God Stuff - Big "Aha" Moments -- God Has No "Plan B"

So, throughout my walk with Christ, every now and then I will discover something new and life-changing about God.

The first one I remembered to write down in a journal somewhere was in 2007, and it is this:

God has no "Plan B".

There is never a moment where God sits back, does a face-palm, sighs, and says, "Well, shoot. I did not see THAT coming! Let's see... how can I fix this, now?"

No. God is completely in charge (the Christian buzzword, for you muggles, is "sovereign"). It's His bat, His ball, His field, His dirt, His grass, His everything. He runs the show. There is nothing that takes Him by surprise, nothing that He didn't fore-ordain before this planet and all of its history was even a twinkle in His infinite imagination.

I have a friend, Laura, who has experienced so much loss, heartache and tragedy in her life. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a teen. Her brother died from cancer. Her husband left her. Yet her faith in our very good God is unswerving. She explained it well once. She said she'd rather serve a God who had every single detail under His total control than a God who had turned His back or checked out briefly, which caused something to happen that He wasn't in charge of.  She said it much more eloquently, but you get the picture...

This realization has had enormous applications in my life. I spent much of my early walk with Christ afraid to share my faith. What if I said the wrong thing, and someone who was just on the brink of becoming a believer suddenly got offended and turned away from God forever? Or what if someone sees MY mess of a life, and thinks, "Um, no thanks, God." And all because I screwed up??

Um, sorry, Doreen. You're just not that powerful.

There is nothing I (or anyone else, for that matter) can do or say that is going to "de-rail" God's plan for someone's life.  In short, I CAN'T get it wrong -- well, of course I can, but not badly enough to do any lasting damage or to keep God from reaching someone.

This has given me enormous relief, and way more courage in sharing my faith. If I screw it up, or if I chicken out and don't speak up for Christ, or even if I'm just a terrible example of what it means to follow Christ (I can't remember where I read it, but I've stolen the motto: "If I can't be a good example, I strive to be a horrible warning."), God has it all under control.  He'll either send someone along who's better at this than I am to undo the mess I made, or He'll give me another shot at it later. In the process, He uses my fumbling attempts at talking about Him to refine me, to draw me closer to Him. and to sharpen my skills at sharing my heart and His boundless love with people.

I read a wonderful piece on this by John Piper. He's talking about Psalm 115:3

God is never constrained to do a thing that he despises. He is never backed into a corner where his only recourse is to do something he hates to do. He does whatever he pleases. And therefore, in some sense, he has pleasure in all that he does. 

This should lead us to bow before God and praise his sovereign freedom, that in some sense at least he always acts in freedom, according to his own "good pleasure," following the dictates of his own delights. 

God never becomes the victim of circumstance. He is never forced into a situation where he must do something in which he cannot rejoice. He is not mocked. He is not trapped or cornered or coerced. 

Even at the one point in history where he did what in one sense was the hardest thing for God to do, "not spare his own Son" (Romans 8:32), God was free and doing what pleased him. Paul says that the self-sacrifice of Jesus in death was "a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God" (Ephesians 5:2). The greatest sin and the greatest death and the hardest act of God was pleasing to the Father. 

And on his way to Calvary, Jesus himself had legions at his disposal. "No one takes my life from me; I lay it down of my own accord" - of his own good pleasure, for the joy that is set before him. At the one point in the history of the universe where Jesus looked trapped, he was totally in charge doing precisely what he pleased - dying to justify the ungodly like you and me. 

So let us stand in awe and wonder. And let us tremble that not only our praises of God's sovereignty but also our salvation through the death of Christ for us, hang on this: "Our God is in heaven; he does whatever he pleases."

 There's a whole other side to this that's super confusing, at times, for me. That is, how can we have truly free will, if God is running everything? How are we not puppets, constrained to follow the exact path He ordained? And how can there be evil in the world, but God's not the author of it? I don't believe God set the whole thing spinning (I think some call this the "blind watchmaker" theory?), and then He watches our path and our choices and alters His plan to accommodate our random steps. No, He either IS or He ISN'T a God who's totally in charge. And He is TOTALLY good. There is no evil in Him at all. I've read so many essays, listened to so many sermons, and each time I finish, I think I've finally grasped that both of these are true at the same time, without it being a logical contradiction. He's TOTALLY in charge, and I have TOTAL free will. And it's funny... it's like when you pick up a big handful of sand at the beach. You think, "I've got this!" And then, slowly, the sand starts to slip through your fingers, until not much of it is left. So you scoop up more sand, and then you think, "Okay, now I've got it!" The cycle goes on. Someday, I'll have read enough that I can publish my own insightful and brilliant analysis of man's free will and God's sovereignty. For now, I'll just keep picking up handfuls of sand and being very glad that God has it all figured out, even if I don't.

Tips From Teens And Toddlers

So I'm gaining some valuable experience in human interaction lately -- from two very diverse places.

I'm not sure how many moms are blessed enough to have a kid who is not only self-aware, but who is articulate and can tell me what's going on inside that teenage head of hers. For example, a few years ago, when she was in the throes of mood-swingy puberty, Jennifer was actually able to understand that she was temporarily at the mercy of her crazy hormones, and that she might be overreacting just a tad to a situation. She had this sort of "pet phrase" she'd use, when she knew she was totally blowing things out of proportion. Instead of howling the cliche line you see in every teen drama: "YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE! I HATE YOU!", she'd stop whatever she was doing or whatever rant she was in the middle of and wail, "I'm the cause of global warming!!!!!!!" That was sort of my cue to step back and let her collect herself -- that whatever was going on would pass, and that she didn't suddenly have some serious character issue I needed to jump in and nag her out of.

And let's not ignore the fact that my ever-patient husband has had to deal with both puberty and menopause, in the same house, at the same time.  Poor guy. I'm surprised he hasn't run away from home. Yet.

I remember about a year ago, I publicly apologized, via Facebook, to my now-grown stepdaughter Becky. When she was going through the mood-swingy years, I was sooooooo smug. So intolerant. My favorite admonition, always said with holier-than-thou righteousness, was: "It's fine to feel however you want to feel. It is not, however, okay to act any way you want to act." A slammed door or eye roll would send me instantly through the roof, forcing her to march back upstairs and go back down to her room politely, without another slam. I was such a step-monster.

Fast-forward to the onset of my menopausal years. Holy crap. I'd forgotten entirely what it felt like to be a complete, helpless slave to my own hormones and inner demons. Here I was, cussing like a sailor, throwing things, slamming cabinets. What a hypocrite! Becky graciously forgave me for being a sanctimonious ass.

I homeschool my younger daughter, who's seventeen now.  We spend a lot of time together, even though that time is now beginning to be infringed upon by real life and the growing demands of her becoming a young adult. While school used to consist of a math lesson on the carpet, in between games of "Life" or "Sorry", or before and after binge-watched episodes of Dr. Who, Jennifer is now taking classes at the local community college. She's also spending lots of time interning at church or heading off to spend afternoons at the beach or thrift shopping with friends.

So, again, it's probably only me that does this (right, moms?), but when I'm picking Jen up after some time apart, my normal behavior is to fire off a million questions -- "What'd you do? Did you eat? How's so-and-so doing? Who all was there tonight? What was the Bible lesson about?..." And on and on.

I think Jennifer deals with these rapid-fire interrogations much more politely than most kids. In fact, she even tries to field all of my questions. But one day, not long ago, she helped me understand this whole thing from her point of view.  "Mom," she explained, without anger or sarcasm, "when you pick me up, I've just spent time with some really close friends. We talk about a ton of things, and some of them are super private - things that my friends wouldn't want me to share with you.  So I need a little time to process it. I have to decide what is private and I shouldn't share, and what kind of stuff I can tell you. I can't talk about it right away." This is pretty insightful. And articulate!

I would imagine this would be harder to hear if I didn't already spend so much time around my kid. I can picture a relationship where I packed her off for seven hours of school every day, then carted her to an evening meeting or rehearsal or other function. I'd be so desperate to reconnect with her that I'd want to know everything, and right away. I'm very blessed to have such a close relationship with her that I can hear what she's telling me about this, and now I try my best to give her space and allow her to come back into our space in her own way.

And lately, I am learning a lot about being around very young people too. Things I wish I'd known the first time around. I get to watch my almost-two-year-old grand-niece for three days each week, while her mom works as a police officer. Little miss Lola is preparing me for grandmotherhood. She's such a light in our lives, and Jennifer is learning a ton about baby and toddler care, as she's still home much of the time when Lola is here.

I think a lot of adults make a mistake when they enter into a baby or toddler's space and immediately try to foster some grand INTERACTION. I've learned, over the past year or so of watching Lola, a different way of relating to little ones.  I've found that that far better course of action is to enter in and be quiet - see what the baby is doing right that moment. They live SO in-the-moment. Instead of throwing a bunch of stimuli at the child, enter into what HE'S doing right that very minute.  And don't try to force affection from the baby. My sister Debbie is a master at this. Her secret, she once confided, is to pretty much totally ignore the child. Not in a mean way... more like in an "I'm not gonna get all up in your face" way. The baby eventually comes around to check out what SHE's all about. It's brilliant. And it works!

There's definitely a connection between these two ways of interacting. It's so much about observing and listening and figuring out what's going on before just charging in with my own agenda. I haven't mastered it, by any means. And I wish I'd learned it earlier. I'd have had far fewer crushed expectations, less frustration, and I probably would have done less to drive those around me crazy!

Jennifer is on her way home from having brunch with friends and working at the church to feed the needy. And Lola's asleep. Let's see how I do this afternoon. I may have to read this blog again myself to remind me to back off, listen, and learn.

Empty Bottles - The Ballad of Sebastian the Hermit Crab

Empty Bottles - The Ballad of Sebastian the Hermit Crab

This is something I first wrote when Jennifer was 7. Updated today with the REST of the story...

The Ballad of Sebastian

Doreen Philbin, Herit Crab Aficionado, April 2005

My seven-year-old daughter and I just returned from Connecticut with Sebastian Berry (the fruit, not the name) Philbin, the hermit crab. We found him (it?) in a mall kiosk, where Jennifer worked me like a second job to get him. Naturally, I asked the seller a lot of questions first. The small “crabitat” was $19.95, a clear plastic container with a colorful vented lid, complete with sand, two little shells and a sea sponge for food and water, and a cute plastic palm tree with a “Made in China” tag. Food was an extra $2.99; we got an additional painted shell for the little guy, as they evidently like to swap. Despite the man telling me they are not literally “hermits” at all, but that they need companions, I figured a stupid bug-like critter in a shell couldn’t possibly “need” much of anything, so we stuck with one. The crab, mind you, was FREE. It was the fancy crabitat that cost twenty bucks.

Thus began the saga.

Back at my sister’s house, the care sheet included information like, “If you are unfortunate enough to get pinched, hold the contact point under medium hot water. This will normally make the crab release.” I said to Jennifer, "What do you suppose we do if that doesn't work?" She considered it a moment, and then said, "I guess you pretend it's jewelry!" Only seven and already a comedienne.

The care sheet explained that hermit crabs live inland, away from salt water (they only visit the ocean to breed); their optimum temperature is between 70-75 degrees, and they enjoy being misted daily (no tap water, mind you – chlorine is toxic to them). It warned against heaters that would dry out the crab, so we pondered how to get Sebastian through two New England nights before our return to California. After some discussion, my sister Debbie brought the heat lamp from the chicken coop into the bathroom. This seemed about warm enough.

I had now spent $26 on a bug with a colorful shell. But hey, I figured it was a good first pet -- quiet, clean, hypoallergenic, and fun to play with (not counting that pinching thing). Jennifer had great fun taking Sebastian out, bathing him (the care sheet said they love baths twice a week, so we gave him one every day… if a little is good, more is better, right?), and watching Debbie’s standard poodle sitting mesmerized at every little antenna twitch.

Finally, it was time to head home. In the airport, when Sebastian’s bright orange shell with matching crabitat failed to capture the notice of hopelessly unobservant passers-by, Jennifer would announce in a loud voice, “I sure love my new hermit crab. I hope Sebastian likes the plane ride back to California!” This was usually sufficient to get people asking questions.

I worried about Sebastian going through the x-ray security machine, only to grow a mysterious third eye weeks later. To my relief, the TSA reps smiled indulgently and passed the crabitat safely behind the equipment. I made a mental note that if I ever needed to smuggle a Swiss Army knife, I knew now just what to do.

Once home, I made the mistake of doing a Google search on hermit crabs. Wow. It began to dawn on me that we had purchased a pet that can best be described as “dry-clean only”. Apparently, they come from a very tropical environment. They need both salt and fresh water. And remember, no tap water. They must be between 72 and 80 degrees: any lower, and they slowly freeze; any higher, and they begin to smell musty and emit a brown discharge, resulting in death. Ick. They also require 70% to 80% humidity. Any lower, and their modified gills dry out, slowly suffocating them. Any higher, and they get all moldy. Web pages provide recipes for favorite crab treats, awards for crabitats-of-the-month (this month’s winner was two stories high), and lots of help forums for crab care. There is even a website dedicated to Jonathan Livingston and Crab Kate, who are over 25 years old and the size of softballs. One picture of these impossibly huge crabs next to a thimble had me shuddering.

Trying to be a not-too-neurotic-but-still-conscientious pet owner, I promptly headed to Petco to create a better crabitat. I decided on a bigger fish bowl that we already had. To keep Sebastian warm at night, my husband Brian rigged up a nightlight on an extension cord that we duct-taped to the bowl. Then, I decided that since crabs are nocturnal, he needed darkness. So I tried wrapping our old heating pad around the bottom of the bowl, which seemed nice and toasty. I bought more empty shells, a better sponge, more substrate (uh, dirt) at $5.99 per quart-sized bag, and now I was up to about $75 for our “free” pet.

I was up twice during the night to check on Sebastian and look for signs of life with my night-vision camera. I felt a ray of hope when I caught him eating some fresh apple. As for the poop we’re supposed to dispose of daily, my stepwife (Brian’s ex) said she’d had hermit crabs for two years and still didn’t know what their poop looks like. I suppose this should make me happy.

As I read more, I realized that poor Sebastian really did need a friend. And the painted shells had to go. Fanatical internet posts described in grisly detail how crab farmers brutally stuff these guys into toxic painted shells, and how ”rescued” crabs, when given the choice of natural shells, switched into them with lightning speed. Plus, hermit crabs need a variety of shells to pick one that feels just right and to avoid shell fights.

So I decided if we were going to do this, we would do it right. I borrowed an old larger terrarium, and back to Petco we went for more supplies and a friend for Sebastian. Jennifer chose a slightly smaller one in a flashy black and yellow shell, and we set up yet a third crabitat for our new charges. We also needed extra sponges so we could rinse and dry them out daily to prevent bacteria or mold from collecting in the humid environment.

The new crab was on speed compared to Sebastian. His little antennae would flail around wildly, and he could jet across the table with alarming speed. We named him Dash, after the speedy super-boy in “The Incredibles”.

We put the crabs into their new home, with playground sand from the hardware store (MUCH cheaper than the pet store substrate and recommended by Petco.com), a hermit crab heater designed to stick on the side of the terrarium (I didn’t want to go overboard with an under-tank heater), a coconut fiber covering for one wall for climbing, attractive fake foliage, and a couple more shells. The crabs found each other relatively quickly, and their little antennae whirred away as they said hello.

Leaving them to get better acquainted, I resumed my online research. We would soon need a separate isolation tank for annual molting. They dig under for two weeks (they’re only dead if they smell like fish), shed their exoskeleton, and then eat it. Ick. Close-up photos of pink, freshly molted crabs.

The next morning, I checked on the crabs and discovered with horror that Sebastian’s entire pincher claw was lying detached on the sand. My head spun. Did Dash rip it off? How did I not see this coming?? I KNEW Dash would be aggressive when I saw how hyper he was! What kind of crab owner was I??? Jennifer was frantic and begged me to exchange Dash for a calmer crab.

I immediately sent emergency pleas for help to a hermie newsgroup (one at which I had scoffed only days before – look how neurotic these people were about stupid crabs!). A couple of fanatics… er, crab owners came quickly to my aid. Turns out over-bathing and stress can make them drop claws. Gee, let’s see… did Sebastian have a stressful week? As I described his purchase, cross-country transport, daily baths, relocation to three terrariums followed by the instant introduction of a new crab, I began to suspect that I would have chewed my own arm off under similar circumstances. I was advised to isolate poor Sebastian, stop bathing him, and see how things went. My new mentors assured me they’d never seen a crab actually rip the leg off another larger crab, and that Sebastian had probably dropped it from stress or to avoid a potential shell fight. It’s called “autotonomy” and is quite common in the crab world. I had a mental image of Sebastian becoming so overwhelmed that all his legs would drop off at once like dominos, leaving him wriggling helplessly on our overpriced but attractive (did I mention it glows in the dark?) substrate.

My new Internet friends convinced me to give our neurotic new crab another chance. Jennifer had now begun calling him Syndrome, after the villain in “The Incredibles”. My mentors assured me that with time, he should settle in. So I divided the tank in half and bought an under-tank heater and combination temperature/humidity gauges. But with the terrarium divided by a cardboard partition, I fretted that Sebastian, who was on the warm side, would fry, and that Syndrome would freeze. I was leaving for the weekend in only a day, and I really wanted to get the two of them on speaking terms before then (I had yet to hear the chirping noises like those posted online by doting crab owners).

I left Sebastian totally alone for a whole day and a half, covering his crabitat with a dishtowel for privacy and providing such delectable treats as crushed egg shells (for calcium). I peeked obsessively under the cover and was relieved to see him quietly eating, probably grateful that I wasn’t dunking him in water or switching his home or pitting him against Syndrome.

After a nearly sleepless night of worry, I decided to throw caution to the wind, put them together, and let nature take its course. Jennifer made me promise that if we found one more leg on the sand, we’d take Syndrome back and find a less aggressive pal for Sebastian. I was thinking more along the lines of returning Sebastian, disguised as the defective crab. But by now Rachel at Petco recognized me by sight, and I didn’t think I could slip it past her. She’d heard the whole saga and, to her credit, she hadn’t once looked at me as though I were insane.

I daringly removed the partition, and within minutes Sebastian seemed to actually be bullying Syndrome, who had burrowed into the sand for safety! Maybe I had it backwards all along. Maybe my crafty Connecticut crab had faked his own injury to trick me into returning Syndrome for a girl. Maybe Sebastian’s first week with us had pushed him over the edge and he had become a serial crab killer. Who knew what he'd be capable of??? In any event, if Sebastian was the aggressive one, I was confident that Syndrome (whose name had now been restored to “Dash”) could handle it (his shell fit well for maximum protection against bullies).

So, I headed off on my trip, leaving detailed instructions for Brian while I was away. When I returned, both crabs were alive and had apparently called a truce. This little twenty-buck crab had now run me about $165 (including the extra food dishes, the corner wooden hidey-hutch, salt water conditioner, Stress-Coat for the bath water, and another shell). Jennifer appeared to have lost interest. Maybe my obsessive fretting over them during the past week had awakened sibling rivalry in her mind. Maybe I was beginning to need therapy.

The funniest part of this whole story happened when Brian -- who had begged me to stop reading websites about hermit crabs after I began relaying tales of people finding maggot eggs in their crabs’ shells -- was looking over the original care sheet from the Connecticut mall. “Honey,” he said casually, “I’ve been reading this, and I think there are quite a few things here that we’re not doing for this crab.” I burst into hysterical laughter.

But the ultimate irony was saved for today. Nearly two weeks after beginning this adventure, we appear to have lost a hermit crab to that great beach in the sky. Had Sebastian finally succumbed? Nope. It seems that Dash, the vibrant, energetic, really cute one, has gone belly up – literally. I picked him up this morning and breathed hot air into his shell, which normally causes them to loosen up and emerge. I even tempted him with some fresh apple. Nothing. Well, this afternoon, I’m noticing a decidedly fishy odor. How very ironic. Back to Petco tomorrow for another victim! But hey, I have a $2 coupon from a previous visit!

UPDATE !!!
I am adding this now, in 2015... because I realize I never finished our journey...

Shortly after this (it's all a blur, fully ten years later), Sebastian finally, mercifully, bit the dust. But the story doesn't end there. We fashioned a coffin for him by taping together two plastic cups, and Jennifer decorated a rock as his headstone. We buried him in a little dirt patch in our back yard. 

Then, I made the mistake of reading more. It seems that when the crabs prepare to molt, they might appear dead and give off a fishy odor.  Molting, it turns out, is a crucial stage where they shed their old exoskeleton, then eat it (for the calcium, of course), and re-emerge to find a well-fitting shell from the assortment of larger, non-painted shells you would have thoughtfully supplied them.

So I started thinking, what if Sebastian hadn't actually died? What if he was only molting and I, thinking he was dead, had buried him alive?? So, a day after burying him, I explained this to Jennifer (I am SURE this is why she is as weird as she is today), and together, we dug up the little coffin. I prodded him and looked him over pretty thoroughly. Nope. He was dead. And smelly.  Sheepishly, I re-buried him, and thus ended our venture into hermit crab ownership. Really. That's the end. I promise.