The Mega-BLINDSIDE

Our walking path begins with a steep grade. It reminds me of the first 30 yards of a roller coaster ride, with a white-knuckled, downward-left, blind-curve, and then a valley with a neck-jolting, right-hand, upward blind-curve. The hill is easy to walk down and then up, but we always remember the breath-stealing return trip with that final steep hill.

After rounding that first left-hand curve, blue signage with a white right arrow prepares us for the valley. During rainy seasons, this valley used to become somewhat flooded. Leaping over the flowing water worked most times; otherwise, planting large stepping rocks helped us cross the water with dry shoes intact. Fortunately, the park permanently re-routed the water drainage.

I write this during leaf-less winter. Scattered short trees with funny little hanging balls grace the sides of the trail. During Fall, ripened persimmons and brain-looking green hedge apples can be eaten or used for house décor. People fish along the lake's banks and seem to catch little. We wonder about toxicity levels, but they apparently love the idea of fishing.

Blue heron Herman is in his usual spot; on the left side of the path, perched a little higher than eye-level. Nearing Herman, his feathers become clearer and he's anything but skittish. He holds his ground. In fact, he never leaves. On closer inspection, old Herman is actually a tall, dry, wooden limb with a head-shaped curve. Herman regularly fools us. He is Lake Springfield's greeter, and on my husband's moonlit morning runs, he is the boogie-bird.

An ideal tree for photo-ops is next. Its sturdy, low-hanging branch resembles an extended, strong arm that is just high enough for a challenging teen tree climb. But I, too, have scaled it.

Rounding a bend we hear an unusual noise, like a spoon strumming a metal cheese grater. It is a bird atop a bush, and it seems to resemble a blue jay. Nearing him, he hides deep into the twig-filled bowels of the bush. It is impossible to see the forest through the trees (or the hidden bird through the scraggly branches). He's there somewhere, but successfully vanishes from sight. Skittish cardinals are my favorite. Their guttural songs melodically resonate, whip, and repeat. Robins seem to be happily tone-deaf.

From a distance, something looks odd, like large, out-of-place stumps around the sidewalk. Ah, it is a group of deer, and they are unusually close to the cement path (my vocabulary too closely resembles vintage Beverly Hillbillies). I try to snap a picture, but being a gun-slinger in a wild-west face-off or a police officer in a shoot-out is not my M.O. I would be dead. My slow-mo camera-draw only captures their teasing, wagging tails after they've scurried across the sidewalk. It's amazing how quickly deer vanish into the woods, blending in with trees and sticks and brush. What all is hiding in the deep brush, anyway? Maybe gold.

We enter an open portion of the path. At times this lengthy stretch has temperature extremes. There is no shade or barrier from stinging winds. One time, we spotted a triplet of cute, smelly skunklets traveling shoulder-to-shoulder, in-tandem. We kept our distance and snapped photos cautiously. Why on earth vandals would shatter glass bottles on the path rattles me. It was done. one.night. three.bottles. dangerous.glass.chunks.and.shards. everywhere.

The boathouse is many times a sight for sore eyes. It has saved us from lightning strikes and is always inviting, especially for cool H2O from the fountain. On hot or cold days, we yearn for shelter from temperature extremes. Sometimes a potty break is needed; most times, not. The workers are normally friendly and informative. On one frigid and snowy day, my toes were on the verge of frostbite. A kind angel pulled up a chair and portable heater for needed relief.

Today is gorgeous, with no need for air conditioners or heaters. The boathouse bids us farewell, and we approach the lake's boundary. It is time to stretch legs and arms while breathing deeply in and then out. That's what older people do.

Sunny days, viewing glistening, undulating ripples on the water, is a deluxe treat. The shine temporarily blinds eyes and mesmerizes. Attempts to follow one ripple prove impossible. Kayakers, albino pelicans, geese, and ducks float the lake; herons glide like huge paper airplanes. Slithering snakes have greeted us a time or twenty. Groundhogs waddle and chipmunks scamper into their hiding holes.

One creature that repeatedly mystifies is the bald eagle. Spotting one is a rare and treasured treat. Eagles can be mistakenly confused with ugly turkey vultures. Turkey vultures fly in groups, over land; eagles normally fly solo, near to or over the water. Spotting an eagle's white head is key for identification. A few months ago, one flew directly overhead in search of prey. We've spotted at least a dozen in the past 2 years, and the sight of one is still breath-taking. Once, we witnessed a rare and fascinating show of two eagles intermittently dive-bombing into the lake for afternoon snacks. Another time one hovered the waters and then skillfully snatched a fish, flying towards us with the catch in his beak. Their wing span and strength are particularly captivating.

Huff, puff. We are almost finished as we head up that final, steep grade. We figuratively "kill four birds with one stone" opting to: Seize precious together time; perform an invigorating cardio workout; commune with uniquely entertaining nature, and most importantly, invite opportunity for compelling metaphors and stories to weave into blogs such as this.

Nature sometimes blindsides us, but not visa-versa. Unexpected lightning storms and sudden strong winds on a walk are surprising. By blindside (BS) I mean something totally unexpected occurs. Normally a BS feels like the rug has been figuratively pulled out from under one's feet. Blindsides and decisions go hand-in-hand; and, in networked communities, decisions are, at times, mind-boggling. Reality TV shows thrive on the BS-factor. Kass blindsides Garrett, or Garrett blindsides Kass. "Expect the unexpected" is their motto. I've come to the "Pollyanna" conclusion that in real life, blindsides are generally unintentional. Misinterpreted cues and sometimes even egocentricity can blind one's perspective.

I turn to nature as I sprawl, following a most recent rug pull. I am emotional; nature is therapeutic. I cry and center myself seeking His whisper. I hear my grandmother's favorite lyrics:

♫And He walks with me

and He talks with me...

and He tells me I am His own.

And the joy we share as we tarry there...

none other... has ever... known.♫

A vigorous 50-minute power walk is ample time to commune and pray, for mind-cover. I don't want selfish thoughts to overpower; I seek a bigger picture. It is actually later in the evening when I hear what seems to be valuable perspective: We have no regrets...

That idea alone is reassuring, and then positive pummel continues... I feel an abundant, mega-BLINDSIDE: My husband and I are pretty much the luckiest people in the world...

Luckiest?... Nnnaaooo (imagine Meg Ryan's throaty "No" in YGM, during "tweaking"-time, cynically reacting to NY152 being her Internet mystery man's physical address). That "luckiest" idea is most egocentric and narcissistic. I now ponder: Is it, at times, beneficial for us to experience God's tweaking? Aren't most Americans pretty much the luckiest people in the world?

God, show grace toward us as we tiptoe through and react to a most uncomfortable blindside... The shattered glass desperately needs supernatural sweeping. Merci, Monsieur, and... Tres Bon.

I Remember & I Will

Catching fire, with a kiss

I remember the doctor sending this 50-year-old for her first-
& last- ever mammogram.

I will be ever thankful to Dr. Shultz
& The Women's Center for their gentle kindness.

I remember DENIAL & delay.

I will take literal deep breaths each day,
embrace my Dad's lengthy final days & eye-opening breaths,
attend 2 funerals... & grieve,
& finally obey doctor's orders.

I remember my friend accompanying me for tests
& also for the unimaginable & numbing results.

I will need reinforcements!
God.whispers. Chris.accepts. Last-minute:
"Her husband is on that missions trip & she needs you. Call."

I remember my children's reactions to hearing the shattering news.

I will whole-heartedly be there

for my husband & children when they need me,
but first we will face this overwhelming battle.

I remember the staggering, blind & foggy, pre-surgery decisions.

I will learn critical test results post-surgery.
We pray, pray, pray.

I remember the unending WAIT for surgery day, 
& feeling like God left me, & light-headedness,
& moments of unimaginable terror.

I will mentally visit my potential funeral; decompress;
& I will belly-laugh.

I remember asking: "What invited this enemy into my life?"

I will journal... forgive... fight... blog;
The writing outlet is prayerful & at times amusing.

I remember the March 31, 2006 surgery day as if it occurred yesterday,
with all-important friends & family support.

I will think beyond surgery, to living;
that new 2006 Easter outfit, picked out with my daughter, will be fun to wear.

I remember being wheeled across Cox Hospital's lengthy National Avenue overpass for testing.

I will pray for patients crossing that overpass.


I remember the harpoon-sized needle inserted into my all-important sentinel node.

I will embrace family beach vacations, holidays with dogs,
weddings, baby births, dedications...

I remember pre-surgery anesthesia,
groggily praying for the surgeon's skilled hands.

I will feel whole.
(It is a flip-flopped decision, after Susie's vulnerable input.
The "girls" were light years opposite ample Sophia Vergara's, & intolerant allergies screamed: "No!")
Reconstruction is tempting, but because of intolerances, I squelch the idea.

I remember an April Fool's, nightmare, senile, hospital roomie, 

slinging her IV on the other side of the protective curtain,
flinging fluids in the middle of the night.

Nothing will ever top that nightmare night!
(That poor soul should have never been alone).
Release me, immediately, from that Cox psycho ward!

I remember hearing: "Your sentinel node is cancer-free."

I will eat more fruits & veggies...
& here's another April Fool's joke... Undeservedly, I'm still alive!

I remember arriving home to Mom's vase, secretly mailed to my son with $ for roses, 
combined with value-quadrupled, in-town legwork (by my son)
... with my sis-in-law's note: "Mom is with you in spirit."

I will never forgot special kindnesses;
years-departed Mom embraced me in spirit.

I remember, 2 days post-surgery, my husband's strong arm on which to cling,
for sunshine & walking.

I will need Vitamin D from daily walks,
& sublingual vitamin tablets, too.

I remember uncomfortable drainage tubes
& suctioning (seemingly) gallons of gross fluid.

I will listen to my mother-in-law
& other survivors, filtering for potential kindred tips.

I remember gingerly raising my sore arms, for circulation
& praising, days after surgery.

I will enthusiastically greet my long-distance grandsons
despite their shyness; they are timid & prefer a back hug.
Any hint of hug from them is OK! 

I remember thinking that Heaven seemed like an inviting option.

I will send get-well cards to those in need
to keep them grounded to this earth. 

I remember visitors with food gifts, & Aunt Ketra's many cards, & Lerlene's weekly calls,
& written well-wishes & prayers, distracting me from pain... "It takes a village."

I will pray for those in need
that others will help ground them to this earth.

I remember my surprised oncologist's reassuring words: "You chose a double mastectomy?
...with these HR2 Neu-, Estrogen-, Progesterone- positive test results,
that was the best decision of your life!" *

Unfortunately, delay = insurance & assurance chemo;
I will follow doctor's orders, he did allow slight modifications;
I gratefully recall the unconventional input from my hero-husband, for the Double-M! *

I remember entering the frightening oncology ward,
& chemo drips, & superhuman nurses.

I will eat organic scrambled eggs seasoned with turmeric,
ginger is beneficial too,
to reduce inflammation.

The crazed whack-attack result

I remember clumps of hair grossly decorating the shower's floor, & taking control, wildly whacking off my own hair.

I will attend a support group,
for critical wig insight,
add my daughter's styling eye,
& pay top-dollar to keep my spirits lifted.

I remember revolting vomiting & voracious eating.

I will eat healthy avocados & drink green tea,
& later discover dark chocolate, for antioxidants.

I remember reluctantly obeying doctor's orders to take prescription Tamoxifen, for as long as my intolerant body could tolerate, & its unexpected benefits.

I will add spinach to pizza & eggs,
needing that Vitamin K.

I remember celebrating a beachy 6 months, & a thankful 8 months (with my sisters), 
& then 1 year (in Buenos Aires), & then 5 years of cancer-freedom.

I will intentionally celebrate!
...accompanying my husband to the beach, & then on his 2007 missions trip.
...even though I don't feel quite up to it, & what bathing suit will this "Flat Stanley" wear?

I remember feeling kind of pretty again.

I will creatively enhance "Flat Stanley"
wearing feminine attire (an enormous, bright orange purse augments well).
The pendulum swings some days to stinging insecurity, but mainly to outrageous gratitude
with a desire, in a tangible righting (writing) way, to give back.

I still see scars.

Scars remind me that (for unknown reasons)
I got cancer. I then delayed.
For some unidentifiable reason..."I AM"...mercifully drew a red line,
& that line undeservedly spared me.
* Disclaimer: Each person's cancer & decisions (& experiences) are vastly unique.
Well wishes & know this:  There is hope. Tres Bon.

♫The battle is not ours;
We look to God above;
For He will guide us safely through;
& guard us with His love.♫
(Veggie Tales, Esther, 2000)

Click here for musings with minute mention of cancer: Camo is the New Silver
&/OR
I Am an Addict!

GPS = Going Places Small

Weeks ago when I signed up to volunteer as a speech tournament judge, risking my life was not a part of the plan. On departure day, I still ask: Why did I commit to this activity? I feel unqualified and it looks quite windy outside. That was an understatement. Yet, I dependably strive to follow through with commitments.

Being randomly obsessive, I prefer to arrive to new places in an annoyingly prompt manner. Leaving 10 minutes early creates a cushion. For this first-time trek, I rev the car 30 minutes ahead of time and pull out my trusty GPS, secure Mr. G. to the windshield, and enter the all-important address. Soon the coordinates lock in. The destination is a mere 25-minute drive. No problem, and a final cup of white tea awaits me in the kitchen.

Rain shoes, Ginger Ale, a snack, and a thermos containing tea for the road are lugged to the car. Maybe I'm overcompensating for insecurities, but nonetheless, rain, hunger, and thirst will be controlled and quenched... but how about 60-mile-an-hour wind gusts?!? (I later learned that during my cross-town transport, a tree fell on parked cars and shingles flew off of many roofs.)

As the car starts, Mr. G. falls to the floor and a glow on the dashboard appears. Mr. G. is quickly re-suctioned, but the gas tank light screams to steal those 10 extra minutes with a fill-up. On the way to the station, Mr. G. again takes a dive and needs re-suctioning. Why did I commit to this speech tournament?

The car door flies open at the gas pump and wind gusts pummel me. Styled hair flies about, like wind-blown straw. I streamline press the necessary self-service buttons, insert the nozzle, and return to the shelter of the driver's seat.

After a mere $5 of fuel is dispensed, rats! and "ka-thunk." I reluctantly open the door to again wrestle winds to restart the pump. A Sumo-pose is perfect for the remainder of the fill-up, for balance. As the nozzle is hurriedly yanked, a sneaky wind gust spits gasoline droplets onto my cheek that reeks! Why did I commit to this speech tournament?

Zipping along on the highway, my vehicle feels sporadically wind-possessed. I white-knuckle it and ignorantly decide to pass a 16-wheeler, slipping back into the right lane just in time to exit. A large tree limb lying in the road is successfully dodged as the obstacle course is relentless. I am reminded of how very small I feel! Why, oh why, did I commit to this speech tournament?

Arrival to the destination a few minutes late means training has begun. The temps have plunged at least 15 degrees. Each fighting step to the safe building doors is north-wind frazzling. The arrowed sign at the first set of doors makes me feel even smaller, knowing that more wind-whipping is ahead: "Next door please;" the second set of doors, the same... The third set of doors are incredibly difficult to tug open.

Good thing bladders can flex because, as predicted, training has already begun. A well-meaning worker points to one inconspicuous vacant seat in a claustrophobic room. It is advantageously located near the door, but I feel like a bagel crammed into a narrow toaster slot. Is everyone wearing their deodorant? Do I smell of gasoline? Why, oh why, did I commit to this speech tournament?

Weeks ago the idea of being a community speech judge seemed anything but meaningful. I have a 4-year degree and like to write but have no debate or speech team experience whatsoever. A persistent friend said judges were needed, yet, the thought of small is less than inviting.

Tournament time is here, and this microscopic guppy-out-of-water flops to assigned Room 106. I have hit bottom emotionally and hope the only way to go is up, but preferably not belly-up. It is a relief to see a panel of judges. To blend in like a chameleon with the other two will be comfortable, yet still refreshingly challenging.

We three judges listen intently to six entertaining story-telling presentations (these teens are talented!) The theme is travel, based on Dr. Seuss' Oh, The Places You'll Go. The story of Flat Stanley hits in a kindred way. Because of his deflated and small size, Stanley fits into mailers and travels inexpensively through the postal service to Europe and other fascinating places. It relates well with the travel theme, and a small size definitely brings large adventures to Stanley.

As I reflect back on the overall judging experience, similar to Flat Stanley's opportunities, Going Places Small was overall rewarding. Despite travel obstacles, once judging began, expectations were reachable. In an inconspicuous way, an interesting skill set was experienced in a non-threatening way. Storytelling and blogging are like kissing-cousins, and imagining myself judging Olympic ice dance twizzles and Dancing With the Stars presentations was intriguing.

Tournaments like the Heart of the Ozarks Seussical Speechical can't happen without ordinary volunteers, and talented teens need constructive, written, honing feedback. Day 2's judging felt like delightful beach breezes rather than mega-strong and frigid wind gusts. In Exodus 33, God needs volunteer Moses to continue the monumental task of leading the impossible Israelites. Moses requests of God: "Now, show me your glory." It seems like he was saying: God, let me feel how big and powerful You are, because Your task is big and I feel so small.

The value-packed Bible includes various characters and situations that highlight the University of Small:

• For Noah building the massive Ark, construction begins with just one piece of wood (Genesis 6:9-7:24).
• Draught-ridden Elijah faces off against The Prophets of Baal. He sends his servant who spots one small cloud in the distance. (I Kings 18:44).
• A destitute widow cries out to the Prophet Elisha: "...Your servant has nothing there at all...except a little oil." (2 Kings 4:1-7).
• David is the youngest and smallest of his many brothers. (I Samuel 16:6-13).
• The small Babe Jesus is born in a small manger in Bethlehem (Matthew 2:1).
• At a wedding feast in Cana, the hosts' precious wine embarrassingly runs out to a smaller than small amount... nothing. (John 2:3).
• Jesus says that if one has faith the size of a tiny mustard seed, mountains can be moved (Matthew 13:31 and Mark 4:31).

Facing blustery wind gusts that day reminded me of nature's bigness. Did I mention how I felt? Some thought-provoking song lyrics include: ¯...you only need the light when it's burning low; Only miss the sun when it's starts to snow;... Only know you've been high when you're feeling low; Only hate the road when you're missin' home...¯

The purpose of the Season of Lent, with sacrifice and fasting, is to remind me of God's bigness. When I am weak, I feel a tangy yet savory void that points me to Him. It is distinctively satisfying as well as... Tres Bon.

The Case of the Twizzled Hornet... & Food Intolerance

"I will send my terror ahead of you and throw into confusion every nation you encounter. I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run. I will send the HORNET [emphasis mine] ahead of you to drive the Hivites, Canaanites and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land" (Exodus 23:27-30).

As we deal with an asthmatic and hacking 3-year-old on a struggling Sunday morning, I zone into my home church's live online sermon addressing the trials of life. When that providential message concludes, I decide to empty the dishwasher; whatever it takes to feel grounded and steady. I earnestly attempt to help my daughter control something, anything. This is meltdown morning and Day 13 of Dad's lengthy out-of-state business trips. I arrived 16 days ago to lend a hand, and we look forward to Superdad's return home, in what seems like 3 forever hours.

Mom deals with her son's stressful tantrum, pushing 5 minutes. She's learned that in this type of situation, spanking is ineffective and fuels the fire. Cabin fever is at its peak. His tantrum is illogical and somewhat Albuterol-enhanced, because the prescription inhaler heightens his intensity with uncontrollably shaking hands and repetitive nonsense.

I prayerfully restock cups and plates and utensils into their cabinet cubbyholes. Then, I open a booby-trapped cabinet door and CRASH! A large Corning ware lid falls onto the counter-top, shatters, and glass shards fly everywhere. My first thoughts are: No way! My desperate prayer is answered with more chaos? This is NOT what we need on an already crazy morning! And I've ruined my daughter's lid.

To my surprise, the kitchen's sonic boom actually jolts our 3-year-old in a good way... he returns from battling the Land of Oz's Wicked Witch back to peaceful Kansas. My grandson is sensitive to certain foods and toxins, with milk, wheat and mold the worst offenders. Within minutes of drinking a glass of milk, his demeanor can change, for no logical reason and in an instant.

I recall his adorably mischievous eye gaze and sweet "DeDe" as I read and re-read sleep time's Curious George and 5 Little Monkeys books. Those eyes melt my heart, even in the midst of Chicagoland's chilling and snowy 2014 Polar Vortex. In a sudden moment this Sunday morning, those same eyes glaze over, combined with a penetrating, relentless, twizzling (circular), perseverating (repetitive) mantra that dizzies his Mom's sanity. We ask: Is there a food or toxin fueling his inordinate and illogical mindset?

These cues are what prompted my alert daughter a few weeks ago to believe that we are dealing with one determined little boy unwittingly laced with hi-jacked food intolerance. It will take trial-and-error and a patient, courageous Mom and supportive Dad to manage their precious little one's diet. Little by little, my daughter will study more books and cook homemade sprouted wheat pancakes; she will buy almond milk and almond yogurt; she will use the snow method to sterilize her area rugs and wipe down questionable window sills; she will blend healthy smoothies with hidden cinnamon-flavored fermented Cod Liver Oil. It is like our own complicated Sherlock Holmes mystery: "The Case of the Twizzled Hornet."

Worthwhile endeavors and challenges can strengthen us. It is extremely difficult for me to see "good" in the midst of trying dramas, and especially this one. To a minuscule degree, I compare it to the nightmare of breaking a Corning ware lid. We had an overwhelming, tornado with which to deal. We wiped counters, swept and vacuumed, and then meticulously hand-wiped the floors on our hands and knees. We kept our eyes peeled for residue (gratefully spotting a few missed nuggets and microscopic shards). Today, as I finally finalize unpacking and laundering, I'm shocked to discover a large glass shard in the pocket of the sweater I wore that morning (which I know I did not put there). Glass, indeed, flew to Oz and back.

In retrospect, good did come from the sonic boom. It gave us critical incentive to thoroughly clean the kitchen floor's nooks and crannies for newly-crawling little brother; and, big brother was instantly jolted back to reality. The day mellowed. Fortunately, the base for that lid had broken years ago. We tediously, and little by little, cleaned up a wild and dangerous kitchen. We patiently took possession of the situation AND ended up with this possibly fortuitous (unplanned and random) confessional for our M.D.I.M. (Mother.Daughter.Insanity.Memoir. a/k/a Missing.Dad.Insanely.Memoir.)

Our Sherlock mystery continues, and one could never imagine the goings-on in young parent homes on Sunday mornings. The link below, to the vintage Phil Donahue Show, contains insightful footage of a young boy hijacked by a food intolerance as well as key information. The outcome gives us hope as we believe in and love a very good God. That is the reason I conclude this "penning" with... tres bon.

Phil Donahue Footage of Boy Hijacked by Food Intolerances

 

Matthew Sees the Forest Through the Tree

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz. The morning alarm blares loudly and somewhat late, intentionally, giving no time for dawdling. Rapid-fire clean-up, breakfast, dressing, driving to work, and clock-in gives no time to spare.

That was me in youthful days, proud of my streamlined morning routine. It pumped up the adrenaline and I was ready to produce. I was addicted to adrenaline's focus, energy, and its "high." Time crunches particularly fueled the fantastic fires.

Then I read in the book Adrenaline & Stress, by Archibald Hart, that positive and negative stress both wear down the adrenals to the eventual point of exhaustion or even Chronic Fatigue. Quiet physical signs like rapid heart rate are tricky to notice, until one reads the book.

Rapid-fire, adrenal highs are a perfect segue to an intriguing play-by-play in the Book of Matthew, 20:29 through 21:20:

1. Jesus heals two blind men as He exits Jericho, (20:29) then...
2. Rock Star Jesus rides a donkey through a flash-mob crowd of worshippers in Jerusalem, (21:8) then...
3. Jesus performs in the temple by overturning money-changer tables, (21:12) then...
4. In the chaotic temple, Jesus takes time to heal the blind and lame, (21:14) and finally...
5. The next morning, Jesus wisely seizes a key motivating moment; it is the calm-before-the-crucifixion-storm (21:19). 

Author Matthew (tax collector-turned-disciple) knows well the art of selfishly manipulating people. Pre-disciple days, he strategically coerced his fellow Jews to pay their taxes, for the purpose of receiving his generous portion. Turning against his people to work for the ruthlessly domineering Roman government was profitable.

In 25 chock-filled verses, a condensed sequence of events unfolds. Matthew might be warming the readers to a strategic point. His almost matter-of-fact sequence of people-healings seems trivialized:

• "...immediately they received their sight and followed him." (20:34)
• "...and he [Jesus] healed them." (21:14)

But, then, in 21:19-20 Matthew dives further into a different kind of a miracle, and he includes the response of the disciples: "...Immediately the tree withered. When the disciples saw this, they were amazed..."

In the hype and excitement of chapters 20 and 21 (Jesus' final days), Matthew's non-notation of the disciples' reactions to other miracles is either intentionally omitted, or, they had no reactions. Possibly their adrenaline-filled minds overlooked the healings. During their 3 years with Jesus, they saw more miracles than could be counted. OR, was Matthew's no-nonsense conveyance of events pointing to an important miracle? Did he intentionally leave out superfluous or extraneous healing information...

... for us to see the forest through the tree?

During the "temple high," Jesus could have manipulated the disciples for His purposes. They were adrenalized putty in His hands and hungry for insurrection. Instead, after Jesus' healings, they simply exit the temple; and, following a night of sleep, only then did Matthew's Gospel dwell on the pièce de résistance (the most important item in a series).

In the peacefully calm morning hours, Jesus connects with His pupils. He visually communicates. It is information they will soon need... after His death. The front-row, larger-than-life, 3-D opportunity is a "wowing" nature-miracle to really capture their attention. It is the miracle of the tree; it withers right before their eyes; they are amazed and attentive. The disciples ask questions and learn a key Jesus-principle: "...If you believe, you will receive anything you ask for in prayer."

In other words, for God's glory, Jesus-followers must produce spiritual fruit; maybe even "wowing" nature miracles; or, giving figurative or literal sight to the blind and limb-movement to the lame. Fruit and people and serving are the focus; not insurrection. Matthew's strategic vantage point sees the forest through the tree, or the big picture. Messiah Jesus didn't come to this earth to waste His time with adrenalized fighting, coercion, or manipulative tactics to make people follow Him. Spiritual fruit is the key, and that is tres bon.