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Never Hike with Double Vision

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

I spent last week in the Colorado Rockies in a portion of the mountains that has been a part of my family’s history since the early 1900s. One of our favorite activities while we are there is to hike to nearby lakes. This year was no different, except I brought along a handicap to my hiking ability.

Several weeks ago I woke up to double vision. Three doctor appointments and an MRI later, I was told that one of the nerves (or muscles) that controls the movement of my eye was weak. In my case, it was the nerve that is responsible for the downward movement of the eye—the one we use when we are reading or walking down a flight of stairs. Luckily, after about nine days, my constant double vision left as quickly as it started, but it often returns temporarily when my eyes are tired.

If you’ve ever hiked in the Rockies, you’ll know you spend a good portion of your time looking down.  It’s necessary in order to navigate all the rocks and other obstacles you find on your path. When we took a short 3-mile hike early in the week, I realized this was going to be a problem.  By the end of the hike, I was seeing double again. But it only lasted a few hours and didn’t hinder me too much, so when some of our group talked about another hike later in the week, I was all in. My husband warned against it. This hike was twice as long as the first, but it was my favorite hike to my favorite lake, so I stubbornly ignored his advice and headed out with the others.

We reached the lake just as a rain shower hit, sending us into the shelter of the trees to eat our lunch. The storm passed and the sun came out, giving my cousin a chance to do a little fly fishing while a few of us climbed up along a beautiful stream that empties into the lake in search of the wildflowers that often hide there.

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All was good until the hike home. As we started down the trail, hurrying this time to beat a second storm, we could hear rumbling in the distance. I quickly realized my double vision was back and worse than ever. Suddenly the uneven logs, wet rocks and exposed roots on the trail became insurmountable obstacles. Yet, when I closed one eye to remedy the problem, I lost my depth perception and was unsure of where to step. Luckily, my sweet sister-in -law recognized my dilemma and slowed down to give me a helping hand.

Our progress was slow, but steady. Because the rest of the group had gone on ahead, there was plenty of time for the two of us to chat. We spent a little while discussing a particularly trying life circumstance she is going through. She told me she was trying not to concentrate so much on the end result, but to focus on the journey itself and the lessons she was learning along the way.

To lighten the mood I asked, “So what did we learn on our journey today?”

We had some fun compiling a list:

  1. Come prepared for rain
  2. Choose a hiking partner you can trust to hold your hand over the rough patches
  3. Take time to stop and enjoy the view
  4. Seek out hidden beauty

And a 5th one which made us both laugh: Never Hike with Double Vision.

All points on the list make great life lessons, but #5 was the one I stopped to ponder. How often do I go through my spiritual life with double vision? How often do I say I believe what God tells me in the Bible and yet respond to life with my old sinful patterns? How often do I buy into the world’s values and wisdom rather than firmly relying on God’s?  In James 1:8 we are warned that “a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.”  The NLT translates double-mindedness as having our “loyalty divided between God and the world.”

I can vouch for the instability of double vision—both literally and figuratively. When I try to look at the world through both mind-sets, my vision is unstable. Lines between right and wrong are blurred and the obstacles in my path seem multiplied.

Want to know what cures my literal double vision? Looking up. If I keep my gaze focused upward, I no longer rely on my weak eye muscle and my vision clears. Now I know each of you is smart enough to take this analogy to its logical conclusion, so I won’t restate the obvious, but I will leave you with this verse of encouragement:

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.”  Hebrews 12:1-2a  (NIV) [emphasis mine]

Keep on looking up!

Letting Go

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

I watched my oldest child walk across the stage for his high school diploma last weekend. A proud and bittersweet moment in any parent’s heart, but maybe it’s especially poignant when it’s your first. Whatever the case, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about letting go. For what is parenting, really, other than a long series of “letting go”?

When I mentioned this to my husband, he reminded me that our initiation into the practice of letting go began long before we were even parents. He’s right. During our nine year struggle with infertility, we did a lot of letting go—of dreams . . . of expectations . . . of control. But my first truly memorable lesson in letting go of our son came a few weeks into his life.

I can clearly remember the day we took him home from the hospital. We had strapped him into his car seat and stood there marveling that after all those years of waiting and praying, we had a real, live baby boy in the back seat of our car. I remember Kurt looking at me and saying, “Should we just get in the car and drive as far away as we possibly can?”

I laughed but knew exactly what he was feeling— so many of our adoption dreams had fallen through before. Instead, we did the responsible thing and drove to the lawyer’s office to begin the process of making him legally ours. A few weeks later we got a call from that lawyer telling us she had found the baby’s birth father.  This news was potentially good since it would mean we could tie up all loose ends, but also fraught with fear because the birth father could easily choose differently than the birth mother and decide to parent our baby himself.

I say “our” baby because by then that’s exactly how I felt. My relationship with this boy had been, on my side at least, one of love at first sight. It was as if God had looked into my heart at my most secret hopes and dreams for a baby and delivered them to me in this little guy. As far as I was concerned he was mine, and I wanted to hold onto him with all the white-knuckled intensity I could muster.

After a second call from the lawyer to tell us they’d extended the birth father’s court date by two weeks, I remember sitting on the floor next to my son’s crib, watching his precious face while he slept and arguing with God. How could He possible expect me to let this baby go? No one could love this child like I did. How would they know the special way he liked to sleep, how to comfort him when he cried, the way he liked to swing when he was fussy and the many other special things I knew about him? What if they didn’t love him the way I did? What if it wasn’t safe? How could I let my child go somewhere that wasn’t safe?

God’s answer was clear: “Trust Me,” he said.” I loved this child long before you ever did.  He is my child too. I know my plans for him and whether they include you in his life or not, trust me they will be for his best.”  I held my baby on an open palm that day, my Isaac, choosing like Abraham to believe God’s promises.

Little did I know that moment was merely a training ground for the many parenting moments that lay ahead.

Letting go of his chubby fingers for his first shaky steps across the living room floor.

Letting go of the bicycle seat for that first wobbly ride down the drive way.

Letting go of that small hand for those first tentative steps into the school bus.

Letting go of the car keys for that first solo drive to school.

Letting. Go.

In a few short months, we’ll be letting go again as he takes off for college. I find myself falling back into the mire of the “what ifs.” What if he’s not ready? What if he makes poor choices? What if it’s not safe? The answer remains the same: Trust Me.

And I know now from experience—lots of experience—that I can let go, knowing I’m releasing him into the hand of the One who has proven Himself trustworthy. The One who by his sacrifice on the cross demonstrated a love that never lets us go.

When God Cries

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

Another tragic news story made the headlines this week: a beautiful preteen girl killed by two teenage boys—a senseless, appalling murder for no other reason than a BMX bike. I look at the victim’s young face and see the face of my daughter . . . my nieces . . . my daughter’s friends . . . and I can’t help but cry at the ugliness . . . the utter depravity of it all. Where is God in all this? Doesn’t he care? How could a loving God allow this to happen?

Maybe the best way to answer those questions is to look at the heart of God through his Son Jesus. Two passages in scripture tell us that Jesus wept.  In one, he is visiting the grave of a friend. The passage tells us “When Jesus saw [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.”(John 11:33) Some translations interpret this emotion as anger. A few verses later we are told that Jesus wept so violently that the people who witnessed it marveled at how much he loved his friend.

But was Jesus weeping over Lazarus? I don’t think so. He knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the grave. Instead, the passage gives us a glimpse of the heart of a loving God, angry and distressed because his people are distressed—because the perfect world he created is now held captive by the ugly hand of death.

We see a similar emotion in Jesus in the midst of his triumphal entry into Jerusalem a week before his own death. As he rounds a corner and sees the city of Jerusalem stretched out before him, he breaks down and cries. He sees her future—one of war, desolation, murder and pain both in the immediate future and in the centuries to come. His sorrow that day is echoed a few days later in the temple courtyards when he laments,

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” (Matthew 23:37)

You. Were. Not. Willing. Four words that break the heart of a loving God. His plan for his creation has always been life, not death. Light, not darkness. Good, not evil. Yet, over and over, we reject his plan—choosing instead to be our own gods, to do it our way. And his response to our rejection?

After weeping over the city, our Savior continued down the path to Jerusalem, knowing full well the crowd that cheered him that day would be calling for his crucifixion by the end of the week. Knowing full well that he would soon bear the sins of all the murderers, thieves, liars, hypocrites, haters, scoffers and mockers on himself, giving mankind a second chance. That’s the heart of a loving God.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

Making Our Father Smile

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

Doesn’t a thankful heart always make you smile?

As a football mom, I’ve had the privilege of helping feed the football team several times this season. Each time, my heart was blessed by the number of young men who remembered to tell us thank you. Whether it was due to good parenting or reminders from their teammates and coaches, the number of thank you’s we’d receive was close to 100%. Would we have fed them if they hadn’t voiced their thanks? Of course, but those two simple words made our task so much more enjoyable.

Gratitude can be easy to remember when you’re in the midst of something pleasurable, but what about when life gets hard? Do we still remember to be thankful? Another athlete who always brought a smile to our mom hearts this season was a friend of my daughter’s on the cross country team.  As parents, we would stand at different spots along the course to cheer our athletes on.  No matter where we stood during the race, when we yelled encouragement to this particular girl, she would always smile and say thank you. In the midst of the battle . . . on the steepest hills . . . when her side had a stitch . . . when she was struggling for air . . . when her knees began to hurt –still, she’d smile and say thank you.

Don’t you want that type of attitude? One that can be grateful no matter what the circumstances? I’m pretty sure a heart like that will make our Father smile.

 Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.    Colossians 3:17

Mountain-sized Problems

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

A drought can be overwhelming, can’t it?

I realize this every time I go out to water my lawn and garden. We live on a large acreage. There’s absolutely no way I could water the hundreds of trees and acres of grass that cover our property. The best I can do is try to maintain a small island of green in the area that surrounds our house. Even then, the battle seems hopeless. Each new day of 100+ temperatures and absolutely no rain takes its toll. Our hydrangeas are wilty, our hostas are fried, and more than one of our potted plants has surrendered completely in spite of my best efforts in triage.  It’s like spitting on a forest fire. The trouble is I’m trying to bring man-made tools to a God-sized problem. No amount of watering I can do could come close to what God could accomplish in one afternoon of rain.

Ever feel like that in your prayer life? Sometimes when I sit down to pray for myself and others, I can feel overwhelmed by the vast amount of hurting and pain in this world. We all have them—those lists of broken relationships, incomprehensible tragedies, insurmountable health issues, and lost and floundering loved ones. The weight of it all can sometimes seem more than I can bear. Then, this week God showed up with an answer to one of my prayers that was so miraculous it caught me by surprise.

What I’d forgotten was I’m not meant to bear these burdens nor struggle to find the answers myself. That’s God’s job. My job is to lay them at his feet in believing expectancy that He can and will answer—sometimes has already answered before I even thought to utter the prayer.

Will you pray with me today?

Dear Lord, I confess my faith is often smaller than the mustard seed, more pitiful than a grain of sand. And yet you answer my prayers—not only answer, but completely blow me away with your awesome power to accomplish the impossible. You’ve promised if we ask in faith, we can tell mountains to go jump in the lake. So I lay my mountains before you—all my impossibilities, all my doubts, all my fears—in  humble expectancy of your goodness and faithfulness to answer and provide. Lord, I believe . . . help my unbelief. Amen.

 

Worship with Thanksgiving

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

So thank God for his marvelous love, 
for his miracle mercy to the children he loves;
Offer thanksgiving sacrifices,
tell the world what he’s done—sing it out!   Psalm 107:21-22

It’s easy to praise God when life is good, right? Or is it?

My husband and I just returned from a week-long cruise to Alaska. Life doesn’t get much easier than life aboard a cruise ship. We enjoyed luxury accommodations, beautiful scenery and pampering 24/7. We had more food than we needed whenever we wanted it served in restaurants that all had an ocean view. Nothing to complain about there, right?

Except . . . people did.

You’d hear a murmur here, a grumble there—a steak wasn’t cooked to the diner’s specifications, a line was too long in the spa, a bed was a little too hard. Much as I hate to admit it, even I may have groused a little too much about the weather. “If only the sun would shine,” I’d say, as if I hadn’t just arrived from the lower 48 where we were baking under the broiling glare of full sunshine.

But then our fishing guide told us they’d had sunshine along the Alaska coastline the week before . . . and his clients hadn’t been able to fish all the best spots because the waves were too high. The ocean was like glass the day we fished under overcast skies. In Juneau, our canoe guide told the story of a group she’d taken out a few days earlier who had been unable to oar their canoe more than a third of the way across the lake because of the three-foot waves caused by—you guessed it—the sun. Though it rained for our outing, our group was able to canoe all the way across the lake the day we were there—getting within fifty feet of the magnificent glacier on the other side. We were even able to canoe right up alongside a gigantic iceberg that had calved from that glacier—close enough to touch its frozen surface.

One of the reasons I’ve never cruised before is because I can get seasick on a swing set. Naturally, I was a bit apprehensive about this trip. Yet the seas were calm the entire time we traveled, and I had no problems. That wouldn’t have been the case the week before when the weather was sunny. Apparently, warm sunshine equals strong south winds in Alaska. Who knew?

God had given me exactly the type of weather I needed to enjoy my vacation to the fullest, and yet . . .  I complained. Kind of reminds me of the Israelites who were fed daily on manna from heaven—food fit for angels and God himself—and yet complained because they had no meat. How could they have so quickly forgotten the fleshpots of Egypt brought with them the costly price tag of chains and misery?

Let’s face it. We’re a people prone to complaining—even in the best of times. Yet Psalm 53:23 tells us one of the best ways to praise God is with thanksgiving: “. . . giving thanks is a sacrifice that truly honors me.”

So would you try something with me this week? Let’s exchange our ingrained cruise-ship mentality of entitlement for an attitude of gratitude. Every time a complaint slips through our lips, let’s replace it with at least three things for which we are grateful. It’ll bring honor to the One who truly deserves it. And who knows? If we get our minds off the steak that wasn’t cooked to our liking, we might finally notice the family of whales swimming just outside our restaurant window.

It Matters Where You’re Planted

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

We have several 3rd-generation willows growing on our property. By that I mean they grew from a branch that came from a tree in my father-in-law’s yard, which in turn grew from a branch that came from a tree in his father-in-law’s yard. Three generations of our family have enjoyed trees grown from one original seed.

In our quest to raise these 3rd-generation trees, we’ve learned a thing or two. For one, the health and beauty of the original tree in no way guarantees health and beauty in its descendants. Disease, deer, rabbits, grasshoppers . . .  the presence of any of these can determine whether a little branch ever makes it into a full grown tree. But more than anything else, it matters where we plant them.

My husband planted five or six of the trees around the edges of our five-acre pond. Here’s a picture of my favorite and probably the oldest of the trees which grows down by our dock. Whenever I see it, I’m reminded of the verse in Psalm 1:3 “ . . . like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither . . . .“  This tree had exactly the right environment in which to grow into a strong, mature willow.

But not all of our 3rd-generation trees are this lush and healthy. You see, my husband also wanted a few to grow in our front pasture. The soil in this area is mostly clay—hard to dig in—even harder to grow in. Below are pictures of two of our willows, each planted at the same time. The one on the right was planted in our front pasture and depends on only the intermittent Nebraska rain and snow for its moisture. The one on the left was planted beside the ever present water of our pond. 

 

See what I mean? It matters where they are planted.

When I look at these trees, I can’t help but relate them to my spiritual life. I’m more than a 3rd-generation Christian. My family tree on both sides, as far back as I can trace, is filled with fully-committed followers of Christ who served the Lord faithfully as missionaries, pastors, elders and Sunday school teachers. But their spiritual health and maturity in no way guarantees my own.  Just like the trees, it matters where I’m planted.

If I plant myself daily in God’s Word, drink deeply from His wisdom, listen and follow the voice of His Spirit, then yes, I too will grow strong and fruitful. However, if I plant myself in the value system of this world, listening only to its wisdom and logic, getting only an intermittent sprinkle from God’s Word through a sermon or song, then I might grow, but only slowly like the trees trying to grow in our thick Nebraska clay. I’ll be like the Jewish Christians in Hebrews 5 who Paul said should be ready for spiritual meat, but were still in need of milk, like infants.

I don’t know about you, but I want to be the type of Christian that makes a difference in God’s Kingdom—one that is strong and healthy and bearing much fruit. Would you pledge with me to drink daily from God’s Word? To listen for His voice in the midst of your busy daily schedule? To view the world through His eyes rather than through the self-centered lens of the world around us? As a start, take a few minutes today to read through what Jesus had to say about this very subject in Mark 4:1-20 and Luke 8:4-15. I think you’ll see what I mean—it matters where you are planted.

Rest within the Storm

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11: 28-30

Feeling weary today? Burdened and worn down? Are you struggling to rest but feel caught in a downpour of trouble and pain?

I was caught in a storm last week—literally. You know that gulley-washer that hit last Thursday evening? Yep. I was walking out of Super Target with a full cartload just as the storm hit. (Not great timing on my part.) Needless to say, I was drenched long before I reached my car. The 30-minute drive home that followed was anything but restful. Between water dripping off my hair into my eyes and a windshield that was fogged over on the inside and covered in torrents of rain on the outside, I could barely see. Every few minutes a flash of lightning would strike and thunder would resound all around me. My car wheels kept slipping ever so slightly as they navigated the streams of water and even deeper puddles that were forming on the road.

Any of you facing a storm in your life right now? Maybe the road ahead is hard to see. Maybe you feel like you’re slipping–as if you are merely moments away from losing control. You wonder how you could possibly find rest in the midst of all you are going through. The answer, of course, is trust. Ever marvel at how a small child can sleep in the arms of a parent through the midst of a violent thunder storm? He trusts in the one who holds him.

Today, turn your eyes to the One who holds you. The passages below remind us that our God not only has power to calm the storm, He also delights in bringing his children rest.

Psalm 46: 1-3, 8-11

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. . . .

Come and see what the LORD has done, the desolations he has brought on the earth. He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth. He breaks the bow and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire. He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”

The LORD Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Psalm 91:1-2

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”

Psalm 62: 1-2, 5

Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from him. Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken. . . .

Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from him.

Mark 4:35-40

That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.” Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.

He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

Psalm 127:2 (MSG)

It’s useless to rise early and go to bed late, and work your worried fingers to the bone. Don’t you know he enjoys giving rest to those he loves?

God Is Faithful

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

My late mother-in-law loved the color blue. As a result, my father-in-law would be sure to plant as many blue flowers as possible in their backyard garden. Growing up in south Texas, I was familiar with all sorts of tropical plants: poinsettias, bougainvillea, oleander, hibiscus, but northern plants were all new to me. So when we moved to Nebraska, I was always looking to my in-law’s flower garden for inspiration for mine. One plant especially intrigued me. I found it was actually a wildflower—the blue flax—that my father-in-law would grow from seed. You’ll often see it growing in the ditches around here in late May and early June.

I loved that plant. Not only were the flowers a gorgeous shade of blue, but they were also dainty and delicate and seemed to dance with the slightest breeze. In fact, the blossoms were so fragile that by the end of each day, the plant would be bare, the ground at its base a carpet of blue petals. Yet each morning, when I’d look out at the garden, the plant would once again be covered with brilliant blue flowers. I got so I called them my God’s Mercy flowers because they reminded me of that familiar verse that tells us God’s mercy is new every morning.

Like many familiar verses, I think this particular one takes on even deeper meaning when we look at it in context. You’ll find it in Lamentations shining like a diamond on a very black background. The book is just what it says it is—a lament, a mournful cry, a funeral dirge. The prophet, probably Jeremiah, is in mourning because everything he’d prophesied for the nation of Judah had come to pass. Because of the nation’s sin and their refusal to turn from worshiping other gods, God allowed them to be conquered by the Babylonians. Jerusalem lay in shambles . . . Solomon’s great temple destroyed . . . its treasure plundered. Most of the people were either dead or taken in captivity back to Babylon. The ones who remained barely eked out an existence among the ruins. The nation that had once been feared because of the God who fought for it was now a laughingstock because that same God had seemingly deserted it. Yet in the midst of all this darkness and despair, the prophet penned these verses:

“I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” Lamentations 3: 19-23

I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve had a very blessed life. I can’t recall a time when I didn’t know God loved me enough to die for me. My family tree is packed full with godly Christian men and women, and I believe my blessed life, in many ways, is a result of their prayers on my behalf. Yet my life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows. Like Jeremiah, I live in a world that is broken and dark because of mankind’s sin and our desire to worship gods of our own making rather than the God who created us. Here are a few of the dark circumstances I’ve had to deal with:

  • My father was a pastor and a missionary. He was also bi-polar. Those of you familiar with this disease know how difficult life can be for those who suffer from it, or live with those who do. When I was nineteen, my father took his own life during one of his periods of deep depression. . . . We live in a broken world.
  •  My mother, who suffered with health issues all her life, died five years ago from cancer—long before we were ready to see her go. She was my rock, my mentor,  my earliest example of unconditional love and grace, and I still miss her dearly. . . . We live in a broken world.
  • For the past ten years, I’ve watched my beloved mother-in-law slowly slip away from us into the fog of dementia. She passed away last June, but we lost the woman we knew and loved long before that. . . . We live in a broken world.
  • My husband and I struggled with infertility for the first nine years of our marriage. Month after month, year after year, we rode the roller coaster of highs and lows as each new dream of a child and family would grow and then die. . . . We live in a broken world.

But difficult as any of these circumstances were to live through, they do not define my life. They’ve shaped me, grown me, in some ways, made me who I am today, but they did not consume me. My life has been one of incredible blessing because of God’s great love and faithfulness. There was never a moment where I had to tackle these circumstances on my own. He was always by my side—bringing hope, peace, strength, comfort, and in some instances, protection. His mercy and grace were new every morning. His loving arms all I needed to make it through the night.

In the third verse of the familiar hymn “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” the author lists just a sprinkling of the daily blessings we enjoy as believers:

“pardon for sin, a peace that endureth, Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide, strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow . . .”

Day after day, I’ve experienced these blessings, and, like the author of the song, “ten thousand beside.” Because of God’s loving faithfulness, we are all truly blessed.

So, when you see the flax blooming in the ditches and along the roadways this spring, I hope you will remember with me God’s awesome faithfulness and how His mercies are indeed new every morning.

Rats and Bad Hair Days

Posted on by Kathy Geary Anderson

Oh, the Gibson Girl hair! Don’t you just love it? All those twists and curls and rolls . . . the romantic poufs . . . the wispy tendrils.

I can get lost in the fantasy of living at the turn-of-the-20th century with hair that would look like that every day—until I see pictures of my great-grandmother.

Her hair, more often than not, looked like this.

 

Which, as you can well see, is a far cry from this.

 

I know what you’re thinking. The Gibson Girl was a pen-and-ink drawing, by a man, no less, and therefore no more representative of the average woman of the day than the photoshopped images we see in our present-day magazines. Still, there were real live women of that time period who could pull off the look—celebrities like the duchess, the President’s daughter and the infamous model/actress. And I’m sure more than a few ordinary women conquered the look as well. Why, I know any number of women of my acquaintance today who have the type of hair needed for all that poufiness.

But I don’t.

And (apparently) neither did my great-grandmother.

Which led me to ask—what did the hair-deprived woman of the early 1900’s do? I know well the frustrations of owning baby-fine hair in a big-hair decade. I lived in Texas . . . in the 80’s. The humid part of Texas . . . in the 80’s. I know the tools I used then—the perms, the volumizers, the hairspray—but what about the poor wimpy-haired women of the Gibson Girl era who lived before those methods existed? What did they do?

One answer I found was rats. Not the four-legged kind with the skinny tails. No, these rats (or ratts) were wads of discarded hair that were sewn into sheer hair nets to be used as padding for the pompadours and rolls of the popular hairstyles. These rats could be made of false hair or even horse hair, but most women used their own.

On many a Victorian vanity you could find an item that looked like this.

These were called hair receivers. After her daily brushing of the requisite 100 (or so) strokes, the Victorian lady would clean her brush or comb and deposit the strands of hair into the hole at the top of the receiver. When she gathered enough hair, she could use it for any number of things—to make rats, to stuff pillows or to braid into intricate designs for jewelry or works of art (though the latter were probably made more often from cut hair than the tangled discards.)

Of course, if the rats didn’t work and you were faced with the turn-of-the-last century equivalent of a bad hair day, you could always resort to the remedy used by women throughout the ages–stick a hat on it and call it good. Luckily for my great-grandmother, hats were also a fashion staple of the early 1900s.