I had a dream the other night that I was in Aunt Florence's kitchen, making doughnuts with her. It brought back memories of trips to her house up north, where there was always special food of some kind, and of the time she let me cut the middles out of the dough before we dropped them in the hot fat and watched them sizzle and bob.
Aunt Florence isn't really an aunt, but my dad's first cousin. He spent a great deal of his childhood living with his cousins, and since he only had one sibling himself they turned into a huge, close clan of children, who remained close their whole lives. I do believe that Dad and Aunt Florence are the only ones left now. He's in his eighties, and she is in her nineties, and still as close as ever. I loved our visits there--somehow, miraculously, the only car rides during which I failed to be car sick.
Aunt Florence had a wonderful house which she designed herself, perfectly logically laid out and efficient, but the highlight for me was the plenitude of book shelves and cabinets. Aunt Florence had been a public school librarian, and loved books as much as I did, and the joy of finding something to read at her house was one of those things that made me full of happy anticipation.
But the real joy of Aunt Florence's house was--Aunt Florence. There's nobody like her in the whole world, and if I could pick one person to be just like if and when I grow up, it would be she. There was no question you could not ask, and expect to be given the dignity of a reply, and every word that came out of her mouth was a masterpiece of wisdom and good humor. Even on the rare occasions that I was naughty, she could quell me with a word, but I didn't mind because that word was always just the right one. And even these days, old age has not reduced her ability to see every person and situation clearly, and address them with a twinkle in her eyes. Never did I see her at a loss, or sharp tempered. I once mentioned to Dad that Aunt Florence was unusually full of wisdom, and he replied, "She's earned it".
Aunt Florence divorced her husband at a time when you just didn't do that, but for good reasons, and raised her children single-handedly in an age when that was extremely rare. That can't have been easy. It isn't easy now, but back when the stigmas of society were strongly against her it must have been even harder. But she managed, and somehow raised equally good-humored children who are stable, intelligent, and long-married adults with grandchildren of their own.
How on earth did she do it? Well, in addition to her own innate intelligence, Aunt Florence is a woman of faith. If we were at her house on a Sunday, we went to her church with her, and while that doesn't necessarily mean anything in her case it did. The combination of a life of hardship and a good Lord to bear her up produced a diamond of the first water--strong and brilliant and beautiful in my eyes. Although I don't especially want the life of hardship that produced it, I do dearly want that kind of faith. Everybody needs a good role model, and she is mine.
So here's to you, Aunt Florence, and thanks for everything you've taught me, even though you probably never realized I was watching and listening and storing it all up.
Love, Spud.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Why pray?
On Saturday, May 9th, my friend Yoko found herself with a deep, compelling urge to pray for the life of her son. Since Yoko's son, Daichi, is on active duty in Iraq, she obeyed. She prayed all Saturday, and all Sunday, and all Monday. On Tuesday, she found out with the rest of the nation that a soldier at the end of his third tour of duty had gone on Monday to a mental health clinic in Iraq where soldiers went to receive counseling for combat stress, and shot and killed five other American soldiers. They were all, I think, soldiers with Daichi's unit. Daichi was not harmed.
There is no doubt in Yoko's mind (nor mine!) that the Holy Spirit had told her to pray for just this reason. Yoko and her husband are Christians, but none of their children are. When we found out that Daichi was on his way to Iraq, we all felt a sense of urgency to pray that God would put believers in Daichi's way, and use this experience overseas to bring Daichi to Himself. We all believe that this young man was spared because of his mother's prayers.
But that brings up an interesting question. If God wanted to spare Daichi, why not just go ahead and spare Daichi? Why all the drama? Why the requirement that his mother expend herself in prayer for something God was planning to do anyway? This question has been asked a lot through the centuries, with varying degrees of wisdom applied to the answer. In this particular instance I have only a glimmer of answer, and it's that if Yoko had not known so clearly that Daichi was in some kind of danger, she and the rest of us would not have seen so very clearly God's gracious salvation from it. God knew the end of the story before the beginning, but He wanted to make sure we saw that, and knew Him for who He is.
Daichi does not yet know this story. I have been encouraging Yoko to tell him, and the sooner the better. She has committed herself to do so, and wants to take her time with the computer to make sure she expresses herself in words that cannot fail to be understood. When she does, perhaps Daichi will comprehend at last that while he may not be interested in God, God is definitely interested in him.
There is no doubt in Yoko's mind (nor mine!) that the Holy Spirit had told her to pray for just this reason. Yoko and her husband are Christians, but none of their children are. When we found out that Daichi was on his way to Iraq, we all felt a sense of urgency to pray that God would put believers in Daichi's way, and use this experience overseas to bring Daichi to Himself. We all believe that this young man was spared because of his mother's prayers.
But that brings up an interesting question. If God wanted to spare Daichi, why not just go ahead and spare Daichi? Why all the drama? Why the requirement that his mother expend herself in prayer for something God was planning to do anyway? This question has been asked a lot through the centuries, with varying degrees of wisdom applied to the answer. In this particular instance I have only a glimmer of answer, and it's that if Yoko had not known so clearly that Daichi was in some kind of danger, she and the rest of us would not have seen so very clearly God's gracious salvation from it. God knew the end of the story before the beginning, but He wanted to make sure we saw that, and knew Him for who He is.
Daichi does not yet know this story. I have been encouraging Yoko to tell him, and the sooner the better. She has committed herself to do so, and wants to take her time with the computer to make sure she expresses herself in words that cannot fail to be understood. When she does, perhaps Daichi will comprehend at last that while he may not be interested in God, God is definitely interested in him.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Other Prom
Last Saturday night, I took my son to a dance. A local service group periodically hosts dances for the physically and/or mentally handicapped at the recreation center, and when the flyers come out I always ask Kevin if he wants to go. He always says no. This time, he said yes! So we went.
The ballroom was packed, and the populace was assorted, to put it mildly. I hadn't been sure what to expect, but I had thought that everyone would be about high school age, and that wasn't the case. We had one very small boy, kids in high school, and then ages all the way up. There were a few wheelchairs, one walker, and some coke-bottle glasses. In addition to the physical handicaps, most people there had fairly obvious mental handicaps also. But oh boy, could they dance. There was a live band, and it was one hopping place.
We saw a guy from Kevin's Special Olympics team with his girlfriend, and a couple of guys from his class at school, but the others were not anyone we knew. A lot of them looked familiar though, because we've been a part of the handicapped community for a while now, and you run across each other at events, doctor's offices, clinics, and supported job sites. It's like a small town, really.
As I had been doing the dishes at home an hour earlier, I'd found myself getting tearful over this dance. It wasn't lost on me that a few miles away the rest of the senior class was at the prom, in tuxedos and stylish gowns, with professionally dressed hair and nails, and parents lurking in the front hallways to take pictures before their gorgeous children departed for the night. No such rites of passage for Kevin--he had to settle for escorting his dowdy old mom. So I mopped my eyes and straightened my spine and went upstairs to dress up a little.
And truth to tell, we had a fine time. The music was lively, the pretzels were not bad, and the crowd was cheerful, if sometimes oddly attired. Kevin's dancing involves the arms and the head, not the feet (he was happy to let me do all the footwork), but it came with a huge grin and a hug for his girl. We came home when we felt like it and counted it an evening well spent. Not bad, for something that didn't charge admission.
But still, I got a little misty. I'm a mom, and I kind of tend that way. Kevin's rites of passage are just going to be a little different; that's all there is to it. But I try to make them special in their own ways because he is so very special himself. So he wore black, and I wore pink. And we danced.
Love, Spud.
The ballroom was packed, and the populace was assorted, to put it mildly. I hadn't been sure what to expect, but I had thought that everyone would be about high school age, and that wasn't the case. We had one very small boy, kids in high school, and then ages all the way up. There were a few wheelchairs, one walker, and some coke-bottle glasses. In addition to the physical handicaps, most people there had fairly obvious mental handicaps also. But oh boy, could they dance. There was a live band, and it was one hopping place.
We saw a guy from Kevin's Special Olympics team with his girlfriend, and a couple of guys from his class at school, but the others were not anyone we knew. A lot of them looked familiar though, because we've been a part of the handicapped community for a while now, and you run across each other at events, doctor's offices, clinics, and supported job sites. It's like a small town, really.
As I had been doing the dishes at home an hour earlier, I'd found myself getting tearful over this dance. It wasn't lost on me that a few miles away the rest of the senior class was at the prom, in tuxedos and stylish gowns, with professionally dressed hair and nails, and parents lurking in the front hallways to take pictures before their gorgeous children departed for the night. No such rites of passage for Kevin--he had to settle for escorting his dowdy old mom. So I mopped my eyes and straightened my spine and went upstairs to dress up a little.
And truth to tell, we had a fine time. The music was lively, the pretzels were not bad, and the crowd was cheerful, if sometimes oddly attired. Kevin's dancing involves the arms and the head, not the feet (he was happy to let me do all the footwork), but it came with a huge grin and a hug for his girl. We came home when we felt like it and counted it an evening well spent. Not bad, for something that didn't charge admission.
But still, I got a little misty. I'm a mom, and I kind of tend that way. Kevin's rites of passage are just going to be a little different; that's all there is to it. But I try to make them special in their own ways because he is so very special himself. So he wore black, and I wore pink. And we danced.
Love, Spud.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Welcome to the Middle Ages
I used to have a brain like a steel trap. I could memorize whole books and reams of poetry, and recite at the drop of a hat. I never bothered with a calendar because I could tell you when I was going to the dentist or the eye doctor without consulting one, and I was truly formidable at Trivial Pursuit.
Then I had kids.
It's not clear to me just what the connection is between having children and a reduction in the amount of gray matter accessible, but the correlation is verifiable, I am convinced. One child made a dent, but two children started an inevitable decay, and the longer I have them, the more pronounced the decay gets. I don't know if I'll get some of my former capacity back when the nest empties or not. I'll let you know. Or you'll let ME know, because I'll have forgotten all about it by then.
I'm turning 49 this year, so I'm certainly classified as middle aged at this point, and I have no problem with that. But I find that I increasingly depend on paper and pen to substitute for the synapses which no longer fire without assistance. If I write it down, I remember to do it. If I don't, then there are no guarantees. Fortunately I have an innate fondness for lists, so this is not distressing to me, but sometimes I'll think of something and don't have paper handy so it never makes it onto a list, and in that case it's just a lost cause. Sorry. And my family is more or less trained to write things on the grocery list now, because they have all learned the hard, sad way that if you don't write it down then Mom doesn't bring it home. End of story.
At least I still remember their names--generally. My grandfather had a wonderful system for this because he couldn't remember names to save his life. All the males, of any generation, were Sonny, and all the females were Sis. He was one of those gentle old men who mostly just smiled and didn't say much to start with, so if you saw he was looking at you and talking at the same time you just assumed you were the Sis in question and listened up. It was usually worth it.
Luci Swindoll (or was it Patsy Clairmont? I don't remember!) says that as we age, we lose brain cells, which I believe to be true. But Luci (or Patsy, as the case may be) has a theory about where it is they go--into that turkey wattle flap of skin that connects your chin (should you be so fortunate as to have one) to your neck. She could be correct, as there does seem to be an inverse proportion type of situation at work there.
About eight or nine days ago, my husband was hunting for a word himself (poor baby, here it comes for him too) to describe shrubs that had been trimmed into the shape of animals. Well I knew darned well what that word was, but I sure couldn't bring it far enough up out of the morass to tell him what it was. I worked on that all week. Every day I would puzzle over what on earth that word was, and every day I would come up blank. It was driving me nuts. Last night, as I was trying to get to sleep, my brain wandered for convoluted reasons to the person of Marissa Tomei. That led naturally to the movie My Cousin Vinny, which led to that wonderful courtroom scene, which led to who on earth was the actor playing that judge? I'd been puzzling over that one for a few days also, and the closest I'd been able to come had been Edward Herrman, and I knew that wasn't right. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had the answer--Fred Gwynne! Yes! And then I gasped, realizing that two brain cells had actually fired at one and the same time, and could I do it again? So I reeeeeeached out with every neuron I could summon, sat up in bed, and shouted "Topiary!".
My best friend turned 50 this spring, and so she and I are in this perilous age together. I'll typically turn to her and ask "Did you bring the thingy for the whoziwhatsit?" and she knows what I'm talking about. It's wonderful. I anticipate that in another thirty years we will have abandoned our husbands entirely, largely because we will have forgotten we ever had them in the first place, and will toddle gently into that good night, arm in arm, babbling nonsense in our happily demented way, and understanding every single word.
Love, Spud
Then I had kids.
It's not clear to me just what the connection is between having children and a reduction in the amount of gray matter accessible, but the correlation is verifiable, I am convinced. One child made a dent, but two children started an inevitable decay, and the longer I have them, the more pronounced the decay gets. I don't know if I'll get some of my former capacity back when the nest empties or not. I'll let you know. Or you'll let ME know, because I'll have forgotten all about it by then.
I'm turning 49 this year, so I'm certainly classified as middle aged at this point, and I have no problem with that. But I find that I increasingly depend on paper and pen to substitute for the synapses which no longer fire without assistance. If I write it down, I remember to do it. If I don't, then there are no guarantees. Fortunately I have an innate fondness for lists, so this is not distressing to me, but sometimes I'll think of something and don't have paper handy so it never makes it onto a list, and in that case it's just a lost cause. Sorry. And my family is more or less trained to write things on the grocery list now, because they have all learned the hard, sad way that if you don't write it down then Mom doesn't bring it home. End of story.
At least I still remember their names--generally. My grandfather had a wonderful system for this because he couldn't remember names to save his life. All the males, of any generation, were Sonny, and all the females were Sis. He was one of those gentle old men who mostly just smiled and didn't say much to start with, so if you saw he was looking at you and talking at the same time you just assumed you were the Sis in question and listened up. It was usually worth it.
Luci Swindoll (or was it Patsy Clairmont? I don't remember!) says that as we age, we lose brain cells, which I believe to be true. But Luci (or Patsy, as the case may be) has a theory about where it is they go--into that turkey wattle flap of skin that connects your chin (should you be so fortunate as to have one) to your neck. She could be correct, as there does seem to be an inverse proportion type of situation at work there.
About eight or nine days ago, my husband was hunting for a word himself (poor baby, here it comes for him too) to describe shrubs that had been trimmed into the shape of animals. Well I knew darned well what that word was, but I sure couldn't bring it far enough up out of the morass to tell him what it was. I worked on that all week. Every day I would puzzle over what on earth that word was, and every day I would come up blank. It was driving me nuts. Last night, as I was trying to get to sleep, my brain wandered for convoluted reasons to the person of Marissa Tomei. That led naturally to the movie My Cousin Vinny, which led to that wonderful courtroom scene, which led to who on earth was the actor playing that judge? I'd been puzzling over that one for a few days also, and the closest I'd been able to come had been Edward Herrman, and I knew that wasn't right. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had the answer--Fred Gwynne! Yes! And then I gasped, realizing that two brain cells had actually fired at one and the same time, and could I do it again? So I reeeeeeached out with every neuron I could summon, sat up in bed, and shouted "Topiary!".
My best friend turned 50 this spring, and so she and I are in this perilous age together. I'll typically turn to her and ask "Did you bring the thingy for the whoziwhatsit?" and she knows what I'm talking about. It's wonderful. I anticipate that in another thirty years we will have abandoned our husbands entirely, largely because we will have forgotten we ever had them in the first place, and will toddle gently into that good night, arm in arm, babbling nonsense in our happily demented way, and understanding every single word.
Love, Spud
Friday, April 10, 2009
Herds of Birds
This neighborhood tends to be wildlife central, and for the most part I love that. Recently we've seen lots of squirrels, owls, a hawk, a skunk, a raccoon as big as as large dog, rabbits, deer, Carolina wrens, European starlings, but fortunately not the ground hog or the possum that we've had hanging around in the past. Now that I think about it, I guess I wasn't too thrilled about the raccoon or the skunk either, but the skunk was such a novelty that I didn't have time to be anything but fascinated.But the really interesting things are the herds of birds. I know that technically they are a flock, but when I was growing up my family jokingly referred to them as herds, and it stuck in my head, and so herds they are. Besides, it rhymes.
Two stoplights north of our house is an intersection where I tend to be stuck every late afternoon, and that's when all the birds come out to play. I've never seen them up close, and so I don't know what kind they are, but they do a strange and wonderful ballet. It's an area with a lot of tall old trees, and we get hundreds and hundreds of birds there at a time. One large group of a hundred or so will rise up and swirl and swoop through the air, landing suddenly and just as suddenly taking off, while another group (or two or three) will be doing the same thing from a different tree base. The groups sometimes intersect, and sometimes do an end-run around each other, but there are never any collisions. I don't know how such large flocks communicate with each member just where they are going and when, but they do--the timing is perfect. They ride the air currents for fun, I think, and I'm the unintended beneficiary of their entertaining exercise. I'm always sorry when the light changes and I have to move on. The birds never seem to tire of this game, and a game it seems to be, and they stay around all through our unpredictable mid-western winters to play it. It certainly enlivens our gray winter skies.
Love, Spud.
Two stoplights north of our house is an intersection where I tend to be stuck every late afternoon, and that's when all the birds come out to play. I've never seen them up close, and so I don't know what kind they are, but they do a strange and wonderful ballet. It's an area with a lot of tall old trees, and we get hundreds and hundreds of birds there at a time. One large group of a hundred or so will rise up and swirl and swoop through the air, landing suddenly and just as suddenly taking off, while another group (or two or three) will be doing the same thing from a different tree base. The groups sometimes intersect, and sometimes do an end-run around each other, but there are never any collisions. I don't know how such large flocks communicate with each member just where they are going and when, but they do--the timing is perfect. They ride the air currents for fun, I think, and I'm the unintended beneficiary of their entertaining exercise. I'm always sorry when the light changes and I have to move on. The birds never seem to tire of this game, and a game it seems to be, and they stay around all through our unpredictable mid-western winters to play it. It certainly enlivens our gray winter skies.
Love, Spud.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Passing the Torch
When I was young, and my sister and I would play, we would occasionally break something. No big surprises there! But whatever it was, whatever it was made out of, we would just say with confidence, "Daddy will fix it" and we'd trot down to the basement and leave the crippled object on his workbench. Poor Dad. Many evenings and weekends when he'd go down to the basement workshop to devote some time to the current wood-working project, he'd have to deal with our breakages first. But do you know the remarkable thing? He really could fix anything! I don't remember anything that didn't come back mended. Our confidence was well founded.
When I was at Dad's house yesterday, there was a magazine rack there that had failed to withstand the strain of all the things that had been inserted into it. The posts running between the base and the upper rim were all disconnected at one end or the other, and sometimes both. It just needs a little (or a lot) of wood glue, and it will be as good as ever. So at Dad's request I packed all the pieces up into a big black garbage bag and brought them home with me. The bag is presently sitting in our dining room, waiting for my husband to have time to rummage through his glue collection and get the rack put back together.
I have a funny feeling that a torch has been passed. Many years ago I'd wait for Daddy to come home, knowing that he could make things all better. Now I go driving over to my home town about every two weeks, and walk into that same house, but now I'm one of the people who make things all better. I'll send my husband over with the magazine rack and his computer knowledge in a couple of weeks, and it will be his turn. When did this happen? When did I become the person who can fix and mend and remove stains and intercede with doctors to make sure everybody gets their illnesses and needs properly addressed? I never saw it coming, and now it's too late to duck. As I drove along those back country roads yesterday, I was thinking with bemusement that I'm Mom--and I can do anything. Here's my torch, but where's my cape?
Love, Spud
When I was at Dad's house yesterday, there was a magazine rack there that had failed to withstand the strain of all the things that had been inserted into it. The posts running between the base and the upper rim were all disconnected at one end or the other, and sometimes both. It just needs a little (or a lot) of wood glue, and it will be as good as ever. So at Dad's request I packed all the pieces up into a big black garbage bag and brought them home with me. The bag is presently sitting in our dining room, waiting for my husband to have time to rummage through his glue collection and get the rack put back together.
I have a funny feeling that a torch has been passed. Many years ago I'd wait for Daddy to come home, knowing that he could make things all better. Now I go driving over to my home town about every two weeks, and walk into that same house, but now I'm one of the people who make things all better. I'll send my husband over with the magazine rack and his computer knowledge in a couple of weeks, and it will be his turn. When did this happen? When did I become the person who can fix and mend and remove stains and intercede with doctors to make sure everybody gets their illnesses and needs properly addressed? I never saw it coming, and now it's too late to duck. As I drove along those back country roads yesterday, I was thinking with bemusement that I'm Mom--and I can do anything. Here's my torch, but where's my cape?
Love, Spud
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Saul meets the Unexpected
Oh boy, it's been a whole month. Life has been coming at me fast, as the commercials say, and I've gotten a little behind-hand. But one of the things I have done lately is to have a really interesting discussion with my husband and two good friends about the account of the conversion of Saul in Acts 9.
It all started with Saul, breathing threats and murder as he steamed down the road to Damascus. (Up the road? Who knows. I checked the maps in my Bible and they denied the existence of Damascus entirely, silly things.) Why was he so upset? Why was he taking this so deeply personally and seriously? Why not just let the Christians believe what they want and you believe what you want and agree to disagree? Because Saul, bless him, was a man who had tremendous regard for the reputation of the Lord. We could use a few more of him now. By persecuting Christians, he was, in his opinion, upholding God's reputation, and fighting against blasphemy and heresy. He was a devout man who wanted to stamp out that nasty cult that was leading the nation of Israel badly astray. Saul was doing his very best to serve his God and keep Israel pure. Go Saul!
So there he was, crossing the desert getting near Damascus, and there was a flash of light. That doesn't sound so extraordinary until you think that in the desert at noontime the sun is very hot and bright. For something to actually be noticed as a flash of light, it must have been on the level of a nuclear flash. That's bright. No wonder Saul was knocked to his knees, and blinded by it. And then came the clincher--a voice from heaven. Now, to the rabbinic mind, which Saul certainly had, being a disciple of Gamaliel, voices from heaven were invariably from God. No wonder he responded in confusion, asking "Who are you?" He hadn't been persecuting God, he'd been strenuously defending Him! But when the voice declared that it was the voice of Jesus, Saul must have felt the entire bottom drop out of his world. You do the math. Voice from heaven = God. Voice from heaven = Jesus. Therefore, Jesus = God. Oh no. Saul must have, in one second, become a deeply broken man. No wonder he let himself be tamely led to Damascus, and spent his days in prayer and fasting until God in His mercy sent someone to alleviate his suffering.
Two other things are noteworthy. One is that God showed Saul all the suffering he must undergo from that day forward, all for His sake. We know from further writings of Saul's (Paul's) that he felt that the suffering was no more than his due. Saul/Paul accepted it and even seemed to feel that it was all more than worth it, for the privilege of being used by the God he had persecuted, to the point of being all used up.
The other thing, which my good friend Yoko pointed out, is that Saul was a man of purpose. When he regarded himself as a rabbinic Jew, he marched firmly in that direction, doing his utmost for the God he served. But once Jesus got ahold of him, he marched just as firmly in the other direction, never deviating from the path which Jesus had set his feet upon.
Saul was a deeply faithful and faith-full man. He's been one of my favorites for a while now, an example to emulate and a teacher to listen to. How fascinating it is to study the book of Acts; to see the spread of the church, the revealing of the Holy Spirit, and the remarkable doings of this steadfast man. God chose well.
It all started with Saul, breathing threats and murder as he steamed down the road to Damascus. (Up the road? Who knows. I checked the maps in my Bible and they denied the existence of Damascus entirely, silly things.) Why was he so upset? Why was he taking this so deeply personally and seriously? Why not just let the Christians believe what they want and you believe what you want and agree to disagree? Because Saul, bless him, was a man who had tremendous regard for the reputation of the Lord. We could use a few more of him now. By persecuting Christians, he was, in his opinion, upholding God's reputation, and fighting against blasphemy and heresy. He was a devout man who wanted to stamp out that nasty cult that was leading the nation of Israel badly astray. Saul was doing his very best to serve his God and keep Israel pure. Go Saul!
So there he was, crossing the desert getting near Damascus, and there was a flash of light. That doesn't sound so extraordinary until you think that in the desert at noontime the sun is very hot and bright. For something to actually be noticed as a flash of light, it must have been on the level of a nuclear flash. That's bright. No wonder Saul was knocked to his knees, and blinded by it. And then came the clincher--a voice from heaven. Now, to the rabbinic mind, which Saul certainly had, being a disciple of Gamaliel, voices from heaven were invariably from God. No wonder he responded in confusion, asking "Who are you?" He hadn't been persecuting God, he'd been strenuously defending Him! But when the voice declared that it was the voice of Jesus, Saul must have felt the entire bottom drop out of his world. You do the math. Voice from heaven = God. Voice from heaven = Jesus. Therefore, Jesus = God. Oh no. Saul must have, in one second, become a deeply broken man. No wonder he let himself be tamely led to Damascus, and spent his days in prayer and fasting until God in His mercy sent someone to alleviate his suffering.
Two other things are noteworthy. One is that God showed Saul all the suffering he must undergo from that day forward, all for His sake. We know from further writings of Saul's (Paul's) that he felt that the suffering was no more than his due. Saul/Paul accepted it and even seemed to feel that it was all more than worth it, for the privilege of being used by the God he had persecuted, to the point of being all used up.
The other thing, which my good friend Yoko pointed out, is that Saul was a man of purpose. When he regarded himself as a rabbinic Jew, he marched firmly in that direction, doing his utmost for the God he served. But once Jesus got ahold of him, he marched just as firmly in the other direction, never deviating from the path which Jesus had set his feet upon.
Saul was a deeply faithful and faith-full man. He's been one of my favorites for a while now, an example to emulate and a teacher to listen to. How fascinating it is to study the book of Acts; to see the spread of the church, the revealing of the Holy Spirit, and the remarkable doings of this steadfast man. God chose well.
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