Robin Gilbert Luftig's Blog, page 47
June 17, 2016
Memories of Treasures Long Ago
J. G. Gilbert & Robin Gilbert Luftig at Lake Lavine, MI, Summer 1958
Even though my family of origin was pretty dysfunctional, one of my favorite pastimes when I’m feeling a bit low is to remember stories about my dad and how he honored my feelings and held them close to his heart.
I always jumped at the chance to be with Dad in his room—the Gun Room. It was a treat to steal away with him when he went upstairs to his room. He kept guns, cameras, family photos and film equipment, and special sentimental pieces from his childhood there. I am certain he kept us out for our own protection when it came to the guns. We were all told the only time we were allowed to go in there by ourselves was if the house was on fire and we could safely get the family’s 8mm films out and save them from being destroyed. Other than that, the Gun Room was strictly off limits. Whenever I saw him in there, I would beg to join him. And he always obliged. While he worked away on whatever project he was concentrating on, I looked around his private sanctuary with marvel. I would fold my arms behind my back holding tightly on to my wrists, just to make sure I did not touch anything. I did not want to run the risk of inadvertently grabbing for something and causing harm.
One of the items I often searched out was a stuffed bird, about the size of my palm, with 
wild ostrich feather plumage glued onto it. Dad kept it secured away in a glass cabinet I was completely mesmerized by its splendor. It was so odd to see this delicate piece of fluff surrounded by items dedicated to hunting and killing animals. I made stories up in my mind about why this fragile object was set apart with reverence and displayed only for Dad’s eyes to see. Was it a gift from a princess he had rescued from the grips of a ferocious dragon? Was it a piece of treasure he had found while hunting with Indians? My imagination knew no boundaries.
I figured—with all the wisdom that a four-year-old could have—that since Dad liked it so much, I should give it to him again. Father’s Day was quickly approaching and, lucky for me, Dad and I were already in his room, so I had access to the sacred bird. When Dad was not looking, I carefully walked over to the display case and opened it. Slowly, I reached into the case and carefully grabbed the stuffed bird. I held it in my tiny hands as if it were precious jewels. I abruptly left and took my stolen booty to my bedroom. Securing the bird in a safe place, I left my room to bring back newspaper and masking tape. With all the care I could muster, I wrapped the stuffed bird as his Father’s Day gift. I was sure he would be thrilled with my present.
On Father’s Day, after dinner was finished, Mom and Dad were having their coffee and The Boys ran out to play. I ran upstairs to bring down my special gift for Dad. Standing before him I ceremonially offered him my carefully wrapped package. He looked at the crumpled ball of newspaper encircled with bands of masking tape and pulled me up into his lap so I could have the perfect view of the unveiling. As he carefully unwrapped the mound of tape and paper, he revealed the soft, fragile stuffed bird that I had taken from his glass cabinet. He paused, smiled and said that he loved it. Thank you for the perfect present, Robbie. This is such a cute bird. I’ll keep it forever! With that, he smothered me with hugs and kisses. I strutted away as if I had just been awarded a national medal for being the most loving and awesome child of the year.
Later that summer, we began to prepare to celebrate Dad’s birthday that September. He never wanted much of a fuss, but we enjoyed honoring him the best we could. I had no idea how to out-gift Father’s Day. Then the answer came to me. One day while he was in the gun room, I asked to come in so I could see his precious treasures. Again, I carefully opened the display case and grabbed the feathered masterpiece. And as before, I took it to my room and wrapped it with newspaper and masking tape.
When the time came for presents after dinner, I made sure I was at the front of the pack. Dad, once again, scooped me and my ball of newspaper and masking tape up and pulled me on his lap.
Then he opened the present.
When he saw all the plumage and beautiful colors, he never missed a beat. He raved on about how beautiful this present was and how he was so pleased that I knew just what he liked. He never let on that he recognized the bird from the glass case in his room or that he even knew I had taken it. Instead, he made a fuss over me and my re-re-gifted item that had already belonged to him. He made me feel like I had offered him the moon and it was the most special gift he ever received.
In my preschool mind, life with my dad was the most perfectest life ever.
I have so many wonderful memories of my father. With Father’s Day around the corner, I will—just like every year—miss his hugs. Memories will have to be enough.
If possible, find something to thank your father for. You’ll be glad you did.
Even in the most dysfunctional family, there are good memories. What stories do you carry in your heart?
(Re-posted from June, 2012)
June 13, 2016
When Making Amends Isn’t Enough
I felt the clamminess of my palms as I rang her doorbell. She and I had been friends years ago, but the choices I had made now separated us. Would she entertain rekindling a relationship with me again?
I went to her house to tell her I was sorry for doing the things I had done—that I hoped she could forgive me for all my foolishness and sinful behavior. I wanted to tell her I realized I hadn’t taken into consideration how others would be affected by my actions. That I had made a real mess of things—my life. I wanted to say I was sorry.
I wanted to tell her there was good news! I had learned from my mistakes. I had turned the corner. I was on the way to becoming the person God intended me to be. I had hoped she’d be happy for me. I thought she’d celebrate a Prodigal Daughter finding her way back home.
That’s what I thought. But I was wrong.
When she opened the door, her eyes gave her away–first of unrecognition, then of remembrance. I saw it flash across her face as she remembered me. Then came the frozen smile. The smile reserved for those we have to be kind to but would prefer not to know. Her lips smiled while her eyes shot daggers at me. She stepped outside, not letting me into her house.
“Hi, it’s been a long time? How are you?” I asked, trying to warm the coolness between us.
“Good. Good.” Then with a polite, hushed voice, “You look good.”
I asked about her family. Her brothers and sisters. Her children and husband. I knew them all. I had laughed over dinner with each one of them. I had tucked her children to bed at night. We had been like sisters. Once.
“Good, good. We’re all good here.”
“I came to tell you I’m sorry. I made a mess of things years ago. I did things that set into motion consequences I didn’t understand. I hurt you. Can you 
forgive me? I’d like to make things right between us again. Could you see your way to giving me a second chance?”
There it was. I had exposed my emotional underbelly. I felt my chest tightening. Every fiber in me wanted to hear that she’d let me earn her trust back. That’s when it happened: she blinked and looked down.
“Don’t be silly, we’re good. I’m sorry, but I have … something to do. I have to go.”
“Maybe we can have coffee sometime?” I needed time to follow-up, tell her about how I had changed. I had given my life to Christ and was a new creature. I wanted to see her smile again.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she purred.” My days are pretty full. But it was good to see you. Yeah, it was … good. Take care of yourself. I’ll give you a call sometime.”
With that, she backed into her house, closed and locked the door behind her.
Sometimes situations don’t go as planned. You follow your script. You offer repentance—true repentance—and even ask for suggestions on how to re-build trust. You open up. You become vulnerable and transparent. And the door still closes in your face. You experience Christian invisibility—when you’re told things are good, but clearly they aren’t.
Painful—yes. Not what you expect—yes. All lost—absolutely not!
Forgiveness is for the person forgiving as much as the person forgiven, and so are the effects of making amends. You may walk up to a door as I did and suffer the same shame and heartbreak, but the amend did not go unnoticed. Apostle Paul tells us how to live like Christ designed in Romans 12:18, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” As far as it depends on you. Those words carry power and freedom.
You may get shut out of lives because of choices you made in the past, but please remember those sins were covered by Jesus’ blood when he died for our sins.
When you walk up to a door, know your audience includes Christ Jesus himself! He saw you. He felt your conviction and broken spirit when you offered to make the relationship right again. He saw making amends to your past friend wasn’t enough for them—but it was enough for Him.
When making amends doesn’t seem to be enough, focus on whose opinion counts the most. Focus on Christ. And if you do not know Christ, oh, friend, please ask to know him right now. Your heart will forever be changed.
June 9, 2016
When Suicide Hits Close to Home
Those of you who know me know I have a heart for those who deal with various forms of brokenness. Most forms of brokenness come when Life veers from what’s perceived as normal. A year ago my path briefly crossed with Beth Saadati, and I counted the days until we could meet again.
Beth is an author, blogger, and public speaker, so her schedule is quite full. But last month my patience paid off and I was blessed with hours of time with Beth—through attending conference classes with her at Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writing Conference as well as sitting together, discussing the pain that follows when a 
loved one commits suicide.
Vonda Skelton, founder of Christian Communicators, interviewed Beth on the topic, When Suicide Hits Close to Home. Take a few moments and listen. Hear her heart. Your life will be changed.
Beth follows Christ through service. She embraces 2 Corinthians 1:3-4: Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.
I love Beth, and you will fall in love with her, too.
June 7, 2016
Discovering Freedom in All the Things You’re Not
Having trouble wearing all the hats you own? Lori Roelveld’s blog hit me right between the eyes. She offered that maybe I should sell some of those hats at the next neighborhood garage sale, because maybe they’re not meant for me to wear.
Ever feel like you’re not enough? Consider this, even Jesus wasn’t enough for some people. Check out Lori’s post as she offers insight on discovering freedom … in all the things we’re not.
And check out Lori’s latest book, Jesus and the Beanstalk (Overcoming Your Giants and Living a Fruitful Life) due to release September 20, 2016!
June 3, 2016
Using Words that Count
Our hearts are full of love as we set a course full of good things when we hold our swaddled babies in our arms. We never want heartache and pain to enter their little worlds.
But it does, and sometimes we can’t save them.
Take a moment and read Beth Miesse Saadati’s latest post, It Shouldn’t Have End This Way: The Epilogue to My Daughter’s Suicide Note. Beth has felt pain no parent should feel. Maybe her words can be used to reach that special person, letting them know that they are loved.
Our children need to hear us–really hear what we say–when we tell them bad situations don’t last forever. They need to know they matter; that they fill our lives with joy every day.
Love you, Beth, and am praying for you and your family..
.
May 31, 2016
How long is a piece of string?
Here’s an honest and inside look at healing from a brain injury. It can happen to anyone. It can take longer to heal for some than others. The question is a good one: how long is a piece of string. LizMollyOldershaw shares some of her experiences. Check it out. Thanks, Liz, for sharing in such a transparent way.
Your rock!
Anyone that has suffered any form of brain injury will understand how frustrating it is when you get asked one particular question.
“So, are you fully recovered now then?”
You may as well be asking, “How long is a piece of string?”
I know that I have banged on about the trials and tribulations that go hand in hand with living with a brain injury, but I just wanted to tell you about the difficulties that come when trying to explain to someone just what it is like once you are almost back to your ‘old self’.
There was a documentary on the BBC the other day that should have been my favourite show on the planet. Having my two loves intertwined together on one screen at the same time should have been extraordinary; Louis Theroux (need I say more) and brain injuries. What could be better?
The thing is…
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May 30, 2016
{Beauty} Do You Feel Disqualified?
Angela Howard’s word hit home with me. As a Christian speaker and writer, I STILL find times when I feel like I don’t measure up. But those are lies from hell. Thank you, Angela, for reminding us of what God says in His word.
Written By: Angela Howard
Do you ever feel disqualified? Have you experienced failure, heartbreak, or committed a sin that left you wondering if you should be benched, banned or declared ineligible for service? I have. It’s defeat at its highest and it’s likely a distortion of the truth.
I’m not good enough.
Why would God choose me?
When will I ever be free from sin?
I’ll never make the cut.
My hard work is all for nothing.
It’s easy to notice that this destructive internal dialogue is totally self-focused. It’s all about shame, a little dose of self-pity and a whole lot of self-sufficiency. It’s pretty hard to find the good news of Jesus under the weight of all that garbage. And grace? Well, you’ll be hard pressed to remember that truth.
Last week I felt like a scarlet letter had been stamped on my favourite sweater. I was sure…
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May 19, 2016
Bubbles of Childhood Joy
Dedicating this to a good friend … you know who you are. And for all those who are overwhelmed with Life … look forward to a bubble or two.
When bubbles of childhood joy replace sorrow and pain, there’s more room for simple pleasures in life.
I walked to school to get my boys at the end of a busy day, and in front of me a young girl skipped down the sidewalk. Then she returned close to her Daddy’s side, never going too far ahead. First she squeezed her Daddy’s hand, then she looked at him, tall above, and decided she couldn’t give up holding his hand. Yet, I could see her dancing a bit, and perhaps she wanted to skip once more. Dad wasn’t into skipping so she just took smaller steps, bouncing up and down while beaming a large smile up to her father.
I loved her determination to keep the joy she was feeling, yet remain close to her Dad. It whispered to the young one somewhere deep inside of me, coaxing a smile to…
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May 17, 2016
I am not going to be an Israelite today.
Some days we see clearly, then other days we do not. Marie Monville’s post shares how we all can have our moments. But God’s plans are still good. RGL
We all have those moments. We all have those days that seem to push us over the edge of what we feel is “humanly possible”. Maybe it’s that one appointment I almost missed, or trying to squeeze one…
Source: I am not going to be an Israelite today.
May 11, 2016
I went to a strip club
Thoughts from Anna McCarthy on the first time she and a handful of ladies from her church went to a strip club.
Moving.
Humbling.
Challenging.
Your thoughts on serving may be changed after reading this. I know mine waskine was.
A while back I was asked by a group of pastor’s wives to go with them to strip clubs.
That sentence alone sounds strange. But hang with me.
At first I was a little hesitant. And not for reasons you might think.
I love people. Especially ones who are broken; it’s part of my calling. But, given what I’ve walked through, I know how fragile broken people can be.
And I know how insensitive the church can be.
And I was uneasy.
But, these weren’t just any pastors wives.
They had a vision.
One that longed to love on women that society had thrown aside.
It reminded me a lot of Jesus.
So, I jumped on it.
Their plan was to visit these clubs once a month to deliver a meal and gift baskets. I joined them the first night and I’ll be honest, I had NO IDEA what to expect.
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