Prepared for Plan B

A friend who saw this picture on my facebook page left the following kind comment:  "You are an inspiration and I admire you more then you know. I'm not sure I could transition from Plan A to Plan B as seamlessly as you have."

Isn't that sweet?  It's too bad I'll have to tell Michele she's wrong!

You see, I can't really take much credit for how all of this is going down, not when I look back and see how God prepared me for it.  My part was only to continue seeking Him, while He did the daily work of increasing my faith, proving His goodness and pouring out His grace into my heart.

If you grew up in church you probably at some point sang the words, "Jehovah Jireh, my provider, His grace is sufficient for me, for me, for me."  I always thought it meant God would provide for my material needs and continuosly give me grace, but I've come to understand that His provision for my circumstances is just as dependable.

And why wouldn't it be?  Scripture is clear that God is a planner, a nice nod to all of us Type As who consider our daytimers a second Bible.  "I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord."  (Jeremiah 29:11)  Plans made from the beginning of time.  (2 Timothy 1:9)  He even planned the good works we should do.  "....we can do the good things he planned for us long ago." (Eph 2:10)

If God made those plans, it only makes sense that He prepares us for them.  This is especially comforting when I consider that good works aren't just serving in a soup kitchen or going on a missions trip.  What if one of the good works God planned for Sarah DelliGatti in 2012 included divorcing graciously, without malice and while maintaining peace in my life and home?  Seems like a pretty good way for Him to be glorified, doesn't it? 

Michele, I pray you never have to walk this path in your own life, but don't be deceived -- tomorrow or the day after is surely going to throw you your own unexpected Plan B, and I can guarantee you that just as surely as God has prepared me for this season, He will prepare you for that one as well.  As you daily walk with Him and more easily recognize His leading and His voice, the good works that are suddenly thrust upon you -- the emergency call in the night, the terrifying diagnosis, the horrible betrayal by a friend -- all of those you will handle with courage because your Jehovah Jireh knew they were coming and is even now giving you all you need to be victorious.

My SarahPhrased version of Jeremiah 29:11 and Ephesians 2:10 for this Plan B season goes like this:

"Sarah, I know the plans I have for you during this divorce.  My plan to help you cope started long ago, before you were even aware this day was coming.  That's when I started growing your confidence in my goodness, your faith in my provision, and your hope for the future.  I planned this good work of divorcing with dignity so you would be able to endure it and so my name would be glorified when people see your joy in these difficult circumstances."

Thanks for your kind words, Michele.  Our God is inspiring, and He will be just as amazing in your Plan Bs as He has been in mine!

Prayer Labyrinth

A few weeks ago one of my good friends mentioned she had visited a prayer labyrinth. Knowing that there are no minotaurs in the Bible (though you can find a behemoth and leviathan in Job 40-41 which make for some pretty cool reading), I came home and googled it. Here's a link if you're interested, or read on for the SarahPhrased version.  http://www.labyrinth.org.uk/

Here's the gist: the labyrinth is a winding pathway that looks at first glance like a maze -- but isn't.  It's a path that wraps around until ending in a circle smack dab in the middle.


The idea is to walk through it while praying, considering how the journey of your life mirrors the journey through the labyrinth, ending in the center, where you turn around and exit through the same path.  Apparently they have pagan roots but somehow got adopted by religious folk who started using them as a prayer and meditation device.  (Still, I strongly suggest you pray before entering, rebuking any evil presence that might be loitering at the invitation of previous visitors who are there to meditate on "gods" other than Christ.) 

I stepped into one that's located in Camp Hill. It's a beautiful area and the walk was quiet and peaceful but void of any major revelations.

Switch to another labyrinth, this one found between the covers of a good book. I had it on the summer's reading list to enjoy Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan with my girls, completely forgetting that it's written in King's English, so full of "thees," "thous," and "wherefores" that we all three are covered with my spit within the first few pages.  A quick search revealed what I was hoping for: a retelling available at the local library in today's vernacular.


The girls and I snuggled in for the duration. And what a labyrinth it was! No simple winding path here -- Christian journeys through the Slough of Despond, past Legality's Home, on to the Place of Deliverance, over the Hill of Difficulty, stops briefly at the House Beautiful, through the By-Path Meadow, into the Doubting Castle, through the Delectable Mountains, past the Enchanted Ground, through the River of Death, finally arriving at the Celestial City.  (Whew!)  His journey isn't a solitary one as mine was in the quiet Camp Hill park -- his traveling companions include Evangelist, Obstinate, Pliable, Help, Mr. Worldly Wisdom, Mr. Legality and his son, Civility, Faithful, Hopeful, and Ignorance. 




This abbreviated version of the story gave us just enough of the original without exhausting the girls' attention spans.  Multiple times I laid the book in my lap and sobbed quietly while the girls patiently waited for me to resume reading.  They were undoubtedly puzzled by my strong reaction to a simple story, but inside I was relating my own journey to Christian's  -- I, too, have journeyed on a winding path no less dramatic, often tempted by Deceiver, narrowly missing plummeting off the Cliffs of Destruction only to be rescued time and again by friends, Shining Ones and the King himself.  No simple, winding path for me, but a harrowing journey full of cliffhangers and untimely twists and turns, some detours sent by Satan to tempt and trap me, others by God to test and try me and ultimately strengthen my faith in His goodness.

Whether you meditate by walking in a quiet garden or by mentally revisiting the adventurous roadmap already traversed, the final conclusion is what matters most.  Beloved Pilgrim, it's not the terrain that proves God's grace, but the fact that He walks every step with us, whether we are dancing on the mountaintops or mucking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, for "....thou art with me...."  Jesus, the Master Mapmaker, will see us through to the end.

I'm Afraid It's Terminal

When do you announce that something is terminal? It's a sticky situation. You could announce it at the start, but terminal cases never start out terminal, first they are merely a swelling, an asymmetrical blotch, a minor nuisance that needs to be biopsied first, we'll call you when we know more. And even after the diagnosis is made, the prognosis is never really clear. It could respond to this treatment, but if not we can always try something else, and after that there's always something experimental that might work. And you fight and shift and and suddenly, before there's even the chance to catch your breath, the prognosis comes to you in the middle of the night, not in a doctor's sure and steady voice as you had hoped but in the silent and irrefutable feeling that seeps through your gut like ice cold water, "This is going to kill me." Now it's simply awkward, because the rest of the world has yet to hear the news, since you have been so busy as of late doling out medications and trying your best to fight this darned thing, and things actually looked a bit promising here and there but now this. Some friends have suspected, of course, by the gauntness of your face, but only the ones who are kind enough to take a second look, certainly not the ones who say, "How ARE you?" and have already moved on to the next person as you are just inhaling to answer. To everyone else it comes as a shock and they actually have the gall to be offended that they are latecomers to this exciting bit of news, as if people shave their heads and wear brightly colored handkerchiefs everyday to disguise their chemotherapy. And you are forced into explaining over and over how it kind of sneaked up on you and they should not feel bad for missing what were obvious signs to those few who took the time to notice. But this doesn't really change a thing and the fact is that the world is going to continue to turn whether not you are lying in a puddle hemorrhaging on the floor and whether it is over in 3 days or 3 months. But still, what a relief to finally pull yourself up and rip off the oxygen mask long enough to say, "Yes! Yes, I am dying, thanks for noticing."

39 Going on 11

The Big Four Oh is fast approaching and a few folks have asked me how I'm doing, as if it's expected that something as simple as a birthday will inevitably propel me headlong into a midlife crisis.

The truth is, I don't believe in numbers.  As far as age is concerned, anyway.

Just ask my grandmother, a wonderful, weathered woman who has experienced her share of joy and misery over the past 92 years.  She tells me she is constantly surprised by the old woman who stares back at her from the mirror each morning.  She knows in her mind she's 92, but the number never resonates with her spirit.

My daughters will tell you the same thing.  Every year on their birthday I ask them a number of questions and record the answers in their baby books.  What is your favorite toy?  Your favorite song?  If you were to get a tattoo today, what would it be?  (A great tool for teaching your children why lifelong decisions should be approached cautiously, by the way, as every year we get a good laugh when the girls sigh in relief that their 4-year-old dream of Dora the Explorer isn't permanently etched on their lower back.)  And most importantly, How does it feel to be ___ years old?

The answers are telling: "It feels the same," being the most common.  We've gotten, "It feels taller," and a very angry 4-year-old once retorted, "I'm four years YOUNG, not four years OLD!"

At 39 and three quarters, I concur.  Every birthday I have wondered to myself when I will finally feel grown up, mature, wise and capable.  Every year comes and goes and I am still the same person, only with a few more wrinkles and gray hairs. 

Conclusion?  My body is most definitely growing older, but my spirit can't be measured in years.  It's the most practical evidence for eternal life that I have come across so far -- my spirit was made to last forever, and an eternity of living with no end needs no number.

It also means that I only feel older on the outside, not the inside.  Inside, I'm just Sarah Perry DelliGatti, no age assignment required.  I haven't grown out of my childish fears or my adolescent anxieties -- both continue to require liberal doses of prayer and faith.  Experience and wisdom have certainly had their impact, but I don't feel like I've reached some miraculous growing up point where I'm finally capable of handling everything life throws at me.  There are days I'm fully competent and days where I toddle to the foot of the cross in full awareness of my dependence on Abba Father.  And He would have it no other way.

No obsessing over what is gradually sliding south or the laugh lines that are being etched into my face with every smile and frown.  No worries that I haven't yet "made it" in light of the world's standards of success for a woman my age.  Only the shell of a woman hiding the spirit of a little girl who comes to her Heavenly Father as He desires, with the faith of a child. 

So bring it on, Forty!  Someday I will slip this skin and start counting centuries with my Savior!

Blame It On Phil Donahue

I blame Phil Donahue.  After centuries of going to experts for the answers, Phil is purportedly the first person to shove a microphone into Joe Plumber's face and say, "But what do you think?"  The experts on stage squirm in their seats, mentally calculating whether the cost of their PhDs were worth it, when Joe Schmoe is allowed to chime in with all the machismo of a guy who earned his GED at age 22.

And so it begins, the downward slide, until so many bored stay-at-home moms are blogging, all the while complaining that their houses are a mess and there's never enough time to get the clean laundry put away.

Guilty as charged.  Except that I'm no longer a stay-at-home mom, now I'm juggling a 30 hour a week job, a total of 5 kids counting the Korean exchange students who are packed like sardines into my home, and with all the aforementioned laundry piling up so that my family thinks laundry baskets are plastic dressers that come in pretty colors.

I'll be honest:  I am not an expert.  I'm like every other person in Phil Donahue's audience, busy with my life but still filled with thoughts and opinions that probably matter squat to every viewer sitting at home.  Except that I love to write.  Love to write.  And love to ponder, wonder, question and pray -- and make the presumptuous assumption that my conclusions are worth sharing.  Some might be, and at other times I'll probably be the idiot who grabs the mic from Phil and stammers out a bunch of hooey that leaves the viewing audience begging for a return to the PhD on stage.  That's okay.  It's still nice to hold the mic every once in awhile, even if no one is listening.  At the very least it's a place to vent, and maybe someone will be encouraged in the process.