Let my heart break at your bidding,
heal at your touch,
mourn over sin,
rejoice in your love.
Die fully to self,
live as your light,
work as your hands,
exquisite in your sight.
I pray these easily,
each little rhyme,
asking for hard things
while the sun shines.
But when the storms come,
when you answer my prayer,
Lord, mold my heart,
your Image to bear.
Friday, December 19, 2014
Monday, December 8, 2014
My Right
I wasn't late - yet. I was on time, just later than I usually was. The digital clock on my car dashboard was relentlessly changing, one minute at a time. But I finally reached the four-lane road and sighed in relief. Not long now.
I sped up to 40 miles an hour, passing Arbys, the mattress store with the large clearance sale, the strip mall with its tiny stores. I caught up with the cars in front of me at the light where the four-lane divided highway crossed my road. Two more times, the digital clock changed on my dashboard. I would only just make it in time to get my computer set up before work.
The light finally changed; green. I eased off the brake a moment, and crept closer and closer to the car in front of me. It didn't move. Didn't move. I braked again. It waited; it moved. Finally. I barely kept myself from tailgating as it moved forward, inches at a time. My digital 8 changed to a 9 just waiting for it to go on a green light. I sighed again as it started. Now, I was headed to work.
In the fast lane. Bear this in mind, I was in the fast lane, with a speed limit of 35 miles an hour. The car in the slow lane was going 35. The car in front of me? It was mimicking the one to my right. It was going 35.
I bit back my impatience. The phrase "speak evil of no one; show perfect courtesy to all people" from Titus came to mind. I prayed in response. God, I was being outwardly nice because I like to be taken for a good, kind person. Change my heart? It doesn't at all resemble what I'd like it to be. I prayed the car going 35 in the fast lane wouldn't turn when I needed to turn. It didn't - and I got to work, turned my computer on, and just got all fourteen programs up and running before the clock hit 8:30. But…
I had been impatient because a car was going 35 miles an hour. Granted, it was being driven in the fast lane, but it was going 35 miles an hour on a road where the government (my national authority) had degreed the limit of speed would be 35 miles an hour. There was an unwritten rule all over the city that 5 miles over that limit was safe, even expected, especially in the fast lanes in the city. Because of that unwritten rule, I had taken exception with a driver who obeyed the rules posted every few hundred feet, the one who had actually respected authority.
I had thought I had every right to be upset because those five miles an hour of speed were not granted to me. I had taken it to be my right to go 40 miles an hour on a road with a 35 miles an hour speed limit, and on being denied that speed, had to pray for help to calm myself because I could not do it on my own. I thought about it more, and realized that my mindset towards many things in life have the same demanding expectation of things that are not really rights.
A good day. Respect from every person I meet. Time to myself. Time for fun, time for doing what I want, at least a little. Time to write, to read, to move. Time to walk, occasionally. Family members who love me. Things I've never been guaranteed, things that are not mine by right, only things given to me on a regular basis that I come to demand. Things that upset me when they disappear.
Things I'm never grateful for.
Things that have always been gifts.
Things that I'll someday be grateful for, in Heaven, when I'll truly see each item as a gift.
I sped up to 40 miles an hour, passing Arbys, the mattress store with the large clearance sale, the strip mall with its tiny stores. I caught up with the cars in front of me at the light where the four-lane divided highway crossed my road. Two more times, the digital clock changed on my dashboard. I would only just make it in time to get my computer set up before work.
The light finally changed; green. I eased off the brake a moment, and crept closer and closer to the car in front of me. It didn't move. Didn't move. I braked again. It waited; it moved. Finally. I barely kept myself from tailgating as it moved forward, inches at a time. My digital 8 changed to a 9 just waiting for it to go on a green light. I sighed again as it started. Now, I was headed to work.
In the fast lane. Bear this in mind, I was in the fast lane, with a speed limit of 35 miles an hour. The car in the slow lane was going 35. The car in front of me? It was mimicking the one to my right. It was going 35.
I bit back my impatience. The phrase "speak evil of no one; show perfect courtesy to all people" from Titus came to mind. I prayed in response. God, I was being outwardly nice because I like to be taken for a good, kind person. Change my heart? It doesn't at all resemble what I'd like it to be. I prayed the car going 35 in the fast lane wouldn't turn when I needed to turn. It didn't - and I got to work, turned my computer on, and just got all fourteen programs up and running before the clock hit 8:30. But…
I had been impatient because a car was going 35 miles an hour. Granted, it was being driven in the fast lane, but it was going 35 miles an hour on a road where the government (my national authority) had degreed the limit of speed would be 35 miles an hour. There was an unwritten rule all over the city that 5 miles over that limit was safe, even expected, especially in the fast lanes in the city. Because of that unwritten rule, I had taken exception with a driver who obeyed the rules posted every few hundred feet, the one who had actually respected authority.
I had thought I had every right to be upset because those five miles an hour of speed were not granted to me. I had taken it to be my right to go 40 miles an hour on a road with a 35 miles an hour speed limit, and on being denied that speed, had to pray for help to calm myself because I could not do it on my own. I thought about it more, and realized that my mindset towards many things in life have the same demanding expectation of things that are not really rights.
A good day. Respect from every person I meet. Time to myself. Time for fun, time for doing what I want, at least a little. Time to write, to read, to move. Time to walk, occasionally. Family members who love me. Things I've never been guaranteed, things that are not mine by right, only things given to me on a regular basis that I come to demand. Things that upset me when they disappear.
Things I'm never grateful for.
Things that have always been gifts.
Things that I'll someday be grateful for, in Heaven, when I'll truly see each item as a gift.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Hope
Here is another ebenezer I, by God's grace and as a testament to His glory, raise to remind me in my frailty of God's goodness and victory.
I tried to tell the tale leading up to my current spiritual state to a friend, one close enough I call her "sister," and said it started a week ago; no, wait, it started three and a half years ago; it might as well have started with "once upon a time, four years ago…
I graduated college and came home. Three months later, I started as a "customer service associate" in a call center. I have hated phones since I first got tangled up in the tangible phone line that hooked handset to receiver; I was walking nervously around as I spoke into the device held to my ear. Phones have lost their cords, but I never really lost my dislike. Through my Masters degree, graduation, then the next year and ten months, I worked at a place where what I did was truly work, never play. The end of that job, though still coming closer and closer, has been delayed time and again.
I tried not to become bitter. I tried to put aside discouragement and accept God's will. God's will had proven to be good every time; I would lean on that past faithfulness and trust Him now. By His grace, I did.
What I did not do was enjoy life, nor hope for the future. I hoped with certainty that I would have perfect joy and abounding delight in heaven, but I crumbled when I considered the future on earth. I had no guarantee that the dream I was chasing, a teaching or tutoring job overseas, would be any less like drudgery than my current job. I stopped hoping for joy in it, because then if it was drudgery, I wouldn't be hurt. Besides, it was easier to accept the present when I didn't look forward to the future.
As three years went by, I also lost hope that God would change my attitude to be joyful and grateful in the midst of my job. I'd been praying for it and fighting for it for too long. I loved God and my family, I read His word often, prayed often, I worshipped Him and tried to know Him better; that was all I could do. I left my lack of hope in His hands and told Him to change it if He cared about it, hoping He would. He didn't. I gave up even hoping that He would. As far as possible, I forgot about hope, except to pass over it quickly when praying for faith, hope, and love.
Without hope for the future, I snatched at every joy I could find in the present. My mind, ever since last week, has tried to work out the connection between future hope and present joy in various small spare moments, but I'm not very far yet. I only know that without hope for the future, joy in the present became something I craved with the senseless, destructive desire of an addict. When I heard a Christian band I'd heard once before was coming to town, I bought a ticket one random night (I find it easiest to spend money for events when I do it on a whim). Here was another chance I might find joy in the present.
I shook my head at myself when I discovered it was on a Sunday at 7:00 - my church often ends 6:15-6:30. But I slipped out to the concert that night, waited in line to pick up the ticket I didn't have a printer to print, and tried to find a seat. A coworker who had retired almost two years ago tugged on my hand as I wandered down the aisle, searching for a place to sit. Asking if I was by myself, he showed me one open seat by one of the people in his group - a group of four people over the age of fifty. Considering the band's preference for drums, lights, and loud sound - they've been called the Australian answer to Coldplay - I was amused. They were very good, kind, polite company, and I was blessed to be near them, and to have the seat I did.
I do not think I can put the actual concert into words. The band had experienced some major struggles in the recent past - one of the two brothers who sang had been diagnosed with a digestive disorder that gave him an uncertain chance of staying alive. The first time I had seen the band, only one brother had performed, since the other had been unable to continue the tour. As children, they had come to America with their dad. He'd been offered a job in the States when they lost everything on a tour. When the reached the states, five children, a pregnant wife, and not much else, he had lost his job almost immediately. God had provided everything they needed.
Despite - or, knowing the way God so often works, perhaps because of - these circumstances, the main message of the brothers' music is hope. It's not just their lyrics, either. They love what they do, the love the way God has worked in their lives, they love the truth they speak. They love that they can say
"To the one who spoke and set the sun ablaze / To the one who stopped the storm and walked the waves / To the one who took the tree so He could say / You matter, I hope you know you matter" and know it's true.
Watching and listening, hearing truth and seeing joy, hearing them recount the deeds of God, I knew that I could enjoy my future, that delight is attendant on the children of God - I remembered that joy is a fruit of the Spirit, and my life did not have to be years of dreary work. I walked out and asked God, pleading and yet daring to believe that my hope would last. I asked Him not to let this be a spiritual high, but a lasting hope that sustained my present.
The next two days reminded me that being alive in God, actively seeking His will, was absolutely crazy. We moved my sister to an apartment on the third floor an hour away, took my grandfather to a clinic, cleaned up the cigarrette-smoke-stained baseboards and doors, and put the furniture in order. Oh, and I worked a ten hour day at work, within those first two days. I drove home at nine at night, and had a call from a friend who needed to talk. I did not mind, except late at night - I enjoyed having a crazy life again.
But the next few days at work tested the hope I had been given. Most of my department (including myself) are discontent, and with the losing of several employees, understaffed. None of us enjoy the work, and several coworkers feel neglected by those higher up. God provided helps - writing a letter of these events to a friend in Greece Wednesday morning, telling the tale to three friends over the weekend, and the prayers that reminded me who I was praying to. But keeping hope was still difficult.
Till today. Tonight's sermon was on Philippians 4.13. The pastor - a seminary student originally from New Zealand - reminded us that our weakness is never a hindrance to God's glory, God's purpose. The strength God provides is not limited by our imagination, our strength, or our capability. God's weakness is stronger then our strength (I Cor. 15). God will accomplish His glory - and throughout the Bible he did so through weaker men. He used a sling against a giant, Gideon's 600 men against an army, Elijah against the army of a foreign king. The pastor reminded us that we can never mess us God's work; we are not a hindrance. Life is hard, but the difficulties in it are never conquered by human strength. We do not need to be strong to live, nor to glorify God. Our strength is not necessary to glorify God.
The pastor kept reminding us to pray big, to trust God, to never give up. Moses, reluctant to obey, obeyed and watched things get worse and worse before the Israelites were allowed to leave; then, well, he had Israel to deal with. But God's strength did not change - He just didn't act the way Moses was expecting, nor the way Moses desired. But His strength still supported Moses, brought Israel out, and accomplished His will and His glory. Moses, reluctant, doubting Moses, will be a prophet and a witness throughout the entirety of time on earth. God does plan a glorious life for His children, always with His timing and agenda, not ours.
This was a reminder that my future is not just work I may delight in, but a life in God's kingdom here. I have a life where I will work for that kingdom and watch it work in me. That, too, is certain hope. God, once again, gave me hope. Once again, He answered my prayer. Once again, I will take a breath and and ask for Him to sustain that hope, to work joy within me within this next hard week, and to glorify Himself and bring His kingdom in me, bringing with Himself hope, faith, and love. Amen.
I tried to tell the tale leading up to my current spiritual state to a friend, one close enough I call her "sister," and said it started a week ago; no, wait, it started three and a half years ago; it might as well have started with "once upon a time, four years ago…
I graduated college and came home. Three months later, I started as a "customer service associate" in a call center. I have hated phones since I first got tangled up in the tangible phone line that hooked handset to receiver; I was walking nervously around as I spoke into the device held to my ear. Phones have lost their cords, but I never really lost my dislike. Through my Masters degree, graduation, then the next year and ten months, I worked at a place where what I did was truly work, never play. The end of that job, though still coming closer and closer, has been delayed time and again.
I tried not to become bitter. I tried to put aside discouragement and accept God's will. God's will had proven to be good every time; I would lean on that past faithfulness and trust Him now. By His grace, I did.
What I did not do was enjoy life, nor hope for the future. I hoped with certainty that I would have perfect joy and abounding delight in heaven, but I crumbled when I considered the future on earth. I had no guarantee that the dream I was chasing, a teaching or tutoring job overseas, would be any less like drudgery than my current job. I stopped hoping for joy in it, because then if it was drudgery, I wouldn't be hurt. Besides, it was easier to accept the present when I didn't look forward to the future.
As three years went by, I also lost hope that God would change my attitude to be joyful and grateful in the midst of my job. I'd been praying for it and fighting for it for too long. I loved God and my family, I read His word often, prayed often, I worshipped Him and tried to know Him better; that was all I could do. I left my lack of hope in His hands and told Him to change it if He cared about it, hoping He would. He didn't. I gave up even hoping that He would. As far as possible, I forgot about hope, except to pass over it quickly when praying for faith, hope, and love.
Without hope for the future, I snatched at every joy I could find in the present. My mind, ever since last week, has tried to work out the connection between future hope and present joy in various small spare moments, but I'm not very far yet. I only know that without hope for the future, joy in the present became something I craved with the senseless, destructive desire of an addict. When I heard a Christian band I'd heard once before was coming to town, I bought a ticket one random night (I find it easiest to spend money for events when I do it on a whim). Here was another chance I might find joy in the present.
I shook my head at myself when I discovered it was on a Sunday at 7:00 - my church often ends 6:15-6:30. But I slipped out to the concert that night, waited in line to pick up the ticket I didn't have a printer to print, and tried to find a seat. A coworker who had retired almost two years ago tugged on my hand as I wandered down the aisle, searching for a place to sit. Asking if I was by myself, he showed me one open seat by one of the people in his group - a group of four people over the age of fifty. Considering the band's preference for drums, lights, and loud sound - they've been called the Australian answer to Coldplay - I was amused. They were very good, kind, polite company, and I was blessed to be near them, and to have the seat I did.
I do not think I can put the actual concert into words. The band had experienced some major struggles in the recent past - one of the two brothers who sang had been diagnosed with a digestive disorder that gave him an uncertain chance of staying alive. The first time I had seen the band, only one brother had performed, since the other had been unable to continue the tour. As children, they had come to America with their dad. He'd been offered a job in the States when they lost everything on a tour. When the reached the states, five children, a pregnant wife, and not much else, he had lost his job almost immediately. God had provided everything they needed.
Despite - or, knowing the way God so often works, perhaps because of - these circumstances, the main message of the brothers' music is hope. It's not just their lyrics, either. They love what they do, the love the way God has worked in their lives, they love the truth they speak. They love that they can say
"To the one who spoke and set the sun ablaze / To the one who stopped the storm and walked the waves / To the one who took the tree so He could say / You matter, I hope you know you matter" and know it's true.
Watching and listening, hearing truth and seeing joy, hearing them recount the deeds of God, I knew that I could enjoy my future, that delight is attendant on the children of God - I remembered that joy is a fruit of the Spirit, and my life did not have to be years of dreary work. I walked out and asked God, pleading and yet daring to believe that my hope would last. I asked Him not to let this be a spiritual high, but a lasting hope that sustained my present.
The next two days reminded me that being alive in God, actively seeking His will, was absolutely crazy. We moved my sister to an apartment on the third floor an hour away, took my grandfather to a clinic, cleaned up the cigarrette-smoke-stained baseboards and doors, and put the furniture in order. Oh, and I worked a ten hour day at work, within those first two days. I drove home at nine at night, and had a call from a friend who needed to talk. I did not mind, except late at night - I enjoyed having a crazy life again.
But the next few days at work tested the hope I had been given. Most of my department (including myself) are discontent, and with the losing of several employees, understaffed. None of us enjoy the work, and several coworkers feel neglected by those higher up. God provided helps - writing a letter of these events to a friend in Greece Wednesday morning, telling the tale to three friends over the weekend, and the prayers that reminded me who I was praying to. But keeping hope was still difficult.
Till today. Tonight's sermon was on Philippians 4.13. The pastor - a seminary student originally from New Zealand - reminded us that our weakness is never a hindrance to God's glory, God's purpose. The strength God provides is not limited by our imagination, our strength, or our capability. God's weakness is stronger then our strength (I Cor. 15). God will accomplish His glory - and throughout the Bible he did so through weaker men. He used a sling against a giant, Gideon's 600 men against an army, Elijah against the army of a foreign king. The pastor reminded us that we can never mess us God's work; we are not a hindrance. Life is hard, but the difficulties in it are never conquered by human strength. We do not need to be strong to live, nor to glorify God. Our strength is not necessary to glorify God.
The pastor kept reminding us to pray big, to trust God, to never give up. Moses, reluctant to obey, obeyed and watched things get worse and worse before the Israelites were allowed to leave; then, well, he had Israel to deal with. But God's strength did not change - He just didn't act the way Moses was expecting, nor the way Moses desired. But His strength still supported Moses, brought Israel out, and accomplished His will and His glory. Moses, reluctant, doubting Moses, will be a prophet and a witness throughout the entirety of time on earth. God does plan a glorious life for His children, always with His timing and agenda, not ours.
This was a reminder that my future is not just work I may delight in, but a life in God's kingdom here. I have a life where I will work for that kingdom and watch it work in me. That, too, is certain hope. God, once again, gave me hope. Once again, He answered my prayer. Once again, I will take a breath and and ask for Him to sustain that hope, to work joy within me within this next hard week, and to glorify Himself and bring His kingdom in me, bringing with Himself hope, faith, and love. Amen.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Waiting and Dancing
8:21.
39 minutes till bedtime begins.
Now,
8:22.
One more minute gone.
I watch them live with fascination. They're possibilities, each and every single minute. Each one is unknown, for each is currently (to use the formal word) unassigned.
There are things I could do - a letter to my grandmother has been waiting too long to be written, dinner has not really been prepared or eaten, and Notes From a Tilt-a-Whirl is still unread beyond the second chapter, merely for lack of time.
But nothing pressing. Nothing that demands completion, nothing that sternly reminds me that by tomorrow it needs to be done. No calls, no conversations, nothing but a dog, myself, and my music.
8:26.
Why must it be measured? Are not the best moments timeless, when time itself falls away before the wonder and beauty of living in that moment?
It's limited. Scarce. My mind no sooner sees the time then it measures how much I have left, how much I could steal from responsibilities to (not have fun) rest, to breath. to sit perhaps a moment, close my eyes, and open them again to see the world a little differently. To have the moment where the weight of life falls aways and I leave it lying on the ground, getting up from the chair to walk straighter for the weight left behind.
In daring moments I watch an entire TV episode - but who really has 48 minutes and 32 seconds (including credits) to spend watching imagination and truth mix?
But tonight, I forget the sensible side of my mind that measures time, and forget the to-do list that will be waiting still more urgently tomorrow, for tonight's unexpected freedom reminded me of something.
When I am too restless to enjoy sitting still, I must take time to wait. When the 39 minutes bother me because I do not know exactly what I (and I hope God) have planned, I have to release my disciplined control. When 39 unplanned minutes are too short for me to enjoy, I have forgotten the meaning of peace.
Three minutes can be enough. Sometimes one. Not just to sit and let the weight fall, but the minutes of complete enjoyment, the joy in the unplanned, un-needed, and unknown time where I am willing to let duty's weight rest on the road. I look up the way to walk, not to see the rough road that tomorrow's horizon leaves looming, but to realize I have been given a pace to walk apace, breathing, weightless, with a twist that may lead to nowhere. But twists that lead to nowhere lay beside the fey border of the joyous unknown, and thirty-nine minutes are enough to change a life.
Leave my burden on the road. I will come back to it, I will even shoulder it again, but I been given the time to walk off the beaten path my will has described, and remember that living is not just a journey. For the humans who dare to dance along the road, the dance turns the road into joy, and the arduous steps into lifts and leaps, all started by a twist in the road that lead to nowhere. When I come back, when the twist turns again to the burden I left, I may shoulder it with a sigh, but in the dust beneath my feet I still trace the steps I learned in the timeless minutes (I do not know how many now). I learned to wait, to make three minutes enough. Maybe even one minute. Maybe one minute tomorrow will be enough, now that I have been given so many tonight. Maybe I waive to the fey not as farewell, but as a promise to see them again tomorrow, and to learn another step, another dance, another way to make the rough road a starlit, fair-folk meadow filled with the steps of a dance.
39 minutes till bedtime begins.
Now,
8:22.
One more minute gone.
I watch them live with fascination. They're possibilities, each and every single minute. Each one is unknown, for each is currently (to use the formal word) unassigned.
There are things I could do - a letter to my grandmother has been waiting too long to be written, dinner has not really been prepared or eaten, and Notes From a Tilt-a-Whirl is still unread beyond the second chapter, merely for lack of time.
But nothing pressing. Nothing that demands completion, nothing that sternly reminds me that by tomorrow it needs to be done. No calls, no conversations, nothing but a dog, myself, and my music.
8:26.
Why must it be measured? Are not the best moments timeless, when time itself falls away before the wonder and beauty of living in that moment?
It's limited. Scarce. My mind no sooner sees the time then it measures how much I have left, how much I could steal from responsibilities to (not have fun) rest, to breath. to sit perhaps a moment, close my eyes, and open them again to see the world a little differently. To have the moment where the weight of life falls aways and I leave it lying on the ground, getting up from the chair to walk straighter for the weight left behind.
In daring moments I watch an entire TV episode - but who really has 48 minutes and 32 seconds (including credits) to spend watching imagination and truth mix?
But tonight, I forget the sensible side of my mind that measures time, and forget the to-do list that will be waiting still more urgently tomorrow, for tonight's unexpected freedom reminded me of something.
When I am too restless to enjoy sitting still, I must take time to wait. When the 39 minutes bother me because I do not know exactly what I (and I hope God) have planned, I have to release my disciplined control. When 39 unplanned minutes are too short for me to enjoy, I have forgotten the meaning of peace.
Three minutes can be enough. Sometimes one. Not just to sit and let the weight fall, but the minutes of complete enjoyment, the joy in the unplanned, un-needed, and unknown time where I am willing to let duty's weight rest on the road. I look up the way to walk, not to see the rough road that tomorrow's horizon leaves looming, but to realize I have been given a pace to walk apace, breathing, weightless, with a twist that may lead to nowhere. But twists that lead to nowhere lay beside the fey border of the joyous unknown, and thirty-nine minutes are enough to change a life.
Leave my burden on the road. I will come back to it, I will even shoulder it again, but I been given the time to walk off the beaten path my will has described, and remember that living is not just a journey. For the humans who dare to dance along the road, the dance turns the road into joy, and the arduous steps into lifts and leaps, all started by a twist in the road that lead to nowhere. When I come back, when the twist turns again to the burden I left, I may shoulder it with a sigh, but in the dust beneath my feet I still trace the steps I learned in the timeless minutes (I do not know how many now). I learned to wait, to make three minutes enough. Maybe even one minute. Maybe one minute tomorrow will be enough, now that I have been given so many tonight. Maybe I waive to the fey not as farewell, but as a promise to see them again tomorrow, and to learn another step, another dance, another way to make the rough road a starlit, fair-folk meadow filled with the steps of a dance.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Beauty from the Broken
It was just this morning I turned to tell her, forcing the stubborn chair to swivel as it was made to, telling her what I thought was simple news. My father would be visiting on Monday; he wanted to see the new home I'd made for myself. He'd be there Monday night.
She's always been honest, a blessing, for I never had to wonder what she was thinking. I just didn't expect how much it could hurt.
She was horrified, saying he could come, but make sure he didn't stay long. She'd heard of what he'd done, the reasons my mother had divorced him, his unfaithfulness, his atheism, his desire to verbally abuse my mother. She rethought what she said, saying I needed to make sure she didn't have to meet him. My voice grew quiet and I woodenly said "I understand," several times; I promised the visit would be short and I would text her when we left, so she could come back. In God's mercy she walked out the door in the next minute; I leaned on the desk and tried to breath; I covered my face and cried.
Shield them from his presence;
Shield him from their horror;
how do I shield my heart?
Shield them from a person;
Shield him from the truth;
how do I know what's right?
Shield them from discomfort;
Shield him from disdain;
how do I bear this cost?
I could not be angry at God, not after how well He's taught me that His will is good; I cannot be angry at my housemate, because I know what it is to fear someone outside my circles; I cannot be angry at him, because I love him. God, I love him, I love him, I love him - I trust him as far as I can (not far), and love him as much as I am able.
Cannot they see he is a person too? God saved murderers, liars, Paul - why is my father different? Why can't they see he's made in God's image?
Yet haven't I know that his words can be dangerous, that he's hard to argue with, that he's very persuasive, that he's so convinced he's right?
Broken, broken, broken, I try to let them break a little less, shielding them from each other. I break instead.
Then I read The Hiding Place, skimming through, reading of God using fleas to make heaven touch earth as His children were able to gather in freedom because of the fleas, reading of a lieutenant lost in darkness and hearing the light - unknown if it reached him, reading of their Father's death, how Corrie marked it on her stone calendar as his release date, the day he met his saviour and his wife. I read of Betsie's body transformed after death, how just after she died Corrie described her as carven figure of yellow ivory where every tooth was clearly defined through the skin, every rib showing - and yet God gave her one more glimpse of Betsie's body, and it was young, healthy, her body transformed back into the "Betsie of heaven," glowing with youth and health.
Ashes, cruelty, and death.
Ashes of the people burned in the smokestacks.
Cruelty of the guards who mocked the starving, weak, and miserable prisoneres.
Death of family, friends, death everywhere.
Betsie transformed.
Father released.
Corrie lived
lived
and wrote
and worked
and brought forgiveness, hope, health, life, and the light of the world to millions -
millions through her book, hundreds through her lifetime.
My life transformed.
My father alive
my God living
living
working
in me,
transforming pain to light,
transforming beauty from the broken.
She's always been honest, a blessing, for I never had to wonder what she was thinking. I just didn't expect how much it could hurt.
She was horrified, saying he could come, but make sure he didn't stay long. She'd heard of what he'd done, the reasons my mother had divorced him, his unfaithfulness, his atheism, his desire to verbally abuse my mother. She rethought what she said, saying I needed to make sure she didn't have to meet him. My voice grew quiet and I woodenly said "I understand," several times; I promised the visit would be short and I would text her when we left, so she could come back. In God's mercy she walked out the door in the next minute; I leaned on the desk and tried to breath; I covered my face and cried.
Shield them from his presence;
Shield him from their horror;
how do I shield my heart?
Shield them from a person;
Shield him from the truth;
how do I know what's right?
Shield them from discomfort;
Shield him from disdain;
how do I bear this cost?
I could not be angry at God, not after how well He's taught me that His will is good; I cannot be angry at my housemate, because I know what it is to fear someone outside my circles; I cannot be angry at him, because I love him. God, I love him, I love him, I love him - I trust him as far as I can (not far), and love him as much as I am able.
Cannot they see he is a person too? God saved murderers, liars, Paul - why is my father different? Why can't they see he's made in God's image?
Yet haven't I know that his words can be dangerous, that he's hard to argue with, that he's very persuasive, that he's so convinced he's right?
Broken, broken, broken, I try to let them break a little less, shielding them from each other. I break instead.
Then I read The Hiding Place, skimming through, reading of God using fleas to make heaven touch earth as His children were able to gather in freedom because of the fleas, reading of a lieutenant lost in darkness and hearing the light - unknown if it reached him, reading of their Father's death, how Corrie marked it on her stone calendar as his release date, the day he met his saviour and his wife. I read of Betsie's body transformed after death, how just after she died Corrie described her as carven figure of yellow ivory where every tooth was clearly defined through the skin, every rib showing - and yet God gave her one more glimpse of Betsie's body, and it was young, healthy, her body transformed back into the "Betsie of heaven," glowing with youth and health.
Ashes, cruelty, and death.
Ashes of the people burned in the smokestacks.
Cruelty of the guards who mocked the starving, weak, and miserable prisoneres.
Death of family, friends, death everywhere.
Betsie transformed.
Father released.
Corrie lived
lived
and wrote
and worked
and brought forgiveness, hope, health, life, and the light of the world to millions -
millions through her book, hundreds through her lifetime.
My life transformed.
My father alive
my God living
living
working
in me,
transforming pain to light,
transforming beauty from the broken.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
The mornings I desire, the days I have been given
"For if I could please myself I would always live as I lived there. I would choose always to breakfast at exactly eight and to be at my desk by nine, there to read or write till one. If a cup of good tea or coffee could be brought me about eleven, so much the better" and on to reading, writing, talking, walking. But "It is no doubt for my own good that I have been so generally prevented from leading it, for it is a life almost entirely selfish. Selfish, not self-centered: for in such a life my mind would be directed toward a thousand things, not one of which is myself" (Surprised by Joy 142).
For if I could live to please myself I would always have times like this morning. The thunder startled me awake soon after five, and I wrapped myself in a flannel blanket and went unwillingly downstairs. But it was a weekend, so instead of preparing for work I could go and stand on the porch, watching the lighting freeze time as the air became a three dimensional curtain of motionless raindrops. The sound of falling rain went on and on. I soon came back inside and dressed, created breakfast, taking my time, enjoying the food. Then, with the thunder still sounding but the lightning far off, I went and got my food and cash for the week. I drove home in the dark with flashes of lightning and the music filling my head and heart as it always does when there is nothing else around. Time slowed and stopped again, as I disappeared in the darkness and the music, being filled with nothing of myself; being filled with something else.
I came home, put the groceries away, and choked on the jalapenos in the newly-made cornbread my roommate offered me. It was good to make her laugh. I went upstairs, where my candle was still flickering and the lights were off, took off shoes and coat, and went for a walk in the rain.
The first part of the walk was the river, the river roaring, its sound louder than my own singing. The tenseness left my shoulders as I turned from sidewalk into forest. The stream had become a river, for the storms had been pouring themselves out to the earth for three days. The river rose so close to the path the beginnings of the fenceposts between the path and the drop were under water. I walked for almost an hour, avoiding streets, and gradually entered the borders of the faery realm. It began with an awareness that there would be no-one else around, for it was before seven on a weekend and raining, so only the eccentric or the mad were out and about. I could not see under the trees, and could barely see the path, but the watery pools and soaking leaves were cool beneath my feet. I became aware of the faerie when a deer paused just ahead, its stillness an indication of its caution. I slowed, stopped, and barely moved as it stood waiting for me to declare myself foe or imagination. But at last I wiped a raindrop from my face and it fled, my movement scaring it back into the woods. Later I saw two fawns, whose caution was the echo of the deer's but whose curiosity almost caused them to come closer; then they too turned and fled, but the presence of others remained. I loved the walk, the river, the life, and the presence in my mind of those who dwelt in wood and shadows, never clearly seen but beautiful beyond the knowledge of the human. I turn back several times when the path led me back to the sidewalks and roads, wishing I could have dwelt in the world I didn't belong in for longer. But the back held beauty too, the man-made flower gardens guarded by pavement borders holding the sense of life and stillness that only comes after rain. Passing by a pine tree I saw each pine needle was letting fall drops of water, and every flower close to the bat was covered with the small circles of water that is finally still. Life was growing, soaking in, and in the wake of the power of the thunder and lighting came the stillness of the life that they give. The passing of one to another reminded me that the loss of something loved can be happen without mourning as something good and beautiful comes in its place.
Coming home, I made some tea, finished the errands for the day, and sat down to read. I'm reading a book I love, A Severe Mercy, where the author and his wife know the hunger to explore the earth, to cherish beauty, to test their boundaries of what their minds know, to study the challenges of life, and have a life filled to the brim with love, laugher, loss, and beauty. In it the two, not yet Christians, record thoughts like this:
The best argument for Christianity is Christians: their joy, their certainty, their completeness. But the strongest argument against Christianity is also Christians--when they are sombre and joyless, when they are self-righteous and smug in complacent consecration, when they are narrow and repressive, then Christianity dies a thousand deaths. But, though it is just to condemn some Christians for these things perhaps, after all, it is not just, though very easy, to condemn Christianity itself for them. Indeed, there are impressive indications that the positive quality of joy is in Christianity--and possibly no where else. If that were certain, it would be proof of a very high order. 85
Or perhaps like this: "Then we encountered the Germans--the 'demythologizers' […] our real 'salvation' from these wreckers came through our recognition of the quite unverifiable fundamental assumptions […] Christ's word were misunderstood by His followers and the early church though quite clear to [these] critics. Assumption: the mind of the infinite God is not unlike that of a German critic" (106-107).
I would I could spend most of my life like this, thanking God for rain and thunder, walking in the beauty of His creation with the knowledge that so much more lies beyond what I see, whether it be fairy or just the miracle of His creation happening and rebirthing, then coming back and reading with errands done and work accomplished, then recording a morning to the glory of God. I would I could spend all of life with eyes wide open to beauty from early in the morning on, though I would it would be here and in Japan and Africa, in Europe and Asia. Those are my dreams, to travel there, but dreams can be different than desires, and I desire more mornings like this one. God's gift of this morning is precious and beautiful.
But even while walking, though less while reading, I was fighting to keep heartache from my mind. Some of it is what I watched, the sad moments in the stories that speak to me perhaps because of what I too have lost. I stopped reading before the wife became ill, not wanting anything to curve my mind away from happiness, then realized too late it already had, for I read the portion where they lived at Oxford, and much in it reminded me of the joy of my own time at school, and then I read where they left it behind, where a friend of theirs says "'This, you know, is a time of taking in--taking in friendship, conversation, gaiety, wisdom, knowledge, beauty, holiness--and later, well, there'll be a time of giving out.' Later, when we were scattered about the world. Now we must store up the strength, the riches, all that Oxford had given us, to sustain us after. She stood there, Oxford, like a mother to us all with her hands heaped with riches" (118). But that chapter ends, too, with a good note, with C. S. Lewis striding away after saying "I shan't say goodbye. We'll meet again," and then on "reach[ing] the other side, he turned round as though he knew somehow that I would still be standing there in front of the Eastgate. Then he raised his voice in a great roar that easily overcame the noise of the cars and buses. Heads turned and at least one car swerved. 'Besides,' he bellowed with a great grin, 'Christians NEVER say goodbye!'" (125).
This morning seems a respite, a cessation of the battle against drudgery, against the mundane work week that makes my soul cry out for life. I'd wondered, on my walk this morning, which was harder, the cross, or Christ's 33 years of daily living with humans. I know our idiocy cannot compare to suffering the wrath of God, but my mind idly wondered which would be worse, hours and hours of agony and grief that would seem like an eternity, or the daily frustrations and temptations of living as a perfect, godly man among those whose sin turns into fools or rebels. But then I realized it wasn't just thirty-three years, Christ--God--has dealt with the fools, the fallen, every since Eden. He's guided, loved, and grown us since Adam and Eve, through history even down to today. His love is overwhelming in its patience and tenderness, in its demand to hold nothing back and yet to be sustained in everything by God Himself. Many of the songs I hear on the Christian radio capture the idea of sacrificing everything for Him, but so often make it a one-time offering, a glory of giving up everything; I find Him asking for the daily sacrifice of working well in the small things. Yet He said those who are faithful in small things will be faithful in great ones, so why am I surprised? Yet even in the small, I fail; even here I need to be sustained by Christ.
But though I fail, He does not forget my desires, the things I long for, and after a day of failure and complaint yesterday, He still gave me this morning, gave me the desires of my heart. God, give me grace to give back gratitude, rather than holding too tightly to time that is passing! The desire to keep what He gives longer than He intends to give it always spoils the gift; under my tight grip it crumples it into ashes, instead of becoming a beautiful memory. I have written this that I may look back and remember, and remembering, thank God for the gifts of this morning. He does give us the desires of our souls, and hears us when we cry for them. Thank God that I am under His mercy, and that it was His pleasure to give me a morning such as this. May the grace given here sustain me as I go into another week, and may I wonder at His kingdom in that week as much as I did here.
For if I could live to please myself I would always have times like this morning. The thunder startled me awake soon after five, and I wrapped myself in a flannel blanket and went unwillingly downstairs. But it was a weekend, so instead of preparing for work I could go and stand on the porch, watching the lighting freeze time as the air became a three dimensional curtain of motionless raindrops. The sound of falling rain went on and on. I soon came back inside and dressed, created breakfast, taking my time, enjoying the food. Then, with the thunder still sounding but the lightning far off, I went and got my food and cash for the week. I drove home in the dark with flashes of lightning and the music filling my head and heart as it always does when there is nothing else around. Time slowed and stopped again, as I disappeared in the darkness and the music, being filled with nothing of myself; being filled with something else.
I came home, put the groceries away, and choked on the jalapenos in the newly-made cornbread my roommate offered me. It was good to make her laugh. I went upstairs, where my candle was still flickering and the lights were off, took off shoes and coat, and went for a walk in the rain.
The first part of the walk was the river, the river roaring, its sound louder than my own singing. The tenseness left my shoulders as I turned from sidewalk into forest. The stream had become a river, for the storms had been pouring themselves out to the earth for three days. The river rose so close to the path the beginnings of the fenceposts between the path and the drop were under water. I walked for almost an hour, avoiding streets, and gradually entered the borders of the faery realm. It began with an awareness that there would be no-one else around, for it was before seven on a weekend and raining, so only the eccentric or the mad were out and about. I could not see under the trees, and could barely see the path, but the watery pools and soaking leaves were cool beneath my feet. I became aware of the faerie when a deer paused just ahead, its stillness an indication of its caution. I slowed, stopped, and barely moved as it stood waiting for me to declare myself foe or imagination. But at last I wiped a raindrop from my face and it fled, my movement scaring it back into the woods. Later I saw two fawns, whose caution was the echo of the deer's but whose curiosity almost caused them to come closer; then they too turned and fled, but the presence of others remained. I loved the walk, the river, the life, and the presence in my mind of those who dwelt in wood and shadows, never clearly seen but beautiful beyond the knowledge of the human. I turn back several times when the path led me back to the sidewalks and roads, wishing I could have dwelt in the world I didn't belong in for longer. But the back held beauty too, the man-made flower gardens guarded by pavement borders holding the sense of life and stillness that only comes after rain. Passing by a pine tree I saw each pine needle was letting fall drops of water, and every flower close to the bat was covered with the small circles of water that is finally still. Life was growing, soaking in, and in the wake of the power of the thunder and lighting came the stillness of the life that they give. The passing of one to another reminded me that the loss of something loved can be happen without mourning as something good and beautiful comes in its place.
Coming home, I made some tea, finished the errands for the day, and sat down to read. I'm reading a book I love, A Severe Mercy, where the author and his wife know the hunger to explore the earth, to cherish beauty, to test their boundaries of what their minds know, to study the challenges of life, and have a life filled to the brim with love, laugher, loss, and beauty. In it the two, not yet Christians, record thoughts like this:
The best argument for Christianity is Christians: their joy, their certainty, their completeness. But the strongest argument against Christianity is also Christians--when they are sombre and joyless, when they are self-righteous and smug in complacent consecration, when they are narrow and repressive, then Christianity dies a thousand deaths. But, though it is just to condemn some Christians for these things perhaps, after all, it is not just, though very easy, to condemn Christianity itself for them. Indeed, there are impressive indications that the positive quality of joy is in Christianity--and possibly no where else. If that were certain, it would be proof of a very high order. 85
Or perhaps like this: "Then we encountered the Germans--the 'demythologizers' […] our real 'salvation' from these wreckers came through our recognition of the quite unverifiable fundamental assumptions […] Christ's word were misunderstood by His followers and the early church though quite clear to [these] critics. Assumption: the mind of the infinite God is not unlike that of a German critic" (106-107).
I would I could spend most of my life like this, thanking God for rain and thunder, walking in the beauty of His creation with the knowledge that so much more lies beyond what I see, whether it be fairy or just the miracle of His creation happening and rebirthing, then coming back and reading with errands done and work accomplished, then recording a morning to the glory of God. I would I could spend all of life with eyes wide open to beauty from early in the morning on, though I would it would be here and in Japan and Africa, in Europe and Asia. Those are my dreams, to travel there, but dreams can be different than desires, and I desire more mornings like this one. God's gift of this morning is precious and beautiful.
But even while walking, though less while reading, I was fighting to keep heartache from my mind. Some of it is what I watched, the sad moments in the stories that speak to me perhaps because of what I too have lost. I stopped reading before the wife became ill, not wanting anything to curve my mind away from happiness, then realized too late it already had, for I read the portion where they lived at Oxford, and much in it reminded me of the joy of my own time at school, and then I read where they left it behind, where a friend of theirs says "'This, you know, is a time of taking in--taking in friendship, conversation, gaiety, wisdom, knowledge, beauty, holiness--and later, well, there'll be a time of giving out.' Later, when we were scattered about the world. Now we must store up the strength, the riches, all that Oxford had given us, to sustain us after. She stood there, Oxford, like a mother to us all with her hands heaped with riches" (118). But that chapter ends, too, with a good note, with C. S. Lewis striding away after saying "I shan't say goodbye. We'll meet again," and then on "reach[ing] the other side, he turned round as though he knew somehow that I would still be standing there in front of the Eastgate. Then he raised his voice in a great roar that easily overcame the noise of the cars and buses. Heads turned and at least one car swerved. 'Besides,' he bellowed with a great grin, 'Christians NEVER say goodbye!'" (125).
This morning seems a respite, a cessation of the battle against drudgery, against the mundane work week that makes my soul cry out for life. I'd wondered, on my walk this morning, which was harder, the cross, or Christ's 33 years of daily living with humans. I know our idiocy cannot compare to suffering the wrath of God, but my mind idly wondered which would be worse, hours and hours of agony and grief that would seem like an eternity, or the daily frustrations and temptations of living as a perfect, godly man among those whose sin turns into fools or rebels. But then I realized it wasn't just thirty-three years, Christ--God--has dealt with the fools, the fallen, every since Eden. He's guided, loved, and grown us since Adam and Eve, through history even down to today. His love is overwhelming in its patience and tenderness, in its demand to hold nothing back and yet to be sustained in everything by God Himself. Many of the songs I hear on the Christian radio capture the idea of sacrificing everything for Him, but so often make it a one-time offering, a glory of giving up everything; I find Him asking for the daily sacrifice of working well in the small things. Yet He said those who are faithful in small things will be faithful in great ones, so why am I surprised? Yet even in the small, I fail; even here I need to be sustained by Christ.
But though I fail, He does not forget my desires, the things I long for, and after a day of failure and complaint yesterday, He still gave me this morning, gave me the desires of my heart. God, give me grace to give back gratitude, rather than holding too tightly to time that is passing! The desire to keep what He gives longer than He intends to give it always spoils the gift; under my tight grip it crumples it into ashes, instead of becoming a beautiful memory. I have written this that I may look back and remember, and remembering, thank God for the gifts of this morning. He does give us the desires of our souls, and hears us when we cry for them. Thank God that I am under His mercy, and that it was His pleasure to give me a morning such as this. May the grace given here sustain me as I go into another week, and may I wonder at His kingdom in that week as much as I did here.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Fire
Don't play with fire; you'll get burned.
That's what came to mind this morning, after my housemate's dog woke me up at 2:30 A.M. (again), and by 3:21 I gave up trying to go back to sleep at watched characters on a computer screen challenge evil and champion good. I watched them say love was indestructible; I watched from 3:30 - 6:30. I finished the 13 episodes of the show I'd fallen in love with, last week or the week before.
I gave addiction three hours to set in.
I played with fire.
I sat down to pray before devotions this morning, and wondered why I felt so afraid. I felt afraid, not of God, for I do not think I disobeyed, nor of the power of the addiction, for He had already won this war Wednesday night, Thursday night, and Wednesday afternoon. Three battles, all victories; He answered those prayers.
I felt afraid of the coming day. I had loved watching this story and playing with it in my imagination, but work starts in half an hour, and I crack inside at the idea of leaving my world, a world that has joy and heart. I realized that I fear the world after having fun now, because the world seems to be anything but fun. It hurts; and hurt birthed endurance, but joy birthed fear, for when I have joy, I have something to lose. More fearful still, I have something I may be asked to give up.
I swore to God I would follow where He led, that I would not turn back, later, that I would not say no. When He asks for something, anything, either through circumstances or through my knowledge of my duty, I must give it up.
Giving things up breaks me; having things that I love sets my heart on fire. That fire can consume my promises, my will, my time, and myself, and the more I play with the thing I love the more I feed the flames.
But it shouldn't be that way. Eden was joy unshadowed, love without sin, passion unrestrained because there was nothing to restrain. Love God so much that anything else cannot compare to that love, and you may love everything else even more than you did before.
So I asked, in devotions, not that I would stop playing with fire, but that the fire would a crucible that molded me into God's image, a warmth that spread to friends and family, a light that guided people to God, His light reflected back towards the world and to Him. I ask that I can hold all I love out to Him, willingly letting Him do as He will, but also that I would continue to love and to enjoy all good things, praising Him in that love, alive, warm, and filled with light as I enjoy the blessings coming from His hand. For the knowledge that something is from God can direct my gaze back to the Giver, and from His hand even fire is a blessing. If it burns, it burns away the worthless; it leaves everything that is good behind.
I want no other flame; I need no other fire.
That's what came to mind this morning, after my housemate's dog woke me up at 2:30 A.M. (again), and by 3:21 I gave up trying to go back to sleep at watched characters on a computer screen challenge evil and champion good. I watched them say love was indestructible; I watched from 3:30 - 6:30. I finished the 13 episodes of the show I'd fallen in love with, last week or the week before.
I gave addiction three hours to set in.
I played with fire.
I sat down to pray before devotions this morning, and wondered why I felt so afraid. I felt afraid, not of God, for I do not think I disobeyed, nor of the power of the addiction, for He had already won this war Wednesday night, Thursday night, and Wednesday afternoon. Three battles, all victories; He answered those prayers.
I felt afraid of the coming day. I had loved watching this story and playing with it in my imagination, but work starts in half an hour, and I crack inside at the idea of leaving my world, a world that has joy and heart. I realized that I fear the world after having fun now, because the world seems to be anything but fun. It hurts; and hurt birthed endurance, but joy birthed fear, for when I have joy, I have something to lose. More fearful still, I have something I may be asked to give up.
I swore to God I would follow where He led, that I would not turn back, later, that I would not say no. When He asks for something, anything, either through circumstances or through my knowledge of my duty, I must give it up.
Giving things up breaks me; having things that I love sets my heart on fire. That fire can consume my promises, my will, my time, and myself, and the more I play with the thing I love the more I feed the flames.
But it shouldn't be that way. Eden was joy unshadowed, love without sin, passion unrestrained because there was nothing to restrain. Love God so much that anything else cannot compare to that love, and you may love everything else even more than you did before.
So I asked, in devotions, not that I would stop playing with fire, but that the fire would a crucible that molded me into God's image, a warmth that spread to friends and family, a light that guided people to God, His light reflected back towards the world and to Him. I ask that I can hold all I love out to Him, willingly letting Him do as He will, but also that I would continue to love and to enjoy all good things, praising Him in that love, alive, warm, and filled with light as I enjoy the blessings coming from His hand. For the knowledge that something is from God can direct my gaze back to the Giver, and from His hand even fire is a blessing. If it burns, it burns away the worthless; it leaves everything that is good behind.
I want no other flame; I need no other fire.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Reading - A Blog
My sister has asked me to create a blog that reviews what I'm reading; I've been thinking that suggestion over for the past few days - to create such a blog would have several pros and cons.
First, there's several sights out there that do the same. My college roommate has one. There is no lack of blogs, opinions, or readers on the internet, and if I do create a blog wherein I critique what I read, it would have to be with the humility that not only may I be wrong, I may also be insignificant. Writing something does not guarantee having it read. In some ways this may be a good thing, as it would be great for my character, and my sense of humor, to realize I can be insignificant. But that realization should not interfere with the quality of what I create, and it could be difficult to strive for excellence in the insignificant. To pour my mind and time into something, only to have it sit invisibly in an intangible warehouse called "the cloud," would be hard. Yet in Paul's time he told Christians to do all things well, not as those who please their masters but those who work to the glory of God; that should still hold true today.
Second, if I did it, I would have to devote time to writing and time to reading, and I'm hard pressed to find the time to read at the moment, much less write. But even while writing this (in the ten remaining minutes I have before getting ready for work), I realize that it could be one way of counting my blessings, for if I make sure to write a post every time I finish a book, that would show me better than any other way I have how much time God gives me to read. Since I love reading, I never have enough time to read; because I have that mindset, I rarely stop and thank God for the time He gave me to read, or realize how much time I have been given to do so.
On the side of the pros, writing about the books would force me to think about what I read. Right now, that would be a remarkable blessing, for I have been reading The Two Towers (book 3), The Four Loves, For You Departed, and The Prince (by Rivers, not Machiavelli). Once I finish those, I'm hoping to read A Severe Mercy, The Return of the King, Too Late the Phalarope, and The Prophet. Most of those have truth it would be good for me to remember (and meditate on, for having read The Two Towers so many times, I find I still forgot much of what it does not state but says well). On the other side of that coin, the site would provide accountability, for I am also hoping to read Starcrossed, Messenger, and The Golden Door, and to publish what I am reading (whether what I publish is read or not) is a good means of accountability, for if I am ashamed to write about what I am reading, I am unable to say it was well for me to read. Unless, of course, I turn to the human frailty of justifying myself by explaining myself, whether that justification is valid or not.
I think I'm thinking about this too much - and I have three minutes left, and much to do. God, whatever I end up doing, may it be to your glory. Amen.
First, there's several sights out there that do the same. My college roommate has one. There is no lack of blogs, opinions, or readers on the internet, and if I do create a blog wherein I critique what I read, it would have to be with the humility that not only may I be wrong, I may also be insignificant. Writing something does not guarantee having it read. In some ways this may be a good thing, as it would be great for my character, and my sense of humor, to realize I can be insignificant. But that realization should not interfere with the quality of what I create, and it could be difficult to strive for excellence in the insignificant. To pour my mind and time into something, only to have it sit invisibly in an intangible warehouse called "the cloud," would be hard. Yet in Paul's time he told Christians to do all things well, not as those who please their masters but those who work to the glory of God; that should still hold true today.
Second, if I did it, I would have to devote time to writing and time to reading, and I'm hard pressed to find the time to read at the moment, much less write. But even while writing this (in the ten remaining minutes I have before getting ready for work), I realize that it could be one way of counting my blessings, for if I make sure to write a post every time I finish a book, that would show me better than any other way I have how much time God gives me to read. Since I love reading, I never have enough time to read; because I have that mindset, I rarely stop and thank God for the time He gave me to read, or realize how much time I have been given to do so.
On the side of the pros, writing about the books would force me to think about what I read. Right now, that would be a remarkable blessing, for I have been reading The Two Towers (book 3), The Four Loves, For You Departed, and The Prince (by Rivers, not Machiavelli). Once I finish those, I'm hoping to read A Severe Mercy, The Return of the King, Too Late the Phalarope, and The Prophet. Most of those have truth it would be good for me to remember (and meditate on, for having read The Two Towers so many times, I find I still forgot much of what it does not state but says well). On the other side of that coin, the site would provide accountability, for I am also hoping to read Starcrossed, Messenger, and The Golden Door, and to publish what I am reading (whether what I publish is read or not) is a good means of accountability, for if I am ashamed to write about what I am reading, I am unable to say it was well for me to read. Unless, of course, I turn to the human frailty of justifying myself by explaining myself, whether that justification is valid or not.
I think I'm thinking about this too much - and I have three minutes left, and much to do. God, whatever I end up doing, may it be to your glory. Amen.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Your Kingdom Come
I have learned to love phrases of the Lord's prayer, for in thinking about them, and coming to know God more, they mean so much more. For instance, for:
"Your kingdom come,"
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then shall the lame man leap like a deer (even I cannot do that!),
an the tongue of the mute sing for joy.
For waters break for in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirst ground springs of water;
in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down,
the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
And a highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Way of Holiness;
the unclean shall not pass over it.
It shall belong to those who walk on the way
even if they are fools, they shall not go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come upon it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the LORD shall return
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain gladness and joy,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
No physical marring, only physical joy as we were meant to be. No struggle with our work and our world, only God's glorious creation, the ones pictures have caught, where the beauty takes my breath away. No temptation to sin, only true, joyful, musical fellowship with those I have come to love more than any other. This is why it is so easy to pray, "Your kingdom come."
"Your kingdom come,"
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then shall the lame man leap like a deer (even I cannot do that!),
an the tongue of the mute sing for joy.
For waters break for in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirst ground springs of water;
in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down,
the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
And a highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Way of Holiness;
the unclean shall not pass over it.
It shall belong to those who walk on the way
even if they are fools, they shall not go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come upon it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the LORD shall return
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain gladness and joy,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
No physical marring, only physical joy as we were meant to be. No struggle with our work and our world, only God's glorious creation, the ones pictures have caught, where the beauty takes my breath away. No temptation to sin, only true, joyful, musical fellowship with those I have come to love more than any other. This is why it is so easy to pray, "Your kingdom come."
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Thoughts on Grief
This is something that grew out of an email I sent to a friend. The email grew out of the fact that I am moving, and leaving much of what is familiar to go about 20 minutes away to what is new.
There is "a time to weep."
There is "a time to mourn."
There is even "a time to lose."
There is "a time to weep."
There is "a time to mourn."
There is even "a time to lose."
I'm trying to understand how grieving may honor God, because it is intertwined in me so closely with repining. I feel the sorrow of loss, but as it comes within my mouth spring up complaints, a sideways rebellion against God's present will.
How may I weep for what I am losing, and yet those tears not be a reproach to the God who allowed them? How do I grieve, but even while weeping for what I no longer have, make sure that my heart is truly saying "Your will be done, not mine"?
But weeping for the loss of something is different, perhaps, than wishing to have it back. And God has said, there is a time for weeping. There is a time for mourning. Grief itself is not sin, even thought it may not exist in heaven. God has appointed a time to weep.
I rarely weep for what is actually happening, but often find music or stories that make me cry for those characters and their grief instead; it is easier. So I wept for fictional losses, in lands I have never visited. I gave to them the tears stored up by realizing each of the last things I experienced in this, my own world, last things familiar and beautiful.
The last time I will walk past a garden currently full of fireflowers (my word for tiger-lilys of all colors, for their vibrancy catches the connotation of the words of flame).
The last time I will walk into this room as my own, and feel within me the letting down of every guard and tension.
The last time I ride home from Sunday church with my family.
The last time I will walk into this house and feel that I am home from work.
The last time I come here and know I have nowhere else to go at night.
But God just gave me a first while writing this. My window is a window well, over three feet below ground level. In that window, of the first, I just saw the glow and ebb of the gentle, bright light from a firefly.
It is not bad to weep for what is passing, nor to enjoy what is happening. For, I think, if our grief does not diminish our ability to notice and thank God for His gifts, there is something good in our grief.
Something human.
Something that reflects the image of God - He too has wept for things lost.
No wonder there is a time to weep.
How may I weep for what I am losing, and yet those tears not be a reproach to the God who allowed them? How do I grieve, but even while weeping for what I no longer have, make sure that my heart is truly saying "Your will be done, not mine"?
But weeping for the loss of something is different, perhaps, than wishing to have it back. And God has said, there is a time for weeping. There is a time for mourning. Grief itself is not sin, even thought it may not exist in heaven. God has appointed a time to weep.
I rarely weep for what is actually happening, but often find music or stories that make me cry for those characters and their grief instead; it is easier. So I wept for fictional losses, in lands I have never visited. I gave to them the tears stored up by realizing each of the last things I experienced in this, my own world, last things familiar and beautiful.
The last time I will walk past a garden currently full of fireflowers (my word for tiger-lilys of all colors, for their vibrancy catches the connotation of the words of flame).
The last time I will walk into this room as my own, and feel within me the letting down of every guard and tension.
The last time I ride home from Sunday church with my family.
The last time I will walk into this house and feel that I am home from work.
The last time I come here and know I have nowhere else to go at night.
But God just gave me a first while writing this. My window is a window well, over three feet below ground level. In that window, of the first, I just saw the glow and ebb of the gentle, bright light from a firefly.
It is not bad to weep for what is passing, nor to enjoy what is happening. For, I think, if our grief does not diminish our ability to notice and thank God for His gifts, there is something good in our grief.
Something human.
Something that reflects the image of God - He too has wept for things lost.
No wonder there is a time to weep.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
The name on the stone
In early morning the sky is grey,
Without thought, I wend my way
Past the pillars with straight angles,
Past the headstones laying level.
I am young, with little thought
For the lives that now are not.
I know that my time will come,
But for now, I am young.
I see the names in pretty metal,
With the scripts that speak of angels
And pause beside a knot of stones
That say "father, mother, son."
Beneath each name a poem tells
Of people whose lives respect compels.
I wonder what my stone would say
If it was written now, today?
I thought, "I do not want my name,
Nor anything resembling acclaim."
Because I know, that day I die
I'll stand before God, unable to lie.
"I've failed" is all I'll have to say
"I've broken each law, every one."
But by His grace, He'll say "Well done."
I need no other words on my stone.
Without thought, I wend my way
Past the pillars with straight angles,
Past the headstones laying level.
I am young, with little thought
For the lives that now are not.
I know that my time will come,
But for now, I am young.
I see the names in pretty metal,
With the scripts that speak of angels
And pause beside a knot of stones
That say "father, mother, son."
Beneath each name a poem tells
Of people whose lives respect compels.
I wonder what my stone would say
If it was written now, today?
I thought, "I do not want my name,
Nor anything resembling acclaim."
Because I know, that day I die
I'll stand before God, unable to lie.
"I've failed" is all I'll have to say
"I've broken each law, every one."
But by His grace, He'll say "Well done."
I need no other words on my stone.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
I have been given bread
A friend called me last night, and left a voicemail. In it, she spoke of her Bible study, and the verse "Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone?" (Matthew 7:9). Yet often she has not wanted to ask for good things, for fear of receiving the stone.
Each time I hear a promise from God, my faith struggles. Luke has another rendition of this promise, "What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (11:11-13). I wanted to face my doubts head on, so I come to ask - have I been given stones or bread?
The analytical part of me notes that one, the child asks for bread, not stones. They ask correctly, for my mind brings in James, "You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly." Yet we are told to ask for daily bread, so asking for bread would not be wrong. The sarcastic, cutting voice in my head also reminds me that God's definition of bread and stones may be different than mine, for bread is what sustains us through the day, not what gives us ease. But I am overanalyzing, so I take a step back.
Has God given us bread? Can I take a look at the past, both of my life and that of friends and family, and say that God has provided?
He has not provided for us to do our own will, granted, but that was never what He promised. No, He has provided all we need to walk according to His will. He granted us His Word, the bread we need to survive this life.
He gave me an alarm clock this morning, time to do the dishes, time to walk to work and to pray for strength to get through the day. He even gave me strength in the past, so that I pray with faith when asking for God to get me through the day, to reply to each bitter call with grace, to try to cheer when the complaints pour out from coworkers after a hard week, and the ability to get things done, which is a delight as it helps my supervisor. Daily bread - given.
I still stumble over stones, stumbling on my face sometimes, but looking down, I see most of the stones have been placed in my way by my own actions. I chose to eat poorly yesterday, so much of the exhaustion is my fault. I chose to stay up later to watch part of a movie - again, my choice, my consequences. I chose to ignore most of my to-do list, getting done only what I had to, so the stress of the list left undone I wear because I did not take the time to do what it contained.
I chose to be irritated, instead of letting unkind comments go. I chose to be selfish, rather than giving God my time and seeing what He would do with it.
My stones. My stumbling blocks. Yet, such is the mercy of our God, He still gives daily bread, and even more, increases our portion of daily bread, of fish, of eggs, to meet the needs we create by our disobedience. He bears no grudge against that, for His only Son died so that He need not punish us for our sins. Nor does He count the portion of bread He gives out, but gives in abundance, with delight, according to our need and the path He has for us.
No matter what path that leads, no matter what mountains I need to climb, or oceans I need to cross, God will always give what we need. My food is chosen as carefully as the events of my life have been chosen, and in each day, I know that God has given me my daily bread.
"Spirit, lead me where my trust is without borders […] take me deeper than my feet could ever wander, and my faith would be made stronger in the presence of my savior."
There is one other place in scripture that speaks of bread and stones. It is written in Revelation 2:17, "To the one who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it." God will never stop giving us our daily bread, not even in eternity, but there, even the stones that were our stumbling blocks will be taken away, and God will give us a white stone with a new name.
Each time I hear a promise from God, my faith struggles. Luke has another rendition of this promise, "What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (11:11-13). I wanted to face my doubts head on, so I come to ask - have I been given stones or bread?
The analytical part of me notes that one, the child asks for bread, not stones. They ask correctly, for my mind brings in James, "You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly." Yet we are told to ask for daily bread, so asking for bread would not be wrong. The sarcastic, cutting voice in my head also reminds me that God's definition of bread and stones may be different than mine, for bread is what sustains us through the day, not what gives us ease. But I am overanalyzing, so I take a step back.
Has God given us bread? Can I take a look at the past, both of my life and that of friends and family, and say that God has provided?
He has not provided for us to do our own will, granted, but that was never what He promised. No, He has provided all we need to walk according to His will. He granted us His Word, the bread we need to survive this life.
He gave me an alarm clock this morning, time to do the dishes, time to walk to work and to pray for strength to get through the day. He even gave me strength in the past, so that I pray with faith when asking for God to get me through the day, to reply to each bitter call with grace, to try to cheer when the complaints pour out from coworkers after a hard week, and the ability to get things done, which is a delight as it helps my supervisor. Daily bread - given.
I still stumble over stones, stumbling on my face sometimes, but looking down, I see most of the stones have been placed in my way by my own actions. I chose to eat poorly yesterday, so much of the exhaustion is my fault. I chose to stay up later to watch part of a movie - again, my choice, my consequences. I chose to ignore most of my to-do list, getting done only what I had to, so the stress of the list left undone I wear because I did not take the time to do what it contained.
I chose to be irritated, instead of letting unkind comments go. I chose to be selfish, rather than giving God my time and seeing what He would do with it.
My stones. My stumbling blocks. Yet, such is the mercy of our God, He still gives daily bread, and even more, increases our portion of daily bread, of fish, of eggs, to meet the needs we create by our disobedience. He bears no grudge against that, for His only Son died so that He need not punish us for our sins. Nor does He count the portion of bread He gives out, but gives in abundance, with delight, according to our need and the path He has for us.
No matter what path that leads, no matter what mountains I need to climb, or oceans I need to cross, God will always give what we need. My food is chosen as carefully as the events of my life have been chosen, and in each day, I know that God has given me my daily bread.
"Spirit, lead me where my trust is without borders […] take me deeper than my feet could ever wander, and my faith would be made stronger in the presence of my savior."
There is one other place in scripture that speaks of bread and stones. It is written in Revelation 2:17, "To the one who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it." God will never stop giving us our daily bread, not even in eternity, but there, even the stones that were our stumbling blocks will be taken away, and God will give us a white stone with a new name.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Calamity and Justice
Be like your father in Heaven, for the sun shines on the believer and unbeliever, and God sends rain on the just and the unjust. (Paraphrased from Matthew)
Tonight, listening to a husband talk about the progress of his wife and newborn baby as they struggle through illness and problems, I realized the opposite is true as well.
Calamity comes on the just and on the unjust; difficulty and depression come on the believer and the unbeliever.
What is the difference, then?
Is there a difference?
At that time I will search Jerusalem with lamps, and I will punish the men who are complacent, those who say in their hearts, ‘The LORD will not do good, nor will he do ill.’ Their goods shall be plundered, and their houses laid waste. Though they build houses, they shall not inhabit them; though they plant vineyards, they shall not drink wine from them.” ………………………………………………………….. I will bring distress on mankind, so that they shall walk like the blind, because they have sinned against the LORD; their blood shall be poured out like dust, and their flesh like dung. Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them on the day of the wrath of the LORD.
"In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ" (1 Peter 1:6-7).
Tonight, listening to a husband talk about the progress of his wife and newborn baby as they struggle through illness and problems, I realized the opposite is true as well.
Calamity comes on the just and on the unjust; difficulty and depression come on the believer and the unbeliever.
What is the difference, then?
Is there a difference?
At that time I will search Jerusalem with lamps, and I will punish the men who are complacent, those who say in their hearts, ‘The LORD will not do good, nor will he do ill.’ Their goods shall be plundered, and their houses laid waste. Though they build houses, they shall not inhabit them; though they plant vineyards, they shall not drink wine from them.” ………………………………………………………….. I will bring distress on mankind, so that they shall walk like the blind, because they have sinned against the LORD; their blood shall be poured out like dust, and their flesh like dung. Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them on the day of the wrath of the LORD.
(Zephaniah 1:12-18 ESV)
"In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ" (1 Peter 1:6-7).
"Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing" (James 1:2-4).
"the Lord knows how to rescue the godly from trials, and to keep
the unrighteous under punishment until the day of judgment" (2 Peter 2:9).
Are You Afraid?
Through the limited eyes of mortals (you and me), sin is never-ending. My sin is never-ending. No matter what promises I make to myself, no matter how resolute I am, I have never, ever been able to prevent myself from sinning. Have you?
I have found my need for grace to be seemingly limitless, because I needed it yesterday, I needed it the day before, I needed it in every memory I examine. I need it now, struggling with my pride, despair, and fear. I will need it in the future, for the rest of my life. Sin seems limitless.
I grew up hearing scripture; I grew up taught promises about God's power in the life of the Christian. I still read them now.
I believe I have been saved by Christ's blood, and I am certain of the joy of my eternity.
I am not certain about tomorrow; my faith struggles when I search for the promises of God I am supposed to see in my life. My Alma Mater cut all of the best professors I had outside of my department last week. My friend struggled with thoughts of suicide. I was unable to give a promised gift to a friend. My family is exhausted, and our work we were supposed to finish yesterday is not done.
I have not yet received the utterly clear guidance I have been praying for, that I need in the next forty-four minutes. I am unable to reach out for help except in prayer, and I have ceased to pray for guidance, because I am so desperately praying for faith to believe God will give it.
And filling the sky in the landscape of my life are clouds, dark, thunderous clouds of sin, covering the sky, sometimes whirling in a tornado, always clouding the sun, and I am not sure they will ever break before I die.
I cannot stop sinning. I cannot. I cannot defeat the least sin in my life, nor give up the idols of my heart that sit on God's own throne. I walk each day knowing I am despicable in God's sight, that my actions would never bear the scrutiny of any good judge. I know my thoughts, my temper, and my heart are worse.
I know that some readers will face the same thing. Sin after sin after sin, in a never-ending threat of tornadoes and death, and there seems to be no victory this side of heaven.
Are you afraid?
Are you afraid that sin will keep you from God, that it means failure as a Christian - the unacceptable failure?
Even if it doesn't forbid you from entering heaven, are you afraid it denies you access to grace while you live?
Read this - not to see that Christ's sufferings are greater than yours. But for another purpose.
"he said to them, 'My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.' And going a little farther he fell on his face and prayed, saying, 'My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.' And he came to the disciples and found them sleeping. […] Again, for the second time, he went away and prayed, 'My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.' And again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. So, leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words again" (Matthew 26:38-44).
I have found my need for grace to be seemingly limitless, because I needed it yesterday, I needed it the day before, I needed it in every memory I examine. I need it now, struggling with my pride, despair, and fear. I will need it in the future, for the rest of my life. Sin seems limitless.
I grew up hearing scripture; I grew up taught promises about God's power in the life of the Christian. I still read them now.
I believe I have been saved by Christ's blood, and I am certain of the joy of my eternity.
I am not certain about tomorrow; my faith struggles when I search for the promises of God I am supposed to see in my life. My Alma Mater cut all of the best professors I had outside of my department last week. My friend struggled with thoughts of suicide. I was unable to give a promised gift to a friend. My family is exhausted, and our work we were supposed to finish yesterday is not done.
I have not yet received the utterly clear guidance I have been praying for, that I need in the next forty-four minutes. I am unable to reach out for help except in prayer, and I have ceased to pray for guidance, because I am so desperately praying for faith to believe God will give it.
And filling the sky in the landscape of my life are clouds, dark, thunderous clouds of sin, covering the sky, sometimes whirling in a tornado, always clouding the sun, and I am not sure they will ever break before I die.
I cannot stop sinning. I cannot. I cannot defeat the least sin in my life, nor give up the idols of my heart that sit on God's own throne. I walk each day knowing I am despicable in God's sight, that my actions would never bear the scrutiny of any good judge. I know my thoughts, my temper, and my heart are worse.
I know that some readers will face the same thing. Sin after sin after sin, in a never-ending threat of tornadoes and death, and there seems to be no victory this side of heaven.
Are you afraid?
Are you afraid that sin will keep you from God, that it means failure as a Christian - the unacceptable failure?
Even if it doesn't forbid you from entering heaven, are you afraid it denies you access to grace while you live?
Read this - not to see that Christ's sufferings are greater than yours. But for another purpose.
"he said to them, 'My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.' And going a little farther he fell on his face and prayed, saying, 'My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.' And he came to the disciples and found them sleeping. […] Again, for the second time, he went away and prayed, 'My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.' And again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. So, leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words again" (Matthew 26:38-44).
Christ wept tears of blood, and He did it alone. There was no one near who helped Him, who would even stay awake with Him. He suffered countless agony on the cross.
After He went through that, do you really think He would let you go?
After that, do you really think He would be satisfied to be separated from you while you lived, and then join in fellowship with you in eternity?
We were chosen from before the foundation of the world (Titus 1). God suffered a splintering of perfect fellowship, fellowship that turned to wounds for all as the Father forced Himself to pour His wrath on His beloved Son, who pleased Him, and Christ suffered Hell alone.
After that, do you really think He would let you go?
After that, do you think He would let you live your life apart from Him?
We are justified while sinners - tonight, my pastor pointed out that we were justified - made perfectly righteous - when we were "foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another." It is not that God is pretending, nor that He doesn't see us when He calls us righteous, but that Christ's righteousness really is given to us. His works really are ours.
If God chose us while we were that despicable, why would I be afraid that my sin today would separate me from Him?
Why would I be afraid?
Why would you?
Friday, May 30, 2014
Only Human
It started with "Human" by Christina Perri.
It started with a cry I could resonate with,
but it ended with a song where I rewrote the ending lyrics.
I can hold my tears,
I can bite my tongue,
I can work away for days
If that's what you want
Be the number one
I can fake a smile
I can make them laugh
I can dance and play the part
If that's what they ask
Give them all I am
I can do it
I can do it
I can do it
But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
These words in my head, cracks in my heart
I build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
I can hold it in
Be a good machine
I can hold the weight of worlds
If that's what they need
But, inside, I bleed
I can't do it
I can't do it
I'll fall through it
For I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
These words in my head, cracks in my heart
I build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
I'm only human
I'm only human
Just a little human
I can take so much
'Til I've cracked and broke
But You were human
You cried, yes, you came down;
You were human,
You bled to break me down,
My sin on your head,
Your Word in my heart,
You built me up when I fell apart,
And You were human.
"Then God said, 'Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.'
So God created man in his own image,
in the image of God he created him;
male and female he created them."
Human, he created them.
"then the LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature. And the LORD God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and there he put the man whom he had formed."
Man fell.
Yet, after that fall, He who is "the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power" came and was human for us.
To be human, God's own children, is to be "a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that [we] may proclaim the excellencies of him who called [us] out of darkness into his marvelous light."
God, teach us to be human, by your definition - with all the frailties attendant on mortal beings, utterly dependent on you, and all the glory of eternal spirits, for "It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you say it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. […] There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal […] it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.” Teach us to be only human.
It started with a cry I could resonate with,
but it ended with a song where I rewrote the ending lyrics.
I can hold my tears,
I can bite my tongue,
I can work away for days
If that's what you want
Be the number one
I can fake a smile
I can make them laugh
I can dance and play the part
If that's what they ask
Give them all I am
I can do it
I can do it
I can do it
But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
These words in my head, cracks in my heart
I build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
I can hold it in
Be a good machine
I can hold the weight of worlds
If that's what they need
But, inside, I bleed
I can't do it
I can't do it
I'll fall through it
For I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
These words in my head, cracks in my heart
I build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
I'm only human
I'm only human
Just a little human
I can take so much
'Til I've cracked and broke
But You were human
You cried, yes, you came down;
You were human,
You bled to break me down,
My sin on your head,
Your Word in my heart,
You built me up when I fell apart,
And You were human.
"Then God said, 'Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.'
So God created man in his own image,
in the image of God he created him;
male and female he created them."
Human, he created them.
"then the LORD God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature. And the LORD God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and there he put the man whom he had formed."
Man fell.
Yet, after that fall, He who is "the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature, and he upholds the universe by the word of his power" came and was human for us.
To be human, God's own children, is to be "a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that [we] may proclaim the excellencies of him who called [us] out of darkness into his marvelous light."
God, teach us to be human, by your definition - with all the frailties attendant on mortal beings, utterly dependent on you, and all the glory of eternal spirits, for "It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you say it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. […] There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal […] it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.” Teach us to be only human.
Editing a Sonnet
We homeschool my youngest sister; English is my area. Last night I attempted to teach her to self critique. Since we are studying poetry (reading and writing), I thought now would be the perfect time to teach that particular skill - poetic attempts can always be made better (at least when written by amateurs such as myself or my sister). I expected to spend about half an hour working with it, then I would turn her loose to write a sonnet (her last writing assignment this semester) and have her self-critique it, which would also make it her best writing assignment of the semester.
We spent half an hour on one four-line verse; another half hour on two more lines. I helped with the first; I watched her struggle through the second. Yet the things she critiqued where completely different than what bothered me - she looked for perfect rhymes, things that said exactly what she meant, while I looked for rhythm, flow, and carefully crafted phrases that evoked the author's intent. I have no qualms admitting that both her requirements and mine are necessary to a good poem, at least of the type we were attempting to critique.
But it brought to mind something that I'd read, and incorporated into her lesson when introducing sonnets. In A Wrinkle in Time, one of M. L'Engle's characters compares our lives to a sonnet. A sonnet has a defined length, a particular rhythm, and a set rhyme scheme. If any of those are varied from, the poem is no longer a sonnet. Yet within those confines, the author is free do do anything he chooses. (Wordworths' "Nuns Fret Not" has a similar message). Our lives are the same - they are of limited length, and a set pattern, but within that pattern we are free to create the life.
But editing. The painstaking reworking, the erasing, rewriting, erasing again, marking through, altering, brainstorming, strengthening what is said, building up the beauty, and yet feeling overwhelming frustration by the lack of solution - how does that play into our lives?
We are saved - the ending of the sonnet is set, the last couplet already written in unalterable characters. We are sinners, saved to become saints, the background of the poem beyond our grasp to rework. But within our lives, somewhere where sovereign power and free choices meet, we struggle to edit what our lives are writing. Our apologies try to mark out our mistakes, our clarifications try to strengthen our relationships, our decisions help bend our lives to our will. But I have spent much time remembering, too, what has already been written. I wonder how it will influence the lines to come, and what I should have altered to make the poem read better.
How much freedom do we have, within this pattern, to remake ourselves, to edit what has happened in the past? What's done is done; don't cry over spilled milk. The past is in the past; all we can alter is the future. I've heard those over and over.
But the past has shaped who I am, and I cannot leave it behind. We learn from our mistakes; we carry the baggage; we are even called by Scripture to strengthen our faith by remembering God's faithfulness in the past. The past shapes the future - how much are we allowed to edit the past?
Our actions today can remedy hurts we have left in the past. Our words spoken today can change the impressions we have left with others in the lines already written in our lives. We are dynamic, not static, and the changes God works in us, the edits we strive to bring about according to His commands, interact with the past. The events in the past cannot be changed, but the mark they have left on other people can be, for better or worse. It is an interesting perspective on the way we interact with time - and on the way our actions today edit the poem God is writing.
We spent half an hour on one four-line verse; another half hour on two more lines. I helped with the first; I watched her struggle through the second. Yet the things she critiqued where completely different than what bothered me - she looked for perfect rhymes, things that said exactly what she meant, while I looked for rhythm, flow, and carefully crafted phrases that evoked the author's intent. I have no qualms admitting that both her requirements and mine are necessary to a good poem, at least of the type we were attempting to critique.
But it brought to mind something that I'd read, and incorporated into her lesson when introducing sonnets. In A Wrinkle in Time, one of M. L'Engle's characters compares our lives to a sonnet. A sonnet has a defined length, a particular rhythm, and a set rhyme scheme. If any of those are varied from, the poem is no longer a sonnet. Yet within those confines, the author is free do do anything he chooses. (Wordworths' "Nuns Fret Not" has a similar message). Our lives are the same - they are of limited length, and a set pattern, but within that pattern we are free to create the life.
But editing. The painstaking reworking, the erasing, rewriting, erasing again, marking through, altering, brainstorming, strengthening what is said, building up the beauty, and yet feeling overwhelming frustration by the lack of solution - how does that play into our lives?
We are saved - the ending of the sonnet is set, the last couplet already written in unalterable characters. We are sinners, saved to become saints, the background of the poem beyond our grasp to rework. But within our lives, somewhere where sovereign power and free choices meet, we struggle to edit what our lives are writing. Our apologies try to mark out our mistakes, our clarifications try to strengthen our relationships, our decisions help bend our lives to our will. But I have spent much time remembering, too, what has already been written. I wonder how it will influence the lines to come, and what I should have altered to make the poem read better.
How much freedom do we have, within this pattern, to remake ourselves, to edit what has happened in the past? What's done is done; don't cry over spilled milk. The past is in the past; all we can alter is the future. I've heard those over and over.
But the past has shaped who I am, and I cannot leave it behind. We learn from our mistakes; we carry the baggage; we are even called by Scripture to strengthen our faith by remembering God's faithfulness in the past. The past shapes the future - how much are we allowed to edit the past?
Our actions today can remedy hurts we have left in the past. Our words spoken today can change the impressions we have left with others in the lines already written in our lives. We are dynamic, not static, and the changes God works in us, the edits we strive to bring about according to His commands, interact with the past. The events in the past cannot be changed, but the mark they have left on other people can be, for better or worse. It is an interesting perspective on the way we interact with time - and on the way our actions today edit the poem God is writing.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Growing Old
Gladys is in her eighties, unable to move around without a walker, with a sharp mind and poor hearing. I was sitting with her, and would be for the next several hours. Her family had left for an event--a funeral--and she could not be left alone, but nor did she have the stamina to go sit and fellowship for hours, especially since her son and his family were taking her to dinner after they got back from the funeral. So my thirteen-year-old sister and I were hanging out with her for several hours.
Our visit started with a scrapbook. The lady's daughter-in-law had made a scrapbook with pictures going back to before the lady was married, up through her marriage, her children's marriages, the cruises she took with a friend, and some pictures of her extended family. It was a well done scrapbook, and the lady took us through it page by page. But as I listened, I realized something that startled me.
For ever picture in the book, the lady told us how the person was related to herself. For every friend, she spoke of how good friends they were to her, and how Gladys still kept in touch with this one, or that one, or how often that friend called her. For every accomplishment pictured (and some that had no pictures), we were told what the lady had done. Looking around the room, I saw pictures of her skill in singing, pictures of when the mayor of the city she grew up in included her in his official affairs (she worked for the city), pictures of her as a manager for a sunglass store, pictures of times when she had influence, attention, and, in the American sense, worth. I looked at at the contrast between the smiling face in the picture as she cut the red ribbon at the opening of a new building, and the shaking, wrinkled hands pointing to it.
I had always disliked the way aging is viewed as the loss of youth, rather than the gain of wisdom. But here I was, sitting beside a lady who could not carry on a conversation (she could not hear to do so), and whose whole attention was focused on what she had accomplished in the past. It was not that any of those around her who limited her worth (for the family she stays with love and respect her), but she herself seemed completely focused on her own past, and she wanted others to know what she had done. She had no worth in terms of what she could do, but I knew she had worth before God. I just wished there was a way I could see that played out in her life.
The hours passed very, very slowly, where I found I had to let her dwell in her own world, and let her think I said whatever she heard, and pretend to understand following her thoughts, in order for her to be comfortable. I felt better when she wanted to get ready to go out that night, and she could pinpoint every article of clothing, even if she couldn't get up and get it herself. She knew exactly what she needed, she knew where everything was, and she knew how long it would take to get ready to go. I was her hands and feet, and she was the director of the play. Her family came home, I left, and I was left with a memory to store away, to be learned from later.
Until my great-grandmother's funeral. That, too, is a few weeks ago, coming about a month after my visit with Gladys.
My great-grandmother was 102. She had three children, several grandchildren, and numerous great-grandchildren. I did not know her very well, but I find it hard to picture her without her husband; they always went places together, and often stayed in the same room, though this was something I only noticed as I got older. They were married 74 years until my great-grandfather's death a few years ago. Gram had increasing dementia at the time; by her death, she struggled to remember her children, and had no memory of her grandchildren. She was also, in the American sense, worthless.
But as her children spoke of what she had done, the difference rang between what was said of her, and what Gladys said of herself. Her family praised her for handing down a legacy of poetry, music, pottery, creativity, and capability to her family. Her legacy was love of beauty and love of people, and it was passed to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. There were no great events, no photographs of her with a mayor, but photographs of her with family, photographs of her creating a kiln, photographs of her and her husband. Her life was not nearly as accomplished, but she had the same love Gladys had when she was older. But that was all she wanted, as she grew older, and until she grew frightened because of her memory loss, I think she was probably happy.
I late found out that she and great-grandfather left a large fortune to be split among children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, but, listen to the reactions to that and the memories at her funeral, the delight in what we received after death was not nearly as strong as the love for what had been given during her life. She grew, and grew old, while still giving out - and that legacy is something that will not be forgotten, or undervalued. It never became worthless.
Our visit started with a scrapbook. The lady's daughter-in-law had made a scrapbook with pictures going back to before the lady was married, up through her marriage, her children's marriages, the cruises she took with a friend, and some pictures of her extended family. It was a well done scrapbook, and the lady took us through it page by page. But as I listened, I realized something that startled me.
For ever picture in the book, the lady told us how the person was related to herself. For every friend, she spoke of how good friends they were to her, and how Gladys still kept in touch with this one, or that one, or how often that friend called her. For every accomplishment pictured (and some that had no pictures), we were told what the lady had done. Looking around the room, I saw pictures of her skill in singing, pictures of when the mayor of the city she grew up in included her in his official affairs (she worked for the city), pictures of her as a manager for a sunglass store, pictures of times when she had influence, attention, and, in the American sense, worth. I looked at at the contrast between the smiling face in the picture as she cut the red ribbon at the opening of a new building, and the shaking, wrinkled hands pointing to it.
I had always disliked the way aging is viewed as the loss of youth, rather than the gain of wisdom. But here I was, sitting beside a lady who could not carry on a conversation (she could not hear to do so), and whose whole attention was focused on what she had accomplished in the past. It was not that any of those around her who limited her worth (for the family she stays with love and respect her), but she herself seemed completely focused on her own past, and she wanted others to know what she had done. She had no worth in terms of what she could do, but I knew she had worth before God. I just wished there was a way I could see that played out in her life.
The hours passed very, very slowly, where I found I had to let her dwell in her own world, and let her think I said whatever she heard, and pretend to understand following her thoughts, in order for her to be comfortable. I felt better when she wanted to get ready to go out that night, and she could pinpoint every article of clothing, even if she couldn't get up and get it herself. She knew exactly what she needed, she knew where everything was, and she knew how long it would take to get ready to go. I was her hands and feet, and she was the director of the play. Her family came home, I left, and I was left with a memory to store away, to be learned from later.
Until my great-grandmother's funeral. That, too, is a few weeks ago, coming about a month after my visit with Gladys.
My great-grandmother was 102. She had three children, several grandchildren, and numerous great-grandchildren. I did not know her very well, but I find it hard to picture her without her husband; they always went places together, and often stayed in the same room, though this was something I only noticed as I got older. They were married 74 years until my great-grandfather's death a few years ago. Gram had increasing dementia at the time; by her death, she struggled to remember her children, and had no memory of her grandchildren. She was also, in the American sense, worthless.
But as her children spoke of what she had done, the difference rang between what was said of her, and what Gladys said of herself. Her family praised her for handing down a legacy of poetry, music, pottery, creativity, and capability to her family. Her legacy was love of beauty and love of people, and it was passed to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. There were no great events, no photographs of her with a mayor, but photographs of her with family, photographs of her creating a kiln, photographs of her and her husband. Her life was not nearly as accomplished, but she had the same love Gladys had when she was older. But that was all she wanted, as she grew older, and until she grew frightened because of her memory loss, I think she was probably happy.
I late found out that she and great-grandfather left a large fortune to be split among children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, but, listen to the reactions to that and the memories at her funeral, the delight in what we received after death was not nearly as strong as the love for what had been given during her life. She grew, and grew old, while still giving out - and that legacy is something that will not be forgotten, or undervalued. It never became worthless.
Home
When I was very young, my parents divorced. My Mom left Alaska with five confused kids, and we moved to Iowa. I started to cling to my room, the living room, and the kitchen as familiar places, and became a homebody. That didn't change till I was eighteen, and went to college. There, my Junior and Sophomore year, I found out what a home really was, a place to gain strength to go out and live. It was made home by my friends, by the people around me. Senior year, our hall dissolved, and I looked for another home. I didn't really find one, and have felt homeless since--living with people I love, but not at home.
What is home? It is a place of safety, of rest. It is familiar, and it smiles when you are there. It is people, the ones you know through and through, the ones who know you. It is, summed up, the place your heart looks for.
It is shaped by your personality and shapes who you are; it interacts with your personality. You have written on each other in a way that will not be erased. Home is written on your memory, and any others who live or visit there will take away memories of you in your home.
It is a place where more defenses are down and yet where you must keep a tight grip on your temper, for when you let your guard down your heart no longer tries to cover up its sin.
It is beauty and safety; it is a task and a chore. The responsibility for it is yours, but with that responsibility is a gift - it becomes your own. By entrusting itself to you, it has become fully yours.
But I have found, over the past few years, that my home is no longer a place to retreat, and then that pushes me out to venture into the world again. I come home and do not want to leave; I look for home all the time I am out, and hide within it once I have reached it after work.
Other things call me out - church, the grocery store, a movie with my sisters, or libraries and bookstores, but I pass swiftly through most of those, looking just to go home again.
What is different, then, between now and what I had before?
Perhaps it is how much I enjoyed things outside my home (dorm) at college, or perhaps it is that I do not know people as well now (outside of home) as I did then, so I am not pulled to go find them. But I look around my home here, and realize that I need to find things at home that allow me to give out, not just taken in; my home now needs to be a place that strengthens me to interact with the world it exists in.
So I will try. We'll see how this goes.
What is home? It is a place of safety, of rest. It is familiar, and it smiles when you are there. It is people, the ones you know through and through, the ones who know you. It is, summed up, the place your heart looks for.
It is shaped by your personality and shapes who you are; it interacts with your personality. You have written on each other in a way that will not be erased. Home is written on your memory, and any others who live or visit there will take away memories of you in your home.
It is a place where more defenses are down and yet where you must keep a tight grip on your temper, for when you let your guard down your heart no longer tries to cover up its sin.
It is beauty and safety; it is a task and a chore. The responsibility for it is yours, but with that responsibility is a gift - it becomes your own. By entrusting itself to you, it has become fully yours.
But I have found, over the past few years, that my home is no longer a place to retreat, and then that pushes me out to venture into the world again. I come home and do not want to leave; I look for home all the time I am out, and hide within it once I have reached it after work.
Other things call me out - church, the grocery store, a movie with my sisters, or libraries and bookstores, but I pass swiftly through most of those, looking just to go home again.
What is different, then, between now and what I had before?
Perhaps it is how much I enjoyed things outside my home (dorm) at college, or perhaps it is that I do not know people as well now (outside of home) as I did then, so I am not pulled to go find them. But I look around my home here, and realize that I need to find things at home that allow me to give out, not just taken in; my home now needs to be a place that strengthens me to interact with the world it exists in.
So I will try. We'll see how this goes.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Burned
There are words that leave the mouth with a light tone, or a serious intonation, but that taste bitter as they are swallowed by the speaker, and the bitterness stays, held back, till it burns and burns, searing the heart of the mouth that said them. Words that are not accusations, but that acknowledge a truth. Words that can a promise, where the promise itself is bitterness. Words such as "I will not let my little sister anywhere near my father. I promise you." Words that say I love them both, and yet acknowledge that I cannot trust him, I cannot expect truth or help, no hope, from him.
There are words that enter the ear, hit the mind, ringing true and yet worn, yet sear onto the heart, pressing each burning word and trying to write over it, but only burning more shapes onto the seared flesh. "It is what it is. Don't make mountains out of molehills. Deal with it." Words that tell me I am weak for whimpering, that I am foolish for feeling despair.
God, God, where are you? Abba, Father I can always trust, where are you?
Meet me in this broken place
Hold me now
I need to feel You
Show me how
to make it new again
There’s no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I’m nowhere if I’m here
without You
Even if You take it all away
I’ll wait for You
Even when the light begins to fade
I’ll wait for You
I’m so desperate calling out Your name
Meet me in this broken place
Hold me now
I need to feel You
Show me how
to make it new again
There’s no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I’m nowhere if I’m here
without You
I’m tired of running
and wrestling with these angels
I lay down
my life and I surrender
There are words that enter the ear, hit the mind, ringing true and yet worn, yet sear onto the heart, pressing each burning word and trying to write over it, but only burning more shapes onto the seared flesh. "It is what it is. Don't make mountains out of molehills. Deal with it." Words that tell me I am weak for whimpering, that I am foolish for feeling despair.
God, God, where are you? Abba, Father I can always trust, where are you?
Hold me now
I need to feel You
Show me how
to make it new again
There’s no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I’m nowhere if I’m here
without You
Even if You take it all away
I’ll wait for You
Even when the light begins to fade
I’ll wait for You
I’m so desperate calling out Your name
Meet me in this broken place
Hold me now
I need to feel You
Show me how
to make it new again
There’s no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I’m nowhere if I’m here
without You
I’m tired of running
and wrestling with these angels
I lay down
my life and I surrender
Hold me now
I need to feel You
Show me how
to make it new again
There’s no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I’m nowhere if I’m here
without You
I need to feel You
Show me how
to make it new again
There’s no one I can run to
And nothing I could ever do
I’m nowhere if I’m here
without You
---Ashes Remain, "Without You"
Yet, even laying on the floor, weeping, hands open, listening, listening to words that do not burn, but that cry the tears that cause the burning to ease, little by little, God gave hope.
Not enough. Not enough to help me breath easily; not enough to give me strength to face the morning. But the morning is not here, and that was enough, that was enough to hope, enough strength to cease the sobs to blow my nose and write, wiping away filth and working to write words that reflect truth.
But its not enough for tomorrow.
Tomorrow is not here yet.
Tonight, God, help me, for the throbbing of burned flesh has ceased, but the scars remain, and ooze the promise of an unbearable tomorrow. I cannot cease crying inside, trying to say the words do not burn, they build, build a truth that gives me a place to stand tomorrow, that centers me in a broken reality. The burns were just turning dross to ashes, and leaving my heart refined into gold…please, God, let there be gold. After that searing, I need to know tomorrow this will be redeemed.
I need to know you held every tear. God, I wish I wasn't like this, that it was enough you gave me strength to get up from the floor, that I trusted enough to not ask you why things that burn so badly, so deeply, for ten and a half years, have seared my soul again and left not gold but ashes, only ashes remain, that and the hope that seems so frail against the tomorrow I face.
Tomorrow, with a grumpy family, a hurting sister who has been left out, a grandmother four hours away that I may need to go drive to a hospital, a trip over the next weekend given up despite the prayer for it, and words that echo into my life that I am foolish and unhelpful, tomorrow, where I will have to cover my burns with a skin of strength and pray to God that He will heal, I need to know this hope will last, that you are refining my wayward heart into golden life that will overflow into the burns and bitterness of those around me. Your kingdom come, Father, who has always been the only foundation, the only strength, the only comfort in life and death, your kingdom come. God, I am unfit, and the part of me that knows my sin cries out for more burning, for me to take whatever burns and watch you mold me for a kingdom my selfish steps would never stay in now. But God, I can only say that by your grace, and I have not wisdom enough to know enough, how much, how to endure, or how to say grace from God, thanks from my heart, for a life that has flowers of gold made from fire and life abundant from tears of need. Tomorrow, God, and tonight…God, let me leave my burned heart in your hands, and my wearied life in the pattern of your plans, and say nothing but thank you.
For hope for tonight.
For strength for tomorrow.
For tears that ease the burns.
For the promise of a crown of gold from the cross of today.
For your faithfulness, which turns that promise into certainty.
For healing in the hands of a merciful God.
For words that burn, that remind me truth is not a book to be put down but a sword that scars.
For the flame that refines even through the clumsy words of your people.
For all you are, all you've done, and all that is yet to come, tomorrow or burning tonight, for thy grace and wisdom, I give thanks.
Amen.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Overnight
I walked past the row of closed tulips, their buds completely closed, green, with the faintest hint of uncertain color the only indication that they would not always remain a green that blended with the grass around them. I saw there were no weeds, that there was nothing left but waiting, waiting as I had waited for months, as the snow melted, and yet there was nothing but cold, wind, frost, and prickly pine needles. There was more waiting as the green came slowly up from the ground, the leaves first, then the stalks, the small buds reaching higher, above the grass, the bud getting larger the further up it grew. The leaves had been showing for weeks, the buds clearly formed from almost the beginning, and yet I was still waiting. I walked on.
The next day, glorious explosions of rich red sat on seven stalks beside our house. The blossoming had happened overnight, the green transformed into a scarlet to adorn kings. The waiting had finished overnight.
Weeks later, I followed my customary walk to work, past the garden rich with hundreds of flowers, and the promise of hundreds more in the green still sprouting up, past the tree I had to bend to walk beneath, with its small flowers brushing my head, past the large tree that towered above the power lines and dropped petals on my head, and then stopped dead at the yard three houses down from my work. Yesterday, there had been two trees with small spheres covering most of the outside branches; today there were flowers so thickly clustered I could not see the wooden branches at all. I had wondered when it would bloom, yet I had not expected that sudden transformation, as if a fairy kissed it the night before and the flowers opened in celebration. I drew a breath of its lovely fragrance, reminded myself I had to be at work, and walked on.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it. Overnight, between 7 pm and 8 am, buds became blossoms, a wooden thicket became a bird's bower, and promise had turned into beauty. Overnight. Yet the waiting had been long; I had waited much longer then thirteen hours.
I have been waiting two years, three hundred and sixty-three days, and eight hours. I am waiting for the flowers to follow winter, the scars to turn to character, the drudge to triumph. I am waiting for the promise to became the reward, the faith to become sight, the truth to be uncontradictable. I am still waiting, wondering if blossoms ever show this side of heaven. I am waiting to see if this time is the promise of God's good plan, or the desert I die in without a single offering of beauty to give out in return for living here. It seems too long, with no fruit, and I am so tired of waiting.
Yet I now see God's flowers can blossom overnight. The years of pruning, growth, and settling will blossom, but it will be in God's timing, and it may happen all at once; it does not have to be as slow as the growing process can be. It can be overnight, and then beauty and reward adorn the desert, and I breath in the reminder that God is good, and His plan prefect, as perfect as a flower that blossomed overnight.
The next day, glorious explosions of rich red sat on seven stalks beside our house. The blossoming had happened overnight, the green transformed into a scarlet to adorn kings. The waiting had finished overnight.
Weeks later, I followed my customary walk to work, past the garden rich with hundreds of flowers, and the promise of hundreds more in the green still sprouting up, past the tree I had to bend to walk beneath, with its small flowers brushing my head, past the large tree that towered above the power lines and dropped petals on my head, and then stopped dead at the yard three houses down from my work. Yesterday, there had been two trees with small spheres covering most of the outside branches; today there were flowers so thickly clustered I could not see the wooden branches at all. I had wondered when it would bloom, yet I had not expected that sudden transformation, as if a fairy kissed it the night before and the flowers opened in celebration. I drew a breath of its lovely fragrance, reminded myself I had to be at work, and walked on.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it. Overnight, between 7 pm and 8 am, buds became blossoms, a wooden thicket became a bird's bower, and promise had turned into beauty. Overnight. Yet the waiting had been long; I had waited much longer then thirteen hours.
I have been waiting two years, three hundred and sixty-three days, and eight hours. I am waiting for the flowers to follow winter, the scars to turn to character, the drudge to triumph. I am waiting for the promise to became the reward, the faith to become sight, the truth to be uncontradictable. I am still waiting, wondering if blossoms ever show this side of heaven. I am waiting to see if this time is the promise of God's good plan, or the desert I die in without a single offering of beauty to give out in return for living here. It seems too long, with no fruit, and I am so tired of waiting.
Yet I now see God's flowers can blossom overnight. The years of pruning, growth, and settling will blossom, but it will be in God's timing, and it may happen all at once; it does not have to be as slow as the growing process can be. It can be overnight, and then beauty and reward adorn the desert, and I breath in the reminder that God is good, and His plan prefect, as perfect as a flower that blossomed overnight.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
God's Choice - Titus 3:3-5
Last night was the Bible study on Titus, so many of the thoughts in here I attribute to my pastor.
Our story starts with this: "we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another." Can any of us deny that? Even now, thought justified and perfect before God, I struggle with slavery to the pleasure God has gifted. I enjoy making myself feel superior by silently ripping down the people who any me at work (customers, not coworkers, but that does not change their eternal worth). I am undeniably a fool, choosing my will over God's, choosing short term pleasures over growth in my relationship with God and the intense joy that brings, and choosing to give my heart only partially the most jealous lover that has ever existed.
Yet there lies the wonder, too, and the amazement; I am loved by God! Paul tells Titus "But when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his own mercy." God does not love us because of anything in us; the description of us right in the verse before guarantees that. Yet He saved us. Because of his loving kindness, his goodness, He saved us.
Meaning God's love has always been a choice. He chose to love us; He chose to pour out for his the blood of His own Son, to love us even more than life, glory, comfort, or the endless, beautiful, unbroken relationship between the Trinity. He chose us, while we were foolish, disobedient, slaves to sin, hated by others, and hating everything and everyone. That is when He chose to love us. And that choice will never change.
Meaning, not when I, as a weak, foolish sinner still, do not follow God's will; that will not change God's choice, God's love. Sara Groves wrote the song where the main theme is God saying "You cannot lose my love." He chose us, before the foundation of the world. He chose to love us.
" For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are […] And because of him you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption."
Our story starts with this: "we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another." Can any of us deny that? Even now, thought justified and perfect before God, I struggle with slavery to the pleasure God has gifted. I enjoy making myself feel superior by silently ripping down the people who any me at work (customers, not coworkers, but that does not change their eternal worth). I am undeniably a fool, choosing my will over God's, choosing short term pleasures over growth in my relationship with God and the intense joy that brings, and choosing to give my heart only partially the most jealous lover that has ever existed.
Yet there lies the wonder, too, and the amazement; I am loved by God! Paul tells Titus "But when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his own mercy." God does not love us because of anything in us; the description of us right in the verse before guarantees that. Yet He saved us. Because of his loving kindness, his goodness, He saved us.
Meaning God's love has always been a choice. He chose to love us; He chose to pour out for his the blood of His own Son, to love us even more than life, glory, comfort, or the endless, beautiful, unbroken relationship between the Trinity. He chose us, while we were foolish, disobedient, slaves to sin, hated by others, and hating everything and everyone. That is when He chose to love us. And that choice will never change.
Meaning, not when I, as a weak, foolish sinner still, do not follow God's will; that will not change God's choice, God's love. Sara Groves wrote the song where the main theme is God saying "You cannot lose my love." He chose us, before the foundation of the world. He chose to love us.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Desiring Escape
For those who, like me, wondered at the lack of God's joy, and sought enjoyment in the things around me to the neglect of my relationship with God, with my family, with my friends, even injuring my knowledge of myself as I lost myself in the stories I read and refused to come back, this is a reminder of
why it is important what our souls thirst after.
From "Subjects with Objects":
"Theoretically, we’re told, a man could gain the whole world and still show a loss on his balance sheet. But at least that guy got the world. What are we getting?
….
Here is what it means to structure one’s life around the avoidance of suffering at all costs. Here is what it means to define self and self-worth by the attainment of numbers of things. And it isn’t pretty.
One fades in the pursuit. One is stunted. One forgets who one was, or once longed to be. At the end, one finds oneself haunting the world of material things, no longer fully human. No longer able to even use and appreciate the material blessings of life, for one has become as a ghost among them, unable to define oneself except in relation to things.
….
If you’re bartering your soul, please at least ask for something more"
why it is important what our souls thirst after.
From "Subjects with Objects":
"Theoretically, we’re told, a man could gain the whole world and still show a loss on his balance sheet. But at least that guy got the world. What are we getting?
….
Here is what it means to structure one’s life around the avoidance of suffering at all costs. Here is what it means to define self and self-worth by the attainment of numbers of things. And it isn’t pretty.
One fades in the pursuit. One is stunted. One forgets who one was, or once longed to be. At the end, one finds oneself haunting the world of material things, no longer fully human. No longer able to even use and appreciate the material blessings of life, for one has become as a ghost among them, unable to define oneself except in relation to things.
….
If you’re bartering your soul, please at least ask for something more"
Monday, April 7, 2014
Memorial to God's Timing
I do not need to dwell on all that has happened this past weekend - suffice it to say, there were family struggles, chores to do, events to attend, I got sick with the flu, and we also had a fellowship meal at church. Now this coming week, we are stripping wallpaper, repainting the majority of a house, taking out old carpet and putting in new, and moving three of my family members in within the space of four days. Oh, and I am still working 10 ½ hour shifts four days this week. I am overwhelmed.
But in that life, there are little gifts, memories of the all-powerful God's presence in my life. A conversation with one friend, a half hour of laughter and enthusiasm. An hour with another, honesty and a reminder that I did ask God for a life that would refine my spirit and bring His kingdom. Then, this morning, this text (ironic as that may be) from my closest cousin:
"Romans 15:4-5 For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope. May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, Love you, Kesse! Have an amazing day! :D"
Going from a week of family struggles to another week of family-filled, stressed situations, where endurance is so much needed, could there be a better verse? My cousin had no idea what is happening in my life right now, and yet God sent me that, through her. God's timing is always perfect, and I will pray to remember that this coming week. God, your blessings on your church, my friends, and my family. Amen.
But in that life, there are little gifts, memories of the all-powerful God's presence in my life. A conversation with one friend, a half hour of laughter and enthusiasm. An hour with another, honesty and a reminder that I did ask God for a life that would refine my spirit and bring His kingdom. Then, this morning, this text (ironic as that may be) from my closest cousin:
"Romans 15:4-5 For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope. May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, Love you, Kesse! Have an amazing day! :D"
Going from a week of family struggles to another week of family-filled, stressed situations, where endurance is so much needed, could there be a better verse? My cousin had no idea what is happening in my life right now, and yet God sent me that, through her. God's timing is always perfect, and I will pray to remember that this coming week. God, your blessings on your church, my friends, and my family. Amen.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Wearied Prayers
Again and again, in the morning I offer myself as a sacrifice, please to God only by the blood of Christ, but offering my time, will, pleasures, heart, and day to the God of all things. Again and again, by the evenings, I fight my inward rebellion against the God who has shown me what good--and what hard--is. I know Paul said he didn't understand his own actions, but I don't understand my own life.
The mornings keep getting longer this week, and the evenings more impossible. I do not know if I am getting sick, or fighting a spiritual battle I'm only partially aware of, but I grow exhausted a few hours before leaving work, and struggle through time with my family at home. I snap at them, telling myself that all I want is to be left alone--as if God ever truly leaves us alone.
And another day has dawned. This morning, I prayed "Morning" from The Valley of Vision, which is confession, requests, and an acknowledgment of the glory of God, all beautiful phrased in one prayer. I truly prayed it, asking God for help this day, this morning through this evening, for I do not have in me the strength to obey.
But. But I have training for six and a half hours today, as well as four on the phones; I have an apology to make to my sister, I have grading to do, and I am desperately seeking for rest. My entire being revolted when I woke at 4:30 for no apparent reason, telling God I did not need this today of all days.
God knows what I need. In that simple truth there is a silencing of much of my protesting, but the protesting silenced, all I have left a weary pleas for help to a God who does not speak audibly to us, at least not now. God of my strength, helper of my heart, I acknowledge that my flesh and heart are failing, but that you are the strength of my heart and my portion forever. God, please, grant me what I need, and more, for I have nothing left!
The mornings keep getting longer this week, and the evenings more impossible. I do not know if I am getting sick, or fighting a spiritual battle I'm only partially aware of, but I grow exhausted a few hours before leaving work, and struggle through time with my family at home. I snap at them, telling myself that all I want is to be left alone--as if God ever truly leaves us alone.
And another day has dawned. This morning, I prayed "Morning" from The Valley of Vision, which is confession, requests, and an acknowledgment of the glory of God, all beautiful phrased in one prayer. I truly prayed it, asking God for help this day, this morning through this evening, for I do not have in me the strength to obey.
But. But I have training for six and a half hours today, as well as four on the phones; I have an apology to make to my sister, I have grading to do, and I am desperately seeking for rest. My entire being revolted when I woke at 4:30 for no apparent reason, telling God I did not need this today of all days.
God knows what I need. In that simple truth there is a silencing of much of my protesting, but the protesting silenced, all I have left a weary pleas for help to a God who does not speak audibly to us, at least not now. God of my strength, helper of my heart, I acknowledge that my flesh and heart are failing, but that you are the strength of my heart and my portion forever. God, please, grant me what I need, and more, for I have nothing left!
Sunday, February 16, 2014
A Valentines Tale
Inspired by a letter to a friend, this is a recounting of my mischief on Valentines Day.
Valentines Day actually started in the dark on Thursday night. Coming home at seven, my plans for cleaning were waylaid by the appearance of my darling nephew, who cleverly kept me distracted till eight thirty, when his mother took him home. I blame the lapse on his overwhelming cuteness, helplessness, and general lovableness.
Nevertheless, he went to his home, and Operation Valentines: Part I began. It was a ruthless cleaning of the upstairs--straightening the living room, cleaning off the dining room, and then spending over an hour on the dishes and the kitchen. I had turned all overhead lights off, with only a small lamp on in the other rooms, and Josh Groban playing. Everyone else was sensibly in bed, but this was my Friday night, the night before my weekend began, and I was up late, plotting and cleaning. Decorating must wait till the morning, but right before bed I put a bright red table cloth over our large table, and a complete lace, white tablecloth over that as a promise for tomorrow. I looked around, blew out the candle I had lit, and went to bed.
The next morning began early. I knew I had limited time before inhabitants awoke, for one had a place called "work" to be at 6:30, and I wanted to give her some gifts before going.
For I was not doing this entirely from my own imagination; for years my mother had created a delightful tradition of having a small bouquet of flowers and a few chocolates for each child as we grew up. Valentines was a time of free giving, a reminder of the love that stretched from parents to children, from children to parents (though those gifts often had funny stories that went along with them), and a witness to us of our parents' love for each other. But this year I knew she was far too tired.
So I woke at 5:45 and (being of a disposition that caused a former college roommate to exclaim "You pop out of bed like you sleep in a toaster!"), had my boots, keys, and purse within a few minutes, grabbed my father's instrument of transportation (having none of mine own), and went to the grocery store. Getting out the car, I paused, still enjoying the snow that was coming down and making the air within a few feet white. But I had forgotten my coat, and hurried the few feet inside (the other shoppers were few in number at that time of the morning). My sister had protested her tiredness of sugar the night before, so I looked for other means of delighting the taste buds. I found blueberries and an uncut pineapple for an affordable price, and I selected one roll of Rolos to be split among us. Then I went to the flower area (enjoying the smells!) and got two bundles of carnations, white and red. The entire trip was $18. I went back out to the car (falling to my knees on the ice in the process, but God spared flowers and food!), but made it home safely.
The carnations were just enough to divide between myself, my mother, and my four sisters, and I put them in small, separate vases on the table with a single Rolo on the gold wrapping in front of every vase. My father received three Rolos, as he did not get flowers. :) I took the pink tissue paper the flowers had been wrapped in and folded it into a centerpiece, setting a pink candle on top. My sister who worked came and ate some blueberries before heading out--and I finished the decorations, cut the pineapple, put them both on a white plate, and all was ready.
By the time the rest of the family was up (late sleepers, they are), I had the ingredients for French Toast ready as well, and we had French Toast, pineapple, blueberries, maple syrup, and powdered sugar. It was lovely. Later that day my mother bought each daughter a much prettier bouquet (they're so lovely--four different colored carnations and baby's breath--mine sits across the room and is so beautiful) and a gift card to Half-Price books. It became a day of cleaning, decorating, giving, and just fellowship with family; it was lovely.
Valentines Day actually started in the dark on Thursday night. Coming home at seven, my plans for cleaning were waylaid by the appearance of my darling nephew, who cleverly kept me distracted till eight thirty, when his mother took him home. I blame the lapse on his overwhelming cuteness, helplessness, and general lovableness.
Nevertheless, he went to his home, and Operation Valentines: Part I began. It was a ruthless cleaning of the upstairs--straightening the living room, cleaning off the dining room, and then spending over an hour on the dishes and the kitchen. I had turned all overhead lights off, with only a small lamp on in the other rooms, and Josh Groban playing. Everyone else was sensibly in bed, but this was my Friday night, the night before my weekend began, and I was up late, plotting and cleaning. Decorating must wait till the morning, but right before bed I put a bright red table cloth over our large table, and a complete lace, white tablecloth over that as a promise for tomorrow. I looked around, blew out the candle I had lit, and went to bed.
The next morning began early. I knew I had limited time before inhabitants awoke, for one had a place called "work" to be at 6:30, and I wanted to give her some gifts before going.
For I was not doing this entirely from my own imagination; for years my mother had created a delightful tradition of having a small bouquet of flowers and a few chocolates for each child as we grew up. Valentines was a time of free giving, a reminder of the love that stretched from parents to children, from children to parents (though those gifts often had funny stories that went along with them), and a witness to us of our parents' love for each other. But this year I knew she was far too tired.
So I woke at 5:45 and (being of a disposition that caused a former college roommate to exclaim "You pop out of bed like you sleep in a toaster!"), had my boots, keys, and purse within a few minutes, grabbed my father's instrument of transportation (having none of mine own), and went to the grocery store. Getting out the car, I paused, still enjoying the snow that was coming down and making the air within a few feet white. But I had forgotten my coat, and hurried the few feet inside (the other shoppers were few in number at that time of the morning). My sister had protested her tiredness of sugar the night before, so I looked for other means of delighting the taste buds. I found blueberries and an uncut pineapple for an affordable price, and I selected one roll of Rolos to be split among us. Then I went to the flower area (enjoying the smells!) and got two bundles of carnations, white and red. The entire trip was $18. I went back out to the car (falling to my knees on the ice in the process, but God spared flowers and food!), but made it home safely.
The carnations were just enough to divide between myself, my mother, and my four sisters, and I put them in small, separate vases on the table with a single Rolo on the gold wrapping in front of every vase. My father received three Rolos, as he did not get flowers. :) I took the pink tissue paper the flowers had been wrapped in and folded it into a centerpiece, setting a pink candle on top. My sister who worked came and ate some blueberries before heading out--and I finished the decorations, cut the pineapple, put them both on a white plate, and all was ready.
By the time the rest of the family was up (late sleepers, they are), I had the ingredients for French Toast ready as well, and we had French Toast, pineapple, blueberries, maple syrup, and powdered sugar. It was lovely. Later that day my mother bought each daughter a much prettier bouquet (they're so lovely--four different colored carnations and baby's breath--mine sits across the room and is so beautiful) and a gift card to Half-Price books. It became a day of cleaning, decorating, giving, and just fellowship with family; it was lovely.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Perplexing Timing
Wednesday I broke down and wept, unable to deny anymore how much I disliked God's gift, my work.
Thursday morning I woke to the phone, where a friend wept over the difficulties of her life and work.
Friday I prayed for us.
Saturday I spoke with a friend whose manager made life impossible, made work purgatory's semblance.
Sunday I heard that those under authority should do all things with a good will, as to the LORD.
I prayed more.
Monday I worked again.
Monday, our temperature outside started at -9 degrees, and inside the heating wasn't working. Monday, three people were out, and I took up to six times the number of calls on one line than I had in a year and half. Monday, we were all so busy few of our projects got done. Monday, we were overworked and frozen, bundled up (literately) messes whose tempers were not allowed to explode.
God, the irony of your timing is pointed. I acknowledge, I failed to appreciate my job as your gift for most of today.
But there was this.
There were these gifts, things unrealized at the time.
I learned something new, and was given a challenge--something I enjoy.
The time flew faster than it had in weeks.
Most of all, I was able to give help--appreciated help, help that meant something to the recipient--to two people today.
God, I thank you for those gifts. I thank you for that challenge, the wings You gave time, and the help You enabled me to give others, in this Monday of Mondays. God, tomorrow is Tuesday; overshadow me with Your wings, Spirit strengthen me, and God, give me grace to thank you for my work.
Thank you, too, for the irony of your perplexing timing. I do love your sense of humor.
Thursday morning I woke to the phone, where a friend wept over the difficulties of her life and work.
Friday I prayed for us.
Saturday I spoke with a friend whose manager made life impossible, made work purgatory's semblance.
Sunday I heard that those under authority should do all things with a good will, as to the LORD.
I prayed more.
Monday I worked again.
Monday, our temperature outside started at -9 degrees, and inside the heating wasn't working. Monday, three people were out, and I took up to six times the number of calls on one line than I had in a year and half. Monday, we were all so busy few of our projects got done. Monday, we were overworked and frozen, bundled up (literately) messes whose tempers were not allowed to explode.
God, the irony of your timing is pointed. I acknowledge, I failed to appreciate my job as your gift for most of today.
But there was this.
There were these gifts, things unrealized at the time.
I learned something new, and was given a challenge--something I enjoy.
The time flew faster than it had in weeks.
Most of all, I was able to give help--appreciated help, help that meant something to the recipient--to two people today.
God, I thank you for those gifts. I thank you for that challenge, the wings You gave time, and the help You enabled me to give others, in this Monday of Mondays. God, tomorrow is Tuesday; overshadow me with Your wings, Spirit strengthen me, and God, give me grace to thank you for my work.
Thank you, too, for the irony of your perplexing timing. I do love your sense of humor.
Friday, February 7, 2014
On my Heart
For two weeks, I've battled with the overwhelming temptation to use Netflix and Youtube as an escape from life. Two night ago, unexpectedly, I sat down before going to bed and prayed for God to give me the truth. My head had been caught in daydreams all day, and my imagination was blending reality with ideas that I shouldn't be thinking, things I do not understand yet, so I sat down and asked God for the truth.
I did not expect what He gave me. Oh, it was truth, and sitting in its rightful place, it banished from my mind the thoughts I'd been giving free reign. But it was the truth that I had thought I'd gotten over, gotten past--that I still disliked God's gift of a well-paying job with all my heart. I had ceased to loathe it, and now only dreaded it. One step in the right direction, but one step was not enough to bring me back to solid ground. I'd given up thinking about it, praying about it, and evaluating it, telling myself God would change my heart in His time, and as I could not do anything about it, I would forget it--and forgotten, my emotions would cease to be involved, and I would no longer dread God's gift.
In a sense it worked--I did not dread work anymore. I went, I worked, I came home, and my heart was safely uninvolved. But coming home, I needed distraction. If my heart was not involved with my life, it must be involved in something else. Our hearts really do need something to be passionate about, something to be involved in. I'd chosen TV, but as with any addiction, it was no substitute for the real thing, and demanded more and more time. I'd reached a careful equilibrium, where I gave in to it just enough to give my heart something to daydream about during the long work hours, and little enough to give my conscience no qualm. Until two weeks ago, that is. Then the storm broke loose when I got sick. I was uneasy about how quickly the temptation of watching drama or excitement was so strong it was almost a need. Then, after I painstakingly reapproached that balanced equilibrium, God sat down and showed me my own heart.
That night, weeping, knowing that I still could not change my heart, my job, that my circumstances and emotional reaction were beyond my control, I asked God to give me a purpose again, one that I was eager to work towards, instead of resembling an iron maiden that closed and captured me. I fell asleep soon after.
The next morning, a friend called, struggling with the same weight of a painful, unwelcome job and a rebellious, breaking heart. The timing of God's revelation to me about my struggle just before hearing hers gave me some faith to pray for her. The answer to prayer, so quickly, of having a purpose I was eager to work for, to pray for, and to fight for, was even more reassuring. But my heart still cried out for her, unknowning if my praying really was changing her life.
That was yesterday; I prayed for her often, throughout the long workday, and today, while staying at home, she was often in my thoughts. I realized today (while cleaning a mirror) that God had done much through her call to me that morning. I know, as I wiped down the dust and cleaned the smears, that even then I had a tendency to praise myself for the work I was doing for my family. I have often struggled with a martyr complex, where my sacrifice is intended to glorify myself more than help others. I cannot imagine how much I would have pitied and yet glorified myself if I had been the only one to struggle with my work the way I was--or even if I was the only one I knew of, that still would create the same result. It punched hard that she might be suffering so I would not fall into sin. I know full well that her struggle is for her good as well, that God is working in her life through this, that His wisdom is such I am sure the struggle is not only because of me. But God's grace in having her share that with me is unmistakable.
So now I pray that God's grace would be strong evident to her, as well, that it would hold and mend her heart, and teach her to live again. I ask this knowing full well that God plans each incident in our lives, from phone calls, jobs, thoughts, and even chores such as cleaning a mirror. So I offer up to God all that is on my heart--my friend, my sin, her struggle, and our lives. God, be glorified, and God, be merciful. Amen.
I did not expect what He gave me. Oh, it was truth, and sitting in its rightful place, it banished from my mind the thoughts I'd been giving free reign. But it was the truth that I had thought I'd gotten over, gotten past--that I still disliked God's gift of a well-paying job with all my heart. I had ceased to loathe it, and now only dreaded it. One step in the right direction, but one step was not enough to bring me back to solid ground. I'd given up thinking about it, praying about it, and evaluating it, telling myself God would change my heart in His time, and as I could not do anything about it, I would forget it--and forgotten, my emotions would cease to be involved, and I would no longer dread God's gift.
In a sense it worked--I did not dread work anymore. I went, I worked, I came home, and my heart was safely uninvolved. But coming home, I needed distraction. If my heart was not involved with my life, it must be involved in something else. Our hearts really do need something to be passionate about, something to be involved in. I'd chosen TV, but as with any addiction, it was no substitute for the real thing, and demanded more and more time. I'd reached a careful equilibrium, where I gave in to it just enough to give my heart something to daydream about during the long work hours, and little enough to give my conscience no qualm. Until two weeks ago, that is. Then the storm broke loose when I got sick. I was uneasy about how quickly the temptation of watching drama or excitement was so strong it was almost a need. Then, after I painstakingly reapproached that balanced equilibrium, God sat down and showed me my own heart.
That night, weeping, knowing that I still could not change my heart, my job, that my circumstances and emotional reaction were beyond my control, I asked God to give me a purpose again, one that I was eager to work towards, instead of resembling an iron maiden that closed and captured me. I fell asleep soon after.
The next morning, a friend called, struggling with the same weight of a painful, unwelcome job and a rebellious, breaking heart. The timing of God's revelation to me about my struggle just before hearing hers gave me some faith to pray for her. The answer to prayer, so quickly, of having a purpose I was eager to work for, to pray for, and to fight for, was even more reassuring. But my heart still cried out for her, unknowning if my praying really was changing her life.
That was yesterday; I prayed for her often, throughout the long workday, and today, while staying at home, she was often in my thoughts. I realized today (while cleaning a mirror) that God had done much through her call to me that morning. I know, as I wiped down the dust and cleaned the smears, that even then I had a tendency to praise myself for the work I was doing for my family. I have often struggled with a martyr complex, where my sacrifice is intended to glorify myself more than help others. I cannot imagine how much I would have pitied and yet glorified myself if I had been the only one to struggle with my work the way I was--or even if I was the only one I knew of, that still would create the same result. It punched hard that she might be suffering so I would not fall into sin. I know full well that her struggle is for her good as well, that God is working in her life through this, that His wisdom is such I am sure the struggle is not only because of me. But God's grace in having her share that with me is unmistakable.
So now I pray that God's grace would be strong evident to her, as well, that it would hold and mend her heart, and teach her to live again. I ask this knowing full well that God plans each incident in our lives, from phone calls, jobs, thoughts, and even chores such as cleaning a mirror. So I offer up to God all that is on my heart--my friend, my sin, her struggle, and our lives. God, be glorified, and God, be merciful. Amen.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Silence
Silence
It is the absence of chaos,
the time demands close,
for nothing will be said; it's
repose.
It screams echoes of my spirit war,
when cries build and rend,
there's no escape from demons in
my head.
It is escape, a place where I
can see other worlds, where be
no intrusion, no reality,
fantasy.
It is a repetition,
an exhaustion I cannot flee,
a list run over and over,
of duty.
my thoughts, my fears, my desire
cause the silence to keep
a company of pain or rest
for me.
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