|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
Print Dear Gabby, I am a twenty-something recent divorcee with two children. I was married for several years, with the last ones being a continuous struggle. When I married my husband, he was overweight. Then a few years ago he lost a lot of weight, unveiling a nice looking man. But I loved him the same either way. Everyone else he encountered let him know just how fine looking he was and after a while he stopped resisting temptation. He ended up cheating on me with several different women over the years. He also got involved with Internet pornography. I knew it each time he cheated on me because the Lord would reveal it to me. I’d be praying and the Lord would put a thought in my mind about what my husband was doing. When I would confront my husband, he’d be “sorry” and confess, so I would give it another try. Things became worse over the next few years. He got a second job, and slid further and further away from God. Over and over, he’d cheat and I’d take him back, until finally, I couldn’t take it any more. So, now I am divorced from him and glad that my kids and I no longer have to live in that environment. But my struggle is that I was used to having a man at home to share life with. It’s hard to handle everything alone. Although I have grown tremendously in the Lord during the last several years, I know I am humanly alone, and I feel like I’ll be alone forever. I’d like to try to find someone who will be the "spiritual leader" in my house. I don’t want just anyone. If I did, I would have kept what I had. Is there hope for me? Struggling with Singleness in Southern California Dear Ms. Southern California, I once invited a man I’d never met to have dinner at a friend’s house. My dear Harry and I happened to be visiting our friends Betsy and Thomas Chisholm in Boston one April during the big marathon. Their home was next to the route and we spent several hours out near the road, cheering the participants as they ran past. Our friends kept a bucket filled with cool water out by the road. We’d fill cups with the water and hold it out for the runners to take. Then, little Ruthie Chisholm and her friend Howie stood a few yards down the road with their hands out to collect the used cups. One after another, healthy young men ran past, their muscles working as smoothly as the well-oiled engine in Harry’s 1953 Mercury Montclair. I was having the time of my life; visiting my friends on a sunny day and participating (in a very small way) in a historic, athletic event. Toward the end of the race, when we assumed that all the runners had gone past us, we noticed another runner turning the corner and heading our way. He wasn’t young (or well-oiled, for that matter). His grey hair was wet, and sweat streaked down his brown face. His bare feet looked like they’d had a lot of miles put on them. His eyes were full of determination and he mumbled a very accented thank-you as he accepted the cup of cool water I held out to him. In that moment, I did something I’d never done before (or since!). I dropped the dipper back into the bucket of water and started running beside him. “You must have an interesting story,” I panted. “Would you be willing to come to dinner tomorrow night and tell it to us?” He gave a quick nod as he handed the cup back to me. I stopped running, hollering back at him, “Come at six o’clock!” He nodded again as he ran out of sight and I walked back to my post by the water bucket. “What was that all about?” asked Harry, as he came around the house, carrying a fresh bucket of water. “I just invited that man to the Chisholms’ house for dinner tomorrow night.” Harry gaped at me. “You did what?” “I know. I can’t believe it. But when I saw that ancient man running, and looked at his grey hair and his determined eyes, I wanted to know his story and the invitation just popped out!” “Oh, Gabby,” Harry sighed. “I know, Harry, but I only had about three seconds and that wasn’t enough time to hear his story.” Mr. Tarishi Ngala of Kenya did come to dinner at the Chisholm’s house the next evening. (I’ll just mention here that I purchased the food and did all the cooking and cleaning up so Betsy wouldn’t have to do extra work due to my impulsive invitation.) Mr. Ngala was 73 years old and everyone (not just me) was very interested in hearing his story. So during dinner and after, Mr. Ngala spoke to us in his beautiful accent of growing up in Kenya and how, from the time he was just a little guy, he had run. When he was about ten years old, he’d been called to the hut of the tribal chief early one morning and given a cloth-wrapped package. The chief told him to take the package to the home of the fellow chief in a town down the river and to bring back whatever that chief gave him. “You were ten years old?” I interrupted his story, incredulously. “What did your parents say?” “My parents were proud of my abilities and felt honored that our family had received special recognition by the chief,” he answered. Then he told us that, after that day, he’d become the official messenger of the town. “What’s the farthest you ever ran?” Thomas asked him. “Nine days” was his answer. “Nine days?” several of us said, all at the same time. “I had to run to the capital city and it took nine days. Our chief’s son got sick and a doctor was needed as quickly as possible. Since we didn’t have any other form of transportation, everyone assumed I’d go. It was about 250 kilometers and it took me nine days.” He sat back in his chair, with a look of remembering on his face. All of us continued to stare at him, with our mouths hanging open, trying to imagine running even the 26 miles of the Boston Marathon, let alone 250 kilometers! Finally, Harry broke the silence, saying softly, “Can you tell us what that trip was like?” Then, Mr. Tarishi Ngala told us some things that I think might be helpful to you, Ms. Southern California. “I made four rules for myself when I was going to run long runs,” he began. “I still use those rules when I run in marathons like yesterday’s.” Betsy reached over to the counter and picked up a pen and a pad of paper. She set it on the table and wrote “#1” at the top. “My first rule is this: Do not consider the end, only the next step.” He paused and took a sip of his iced tea. Betsy wrote his words down on her paper. “What does that mean?” asked Ruthie. “It means,” he said, smiling down at her, “that I knew I could always take at least one more step and if I kept taking steps, I’d get to the destination sooner or later.” “My second rule,” he said (and I saw Betsy write it on her paper), “was this: Accept help—wherever it comes from.” He explained by saying that wherever he found food, he’d eat it. When he found clean water, he’d drink there. If he saw someone who offered him help, he’d accept it. If it rained, he thanked God for sending him a cooling shower. One time, he even rode on the back of a gazelle until it headed a different direction than he needed to go! His third rule was this: Know the way. Every time he was hired to carry a message, he made sure he had memorized the landmarks he was supposed to watch for so he’d know which direction to move. “I didn’t always know exactly where I was at any given moment,” he told us, “but if I could see Mount Kenya in the distance, or the river on one side, I’d know which direction I was supposed to be going.” His final rule surprised me a bit. It was: Notice the beauty. “I filled my eyes with the beauty I saw around me. Even when I was so tired I didn’t think I could continue, I’d open my eyes a little wider, look away from my sore and bleeding feet or the pain in my side and notice my surroundings. Always there’d be a bright flower, a magnificent animal, a lovely scent, something around me to admire and to help me forget about myself.” Mr. Ngala’s four rules have come back to me many times during difficult times in my life – especially during the time right after my dear Harry died. I’d like to suggest that you also take them to heart. See if they make sense to you: Rule #1: Do not consider the end, only the next step. Don’t spend a lot of time worrying about the future. Who knows what else God has in store for you? Just live each day as fully as you can, doing right and living right and keeping a right heart. Sooner or later, you’ll get to where you want to be. Rule #2: Accept help—wherever it comes from. Don’t be proud. God uses the hands of the people around us. If someone offers to help you in some way, accept it gracefully and gratefully, thanking both the helper and God. He doesn’t expect us to go through hard times alone. That’s why He sends people to help us. Rule #3: Know the way. Even if you don’t know where you’ll end up, at least keep heading in the right direction. Just like Mr. Ngala looked toward the mountain or the river to orient himself, you need to use the church as your most important landmark. Then you’ll always be heading in the right direction. Rule #4: Notice the beauty. Even though terrible things have happened to you in your young life, there’s still a lot of beauty around you to be thankful for. Your children are gifts from God. A beautiful day should be celebrated. Health can’t be purchased – even if you’re the richest person in the world. A car that starts every time you get into it is a blessing. A friend is a gift. A nice meal is lovely. There’s much to be thankful for. Following Mr. Ngala’s rules won’t make the pain go away. You have no promises about another man to help ease your loneliness. You have no idea what other difficult times will come. You’ll still have a life to live and decisions to make and times where you don’t think you can make it another day, but, by continuing to do right, you’ll be able to look back at this time with satisfaction, knowing that you had a long way to go, but you made it to the end. And you didn’t even have to do it barefooted! Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2004, ninetyandnine.com ---------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers! |
|
|
