge of the lower seat, Dad grabbed hold of the port jib line and quickly gave it two turns around the winch. My brother took hold of the line and pulled back hard while Dad cranked on the winch handle. When the jib sail was set, my brother took several turns around the cleat to hold the line in place. That day, we repeated those maneuvers over and over, and we successfully zigzagged our way between a long chain of beautiful islands.

Occasionally, during my grade school years, my father went away on business trips. He always returned with a gift for the family. One time he brought us a puppet—a marionette with all kinds of strings attached to a wooden holder. The puppet was a black-and-white cat about eight inches long. If I coordinated the whole assembly correctly, I could wiggle the holder so that the cat’s four wooden legs tapped along the floor quite realistically. By pulling a string in either the front or the back, I could also nod its head or wiggle its tail. I became pretty good at manipulating the movements of that puppet. It was a little like being a god, pulling a string here or there to make things happen. I was in control—fully in charge—the way I like to be.

But that is not how life really is. Most of the time, I have less control over my circumstances than I would like to admit. I can’t always manipulate life like a marionette on a string. Instead, I am more like a sailor driven by the prevailing winds and tides which blow, rise, and fall according to their own timetables. I’ve learned to sail with, not push against, the deep currents in my life. I’ve learned about the changing tides, the depth of my keel, and I brace myself to ride the choppy water. I hoist the correct sail depending on the strength of the wind in order to harvest the forces that are blowing around me. To do this, I must draw on the strengths of my feminine, receptive mind. I’ve made the choice to become fluid, flexible and receptive. This is the way of trust, faith, submission and an open heart.

Usually, when we can’t play puppeteer in our lives, we assume that all the circumstances which are beyond our control are completely negative. I discovered that this is not always so. Greater good is blowing in our direction all the time. We just need to keep our eye on the telltale to notice it. In April of that final year in high school, I attended a Christian youth camp over Spring break. For the first time, I heard the Gospel message presented in a way that made sense to me. I was told that all I needed to do was confess my sin, and then receive my salvation, with thanks. There was no need for work on my part, or pulling of strings to manipulate the circumstances. I realized that Jesus had done it all for me. That week, in faith, I decided to set my sails toward eternity. I captured God’s grace that was blowing around me and I became a Christian.

I forgave my father that Christmas he was far away from our family. Even though he never knew it, I bought him a gift, wrapped it up, and laid it under the Christmas tree—as a gesture of goodwill. For some reason, at that precise moment, Dad fell from his pedestal. He was no longer larger-than-life the way I wanted my father to be. Now no longer a demi-god, Dad became just a man. And though I lost my idealized father forever at Christmas that year, later I realized I was fatherless for just a few months. For my Heavenly Father had met me at sea.

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” (Ephesians 2: 8-9 NIV)

Please visit me at my main weblog, Chrysalis. See you there!

Sing to God, sing praise to his name, extol him who rides on the clouds—his name is the Lord— and rejoice before him. A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land. (Psalms 68:4-6 NIV)

Photo courtesy of Sondra Stewart (Flickr)

This testimony is part of a Bloggy Tour of Testimonies hosted Lauren at Created For His Glory. If you would like to add your testimony to the tour, go here and add your name and link to Lauren’s Mister Linky.