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.
Friday, May 30, 2014
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)