You Can't Whistle While You Work if You're Sucking Sour Grapes

Snow White: the delicate flower of a woman with porcelain skin, ruby red lips, and a voice that enchants forest animals near and far. She’s the “fairest of them all” and thereby the prime nemesis to the wicked and infinitely vain Queen. In addition to this she’s the headmistress of the world’s first (and perhaps only) home for dwarfs. A dwarfanage, if you will. But apart from absolute beauty, maternal instincts, and the advantage of animators to maintain her girlish figure –what’s she got that we ain’t got?

In a phrase –pucker power! (“You do know how to whistle, don’t you?”) Funny thing about whistling; it’s impossible to frown and whistle at the same time. Go ahead. Try it. Poise yourself in front of the mirror, draw the corners of your mouth down despairingly and just try to pipe out a tune. Can’t be done.

So, it doesn’t seem like a stretch to say that all this “whistle while you work” stuff may have reflected a greater attribute than merely luscious lips. Our pasty white princess has a happy heart. It’s a good thing otherwise Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Bashful, and well, you know the rest, would never have stood a chance. And without a happy heart, neither do your husband or children. But don’t take my word for it.

Proverbs 21:19 says,

“It is better to live alone in the desert than with a crabby, complaining wife.” (NLT)

And again in Proverbs 27:15

“A nagging wife is as annoying as the constant dripping on a rainy day.” (NLT)

If anyone had a reason for being a bitter old nag, it’s our girl, Snowy. Her life was far from perfect. Here she is fluttering about with her chirping little bird friends when some woodsman drags her to the middle of nowhere in order to kill her. Sure, he spares her life but she has to leave friends, family, and homeland only to find herself shacked up with seven half-sized bachelors, most of whom appear old enough to be her father. She had plenty to gripe about even before she took a bite of that poisoned apple.

Just suppose that Prince Charming came riding up on his noble steed only to get an earful from Snow White’s vertically challenged roommates about how dreadfully irritable, demanding, and impossible to satisfy she was; and how peaceful their lives had been since they stuck her in that glass coffin. Do you think for one moment he would have given her a life restoring kiss? I think it’s safe to say he’d have galloped right on by in search of some other fair maiden. Perhaps a damsel locked away in a tower accessible only by her own glorious hair. But that’s another story.

Maybe, if the Scripture had been written in fairytale language these Proverbs would have come to mind:

“Better for a Prince to live in his own dungeon than in a beautiful castle with a hateful Princess.”

Or…“A nagging Princess is as annoying as the constant fire-breathing of a treacherous dragon.”

What about you? Are you glad of heart; warbling about in sweet melodies? Or have the sour grapes of feeling overworked, underpaid, and under appreciated sucked your cheeks in tighter than a kissy-fish face? Are circumstances stealing your joy or is the joy of the Lord your strength?

We can honestly admit that we all have our moody moments; but for the sake of our families and the testimony of our Savior, let’s lay aside malice, anger, and bitterness (Eph. 4:31) -those sour grapes we’ve been sucking on for too long; and taste the sweet fruit of kindness, tender-heartedness, and forgiveness (Eph. 4:32).

Come on ladies, put some gloss on those fabulous lips, smack ‘em together like you mean it, and get to whistling. It’s possible that even the “Grumpy-est” dwarf in your life will soften under the refrain of your happy heart song.

Cinderella Should THANK Her Stepmother

Oh I know, I know –she was a wicked stepmother but the way I see it, this little cinder girl owes her dysfunctional family a great big “thank you”. Without realizing it, they were molding her into a help meet suitable for a prince.

What is it that we envy in Cinderella (besides her uncanny ability to communicate with mice)? I believe there are many things: her work ethic, her resourcefulness, her inner beauty, and of course, the ability to snag her man. But how did she acquire these characteristics? The answer is one simple word -service. Cinderella spent her childhood and youth serving ungrateful, undeserving, and completely self-absorbed people. In this training ground, she learned everything she needed to win the affection of Prince Charming and to truly live “happily ever after.”

From a purely practical standpoint, this girl was a homemaker extraordinaire. She could cook, clean, do laundry, scrub floors, wash windows, sew…the list goes on and on. It seems that no job was too large or too small thanks to the narrow-eyed demands of Mommy Dearest.

And those sisters of hers…yikes! Is it any wonder Cinderella was a woman full of humility? After all, she saw narcissism at its worst with those two. Cinderella quickly learned what not to do from their sniveling, whining, and selfishly sour dispositions. And again, we have the queen bee herself, perpetuating the distorted self-images of her own daughters’ while unwittingly ensuring the spotlight for our sweet heroine.

Cinderella realized early on that she would receive no pay, no recognition, and no appreciation for all of her hard work and sacrifice; yet she goes about her tasks joyfully, singing even. Another endearing trait built up in the midst of adversity. Not only does she have the necessary skills and humble spirit to serve but she does so with cheerfulness.

Okay, maybe a “Mother of the Year” award isn’t in order, but it is interesting how the stepmother’s efforts to burden, shame, and enslave Cinderella instead empowered, inspired, and prepared her for the most important role she would ever play. Cinderella’s heart of service is a shining contrast to the “world” around her.

So, what’s the point? (Besides the fact that being home with four children causes you to search for spiritual meaning in fairytale animation.) What merit does this story have for today? Well, let’s look at another literary heroine…our dear friend the Proverbs 31 woman. The focus of her “excellence” can also be summed up in one word –service!

Skillful service – She “works with eager hands” (v.13) and “sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.” (v.17)
Humble service – She brings her husband “good, not harm, all the days of her life” (v.12) and “she opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy.” (v.20)
Cheerful service – “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” (v25)

Are we serving our families “heartily, as to the Lord”? (Col 3:23, KJV) Do we begrudge the calling God has place on our lives as homemakers, wives, or mothers? How are we responding to the sometimes grumpy, demanding, selfish, whiny, and impossible to satisfy people God has placed in our lives? And how is He using them to prepare us for His blessing?

You want the fairy tale don’t you? Back in Proverbs 31 we see what happens as a woman chooses to serve God and others skillfully, humbly, and cheerfully.

“Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her: ‘Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.’ Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gates.” (verses 28-30)

Now that’s what I call a happy ending.

(Scripture references are from the NIV)

Lovingly dedicated to Isabel Delia Harrington


The following stories are based on the lives of Wyatt and Isabel Harrington. The author has taken certain liberties while trying to remain true to the essence of the story.

I'll Take That One

The dance hall was warm and only a few couples shuffled arm in arm along the wooden floor, under the watchful eye of their adult chaperones. Isabel Rampy and Arliss Sears sat in their party dresses, swapping secrets and casting flirtatious glances at potential young suitors. Arliss was the first to notice the two boys across the room. She tugged at Isabel’s sleeve while staring starry-eyed in their direction.

“Oh, Liz,” Arliss giggled nervously”, I think their looking at us.”

Liz, which the Rampy family decided was somehow short for Isabel, peered around the bodies of her classmates to see what sort of specimen her friend had discovered. She didn’t expect much since Arliss was know to swoon over anything in coveralls.

“The one with blonde hair”, Arliss explained, pulling her in for a better angle. “Isn’t he handsome?”

Liz recognized him as Steven Burgess. He was a year older than them, a tall lanky fellow with fine blonde hair and light blue eyes. Aside from his exceptional height, his features were rather plain and Liz had hardly given him a second look when he playfully slugged the shoulder of the boy next to him. James Wyatt Harrington quickly retaliated with a few air jabs toward his friend’s ribs. He and Steven laughed and poked at each other. A breath caught in Liz’s throat as he glanced her way.

Wyatt was average in height and had soft brown hair that curled up in the front. His lean but muscular frame and the warm brown tone of his face and forearms told of a summer of hard work in his daddy’s fields. He and Liz were the same age but he had fallen behind a grade and wouldn’t be allowed to graduate with his class. His strong square jaw and thin lips would have given him a stern face if not for the sparkle in his smiling gray eyes--beautiful eyes that were looking right into hers.

She turned away to realize that Arliss was still chattering, oblivious to the heat that warmed her cheeks and the sudden dampness in her palms.

“Isn’t he incredibly handsome?” Arliss pressed.

“He’s okay.” Liz responded, stealing one last sideways glance at Wyatt. “But I’ll take that one.”

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Best Friends

The rain was pouring off the aluminum window coverings and beating down on the withering shrubs below. The growing heat of summer days always brought with it the fury of late afternoon thunderstorms. Liz stood behind the screen door leading to the back porch, her head resting against the doorjamb. She watched intently as the dark clouds rolled across the sky. The great masses of cool air colliding with stale heat were marked by thunderous booms. Lightning streaked through the sky and flashed over the trees that lined the creek bank in the lower pasture. A chill ran up her spine as she wondered if Steven Burgess had seen the bolt of light coming for him like a fiery arrow. Had he been too far out in the field to reach shelter? She didn’t know the circumstances, only that the result had been fatal. Liz tried to force herself to pray for his grieving mother and father but her heart and mind could only think of one person.

Wyatt had been Steven’s best friend for years. She’d seen them often since the dance last fall but could never bring herself to speak, only to smile shyly and hurry past. Liz was sure Wyatt had passed her off as a silly schoolgirl crush and nothing more. But at the funeral tomorrow, she intended to make sure he knew that she was interested in much more.

In a small town like Weedowee, Alabama, everyone knows everyone, and a funeral can seem like a family reunion. Bear Creek Methodist Church was filled to capacity. The service was difficult and the Pastor’s voice could hardly be heard above the sobs of Mrs. Burgess. Liz and her family sat near the back of the sanctuary. She craned her neck trying to pick Wyatt out of the crowd but she could hardly see over her aunt Molly McManus’ big black hat with it’s purple plume sticking out of one side. Why anyone would wear something so gaudy to a funeral was beyond Liz’s understanding. It’s not an Easter picnic for goodness sake, she thought as she settled back in her chair with a sigh of frustration. Hmph!

As the Pastor signaled the beginning of the procession to the graveside, Liz finally saw Wyatt. He was the third pallbearer on the left-hand side, serving along with John’s younger brother, George, and several cousins and uncles. She watched Wyatt as they passed her row. His jaw was firmly set and his lips were drawn tightly in a narrow line. He was fighting to control his emotions. In contrast to the tension over most of his face, she could see that his eyes were soft and moist with tears. A quick prayer rose in her heart. Please give him comfort, Lord. Then she added subconsciously, use me to comfort him, Lord.

The twenty-third Psalm was read and the Pastor spoke a final prayer then shared a personal word of encouragement with Mr. and Mrs. Burgess. The crowd of supporters left in small clusters as the family members made their way to the fellowship hall for a meal prepared by the ladies of the church. Eva Rampy was head of the benevolence committee and would remain at the church until the meal was finished. Liz knew that her mom would be calling on her for kitchen help soon but she had to talk to Wyatt first.

He was still standing at the graveside, staring at the ground that would soon be home to the body of his friend. Liz hesitated to break into the moment. Instead, she walked casually between the grave plots, glancing at the headstones as she went. Generations of Rampys and McManuses, her mother’s side of the family, had been laid to rest in this cemetery, so she neither felt nor looked out of place.

After a few moments, Wyatt looked up from the ground. His cheeks were damp with tears and Liz recognized her opportunity. Slowly and purposefully she approached his side. He never looked her way. Not when their shoulder’s touched or when she slid her slender fingers into his palm. Not even when she gently declared, “I’ll be your best friend now, Wyatt Harrington.” She knew that she belonged beside him and the tightening of his fingers around her hand assured her that he knew it, too.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

The Big Day

Hearing the truck coming up the dirt drive of her parents’ home, Liz took one last look in the dim mirror. She’d chosen a crisp white blouse and navy skirt with matching shoes and handbag.
The skirt hem lay just above her slender calves and was fitted to show off her petite waistline. The cotton blouse was buttoned all the way up to the ruffled collar and dark brown locks of curl brushed the tops of her shoulders. She took a deep breath before walking onto the large front porch.

Her mother and father sat quietly rocking. She knew that for their sakes she would hold herself in check but it had been three long years since she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been serving as a Military Police officer in the army, stationed first in England, then France for nine months, and then finally in Germany. He entered the service on September 27, 1942 and had been discharged yesterday, September 9, 1945. While constant letters had warmed her heart and occasionally flushed her cheeks, nothing could compare to this moment. As Wyatt stepped out of the truck in his army dress uniform, heat filled her belly and her heart raced. He was more handsome that she had remembered. Breathe, Liz, breathe. She could feel his eyes moving up her body, taking in every inch like a long cool drink of water. When at last they met her own, she could stand it no longer. She couldn’t recall her feet touching the ground as she ran into his arms, only the feeling of being swallowed up in his strong embrace and his warm lips against hers.

Liz remembered herself and quickly pushed away from his arms. She nervously wiped at the fresh creases in her skirt and then forced her gaze to her parents. Gripping his cap in his hands Wyatt addressed them.

“Mr. Rampy, Mrs. Rampy.” His voice was confident but respectful.

There had been no need to ask for permission. Both Liz and Wyatt were twenty-six years of age and a nine-year courtship left little doubt as to his intentions. Still, he waited silently for a sign of their approval. Without any change in his countenance, Liz’s father gave a subtle nod. Liz let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Suddenly, her legs were swept from under her as Wyatt hoisted her into the truck cab and jumped in beside her. She waved her hand out the window as they sped down the dirt road and out to the main highway which would lead them straight to the Weedowee Courthouse.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Sister

“My little woman, Daddy’s little woman…” Wyatt sang and swayed the tiny little girl gently in his arms.

“Put her back, Wyatt, you heard what the doctor said. She’ll catch pneumonia.” Liz looked up from her quilting. “Put her back in the box.”

“I know what he said but she needs fresh air. Her colors not so good.” Wyatt replied still humming between words.

Patricia Jane was born on April 2, 1947 with a hole in her heart. The prognosis was grim and after seven long days in the hospital, Wyatt and Liz had finally brought their little girl home.

Wyatt lowered her into the pasteboard box and covered her with a soft crocheted blanket. He shifted the liquor bottle full of hot water toward her tiny feet and smiled at the warm pink glow coming back into her cheeks. The physicians instructions had been very clear -–absolutely no drafts, keep her warm. The box was completely airtight and had replaced the beautiful cradle Wyatt had crafted with his own hands. Liz hoped and prayed that some day Patricia Jane would be well enough to sleep in it.

Almost two weeks passed and Patricia seemed to be holding her own. There were a few close calls and while Wyatt and Liz’s hopes grew with every gurgle and coo, their worst fear was never far from mind.

“She’s my sweet girl. Yes, her was done it.” Liz chattered as she worked on the evening meal. After kneading out the biscuits, she washed her hands and peeked around the corner at Patricia. She was like a China doll with her fair complexion and fine strawberry blonde hair. But Liz noticed that her eyes seemed a bit dim.

“What’s the matter, little one? Are you sleepy?” The sweet face turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Well, a short nap will do you well before Daddy gets home. He’ll want lots of sweet kisses from his little woman so, we’d better let you rest up now.” Liz tucked the blanket around the frail arms and legs. Patricia’s fingers and toes felt colder than usual so Liz carefully scooted the makeshift crib toward the window where she could warm up in the late afternoon sun.

The table was set and bowls of steaming mashed potatoes, green beans, and crispy fried chicken filled the house with a delicious aroma.

“Mmmm” Wyatt exclaimed as he came through the front door. “Smells good in here.”

He dropped the mail onto the counter top. “And how’s my little woman?” he asked as he made his way across the room.

Liz gave a few details about their day as she poured the ice tea. A glass in each hand, she turned toward the table but stopped mid-step. She knew immediately that Patricia wasn’t doing well. Wyatt lifted her gently. Their poor sweet girl groaned and squirmed with each labored breath.
Dinner was forgotten, and for several hours they tried to comfort her. They took turns warming the whiskey bottle and hummed soothing lullaby’s but it was useless. Patricia Jane continued growing weaker.

When they’d tried everything they knew of to do, Liz and Wyatt bundled her up and drove to the hospital, in vain. Patricia Jane passed away quietly; just two short weeks after her life began.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002