Chapter 1: Games & Gems

     On a sweaty August summer afternoon, in the year 2008, some neighborhood boys and teens gathered in the field across the two lane street from our ranch-styled house. This field is located about one mile south of Interstate 80.  On the west side of this field lives our single neighbor.  He appears to be a work-a-holic type of a man, with a garage filled and overflowing with curiosities.  He's always puttering around his driveway with a welding torch in hand, often till well past dark.  On the east side of this field lives a man who manages a Wendy's franchise.  It seems like this man's driveway usually supports at least six cars.  Inside his house with lots of southerly facing windows, a huge, flickering flat screened TV often lights our part of the block when it's dark outside on our street. Our street is Luce Street, which is not pronounced "loose"; it should be pronounced in the italian manner - Lucchay - which means light.

     Each spring, summer and fall this grassy field, which is entirely bereft of trees, is filled with elementary and teenaged boys.  The first two seasons of the year, these boys reaquaint themselves with the fundamental of batting and catching practice.  In late summer to early fall, the field hosts flag football scrimmages.  Despite the heavy amount of traffic, the field is always beautiful; for the field's grass is a very hardy hybrid.

     About 2:18 pm, I heard a shattering ound, coming from the electronics room, oriented toward the north, facing the field which the boys favor with their raucous games.  Following the shattering sound of a baseball that punctured our bay window, I heard the chattering of birds.  The birds flapped their wings as they fled from the plastic, white, church-shaped bird feeder, filled with Morning Song Blend (R) seeds.

     By the time I stood barefoot in the doorway of the room with the shattered window, I decided that I should put away all the banana bread ingredients that were currently on my maroon countertop.  My plans for baking would have to wait.  Instead, I saw that I'd be doing lots of painstaking cleaning.  A concave exit wound gaped in the white metal frame in the center of the central bay window panel.  Shards of glass, splintered into hundreds of prismatic shapes, littered my Yamaha XG PSR-530 keyboard.  I looked from the wounded window, across the dingy blue, grey and white Berber styled carpet, to the tan comforter on the double day bed.  There, nestled snuggly on the comforter, rested a baseball.  I wonder if I'll be able to get all the glass out of the carpet fibers?

     So I ran to my room, which is two steps away in a catty-cornered direction, and yanked open my jewelry drawer.  It's a handy-dandy sort of junk AND treasure drawer; because I also keep a camera there, along with greeting cards (both used and new).  I snapped a picture of the grass stained baseball, resting on the bed amidst pieces of glass.  I also took a picture of the broken bay window, as well as one of the carpet.  Then I went back to my room, closed the door and changed into clothes suitable for dealing with lots of glass.  Suspending the camera from my neck, I walked into the garage.  I gathered a broom, dustpan, dust rags, a hand held vacuum, a green foam gardner's kneeling pad, yellow rubber gloves, heavy duty trash bags and a laundry basket.

     Then I walked back to the room with the great, big , unexpected banana bread baking interruption.  When I looked at the bed, I saw that the baseball was now vibrating!  After walking three steps from the doorway, my knees bumped into the double bed.  Not believing what my eyes were telling me, I jutted my chin sharply to the right, and extended my neck forward.  My head hovered over the bed, watching this baseball.  It was wiggling from inside itself.  Clearly, I was waching an index finger pressuring the baseball from within.  The finger inside the baseball began outlining the shape of the letters ... O...U...R.......F...A...T...H...E...R.  I snapped yet another picture of the baseball.

     Gingerly, I picked up the baseball, wiping it off with a dust rag.  When I was sure that no fragments of glass marred the surface of the ball, I rolled the ball in my yellow gloved hands.  By this time, I looked toward the field and discovered that none of the boys remained.  Redirecting my attention to the baseball, I noticed that the ball was perfectly round, now, with no projecting index finger.  I rolled it within my palms, over and over and over again.  OUR FATHER was written in the fanciest Indian inked calligraphy I'd ever seen.

     Father, it's too bad the boys ran from the field.  I'm not mad at them.  I wonder how many of these boys have a loving earthly father.  I woner what percentage of those boys has a friendship with You, the Loving Heavenly Father.  I guess, before I spend much time thinking about other peoples' need for a friendship with You, I should look at my own need for friendship with You.

     First of all, Father, You guided the exact molecular seed that became the baby Yolanda, which is me.  You designed me to be a brunette with wavy and curly hair.  You intended my skin color to be the same shade as the bark on an oak tree.  Thankfully, You gave me plenty of essential oils! My shade of brown might be like bark; but Geraldo, my esposo (husband), thinks the texture of my skin is so soft.  When my earthly father, Jose, planted his seeds in Yessinia, my mother, he had no idea of who I would become or the things I'd achieve by this point in my life.  I seriously doubt that he intended for a conception to commence.  Nonetheless, here I am.

     Father God, it's been years since Jose has talked to me.  You know the source of the silence and why we don't talk anymore.  I'm so thankful that You're always available, willing to speak to me and willing to listen.  It's a shame that I don't spend more focused time talking to You.  You know what I mean:  I mean time spent with my eyes closed or locked onto Your Word.  I mean time spent praying on my knees, with Kleenex nearby.  This sentence prayer stuff that I've done for years, breathing a prayer while rushing from chore to chore, is no longer enough.  Sure, I'm in constant talking mode with You.  But is that really a satisfying prayer life?  Does an "all talk, no listen" prayer life really constitute a real prayer life?  Or, is it, after thirty years of loving You, just a fabrication, a pretence, a sham devotional life?  And here I stand, surveying this glassy mess.  I'm thinking my life paralllels this mess.  But there will be plenty of time later to ponder the parallels after I get this mess cleaned.  Now is definitely not the time for a bended knee type of prayer.  I hope You don't mind at least one more sentence prayer today: Father, help me as I call my insurance agent.

     So I walked back into the kitchen and called my American Family Insurance agent.  He said he'd come by tomorrow to get an estimate worked up.  For now, he said, I should use cardboard and duct tape to seal the window.  I also called Geraldo to let him know our dinner of arroz con pollo (chicken with rice) would be delayed tonight.  When I finished the phone calls, I walked back into the electronics room.  What I saw amazed me.  In my absence, the ordinary baseball had become a supernatural cubic city.

      The 10'8" by 11'8" room somehow contained clear, green, marbled jasper in the shape of a 1,400 mile long cube.  Don't ask me how a roughly eight by twelve foot room can contain a cube the same size as the distance from Key West, Florida to Perth, Quebec.  Stay with me as our minds travel from Perth, Quebec to the intersection of Alzada and Biddle, Montana, where Interstates 59 and 50 meet.  Don't bother to raise your eyebrows as you imagine traveling due south from the southern Montana border all the way down the North American continent.  The 1,400 mile marker will take you to a poorly defined point beyond Monterrey, Mexico.  From Monterrey, your mind is going back to Key West.  That's just a two dimensional square.  I can't even begin to explain to you how a room that's 7'10 1/2" high could contain a cube that is 1,400 miles tall.  Shades of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox named Babe!

     Before you, as the reader, abandon this story in disbelief, indulge me just a little bit more:  Walk with me for one step to my antique walnut bookshelf.  I reached among the seven Bibles on the top of the bookshelf and found a leather bound copy, engraved with these words: God loves Yolanda.  I turned to Revelation 21.  That's the next to the last chapter in the Bible.  I'll quote four verses from Revelation 21, starting with verse 15, using the New International Version, just in case your house is not as rich in Bibles as my house is.

"The angel who talked with me had a measuring rod of gold to measure the city, its gates and its walls.  The city was laid out like a square, as long as it was wide.  He measured the city with the rod and found it to be 12,000 stadia (about 1,400 miles long) in length, and as wide and high as it is long.  He measured its wall and it was 144 cubits thick (about 200 feet wide), by a man's measurement, which the angel was using.  The wall was made of jasper, and the city of pure gold, as pure as glass.  The first foundation was jasper, ..."

     The cover of my blue, leather nine year old Spanish / English Bible probably won't stay intact for another year.  So I carefully took that Bible one step and laid it on the floor right next tothe electronics room.  I knelt on the gardner's kneeling pad and began to reach for my broom and dustpan, which rested on my left hand side.  Before my hand touched the broom, I felt an inner conviction:

It is time to pray.  This is no time for a sentence prayer.  I want you to pray right now for the city of Venice.  In early December, it will be eighteen inches underwater.  Look briefly at the jasper cubic city that I've placed on the bed.  That bed is now submerged beneath a gigantic cube.  Now, pray for the people of Venice, whose lives will be in distress.  Venice will be flooded with physical water.  I want you to pray that the people in Venice will see the flood and ask me for Living Water that will quench their thirsty souls. (So I spent five minutes praying for the flood victims, asking God to prevent people from getting water-bourne diseases.  I asked God to send messengers with crates of Italian Bibles.  I asked God to raise up influential new converts who would boldly tell their friends about their brand new life in Christ.)

Yolanda, now I want you to pray for people in Pakistan.  I want you to pray for those who are training others to terrorize.  Pray that law enforcement agents will infiltrate these training camps.  Pray that every destructive scheme authored by My foe, Satan, will be demolished by the truth that comes from knowing Christ. (I spent ten minutes praying for terrorists.  I pled with God to confound all wickedness, to confuse the thinking of the planners and to send intelligent and heroic people to infiltrate and frustrate the activities of the terrorists.)

Daughter, now I want your prayers to travel from Eurasia and to visit Darfur, in Sudan, Africa.  My people in Sudan have suffered for years.  Year after year, an oppressive government has decreed slaughter and mayhem.  I want you to pray for provision for the orphans and deliverance for the slaves in Darfur.  Pray that they will see the source of all their troubles; and that they will refuse to get caught in vicious cycles of violence anymore. (I spent ten minutes praying for the orphans and the slaves.  Here is what I prayed: Oh, God, You see all the cruelty and all the pain that's been inflicted.  You see the hopeless attitudes of the men who watch their families in turmoil.  You see the fear that gags the women and girls, after facing their traumas.   I'm asking You to be the Father of the fatherless.  I'm asking You to set at liberty all who are captives.  I'm asking You to sharply rebuke aggressors.  I'm asking that You'd send a contingent of angels to help all those who are currently trying to escape slavery.  I'm asking that You'd place within each Sudanese person a determination to live in total freedom.  Oh, God, You dealt with Herod in a decisive way when You sent worms to eat his intestines.  I'm asking You to do whatever You need to in order to stop the aggressors.  I'm not telling You how.  It's just obvious to me that human interventions have not worked.  I'm asking You to do something massive in order to stop all this mayhem.)

Yolanda, the boys across the street played a game of baseball.  You've spent most of the last thirty years, planning your days as if your life were only a game.  So I've sent you this baseball with its prayer-inducing phrase: Our Father.  I've caused this baseball to turn into an enormous gem called jasper so that you would recognize certain things:

     It is time to pray, on your knees, Yolanda!

    I am your Father, who designed you and who intends to be your friend forever.  I will never stop conversing with you.

    When you pray, on your knees, Yolanda, and when you recognize my Fatherhood in your life, your life ceases to be a game that's played according to your plans and desires.  Your life ceases to be hamstrung by trite phrases.  When focused prayer happens regularly, your life fast forwards through time and spatial contraints.  When the foundations of focused prayer with a Loving Father occur regularly, your life becomes as beautiful and sturdy as green, marbled jasper.

     Do you remember, Yolanda, my angel who measured the New Jerusalem with a gold measuring rod?  Yolanda, I want you to know that I measure your life with a gold standard.  I expect you to live your life in such a way that your life provides a translucent and sturdy foundation for other people.  It is now time to go beyond spiritual games and their accompanying trite phrases.  It is time to live like a precious gem.

The End of the First Foundation

Reviews

[Nancy Lee Shrader]

Rhonda, this story of broken glass became a sermon within the story. God often uses everyday experiences to reach into the inner sanctum of the heart. Guiding us in prayerful thought that wasn't there before.

I loved your story. Keep on writing.