I do not believe in coincidence. There are too many scriptures that tell me that God has this whole thing completely under control. And, if I am a believer (and I am) and if I claim the Scriptures to be Holy Writ from God (and I do), then I think believing in coincidence would be a big slap in the face to God. And, I don't think slapping God in the face is, ever, a good idea.
I love to hear stories about the awesome things God did in the Bible to show His people that He, indeed, had them in His hands; that He was already where they were afraid to go; that He had everything placed exactly where He deemed best. Women passed the age of child-bearing becoming pregnant, whole nations walking on the dry bottom of a parted sea, wet and dry fleece, a lethal stone and a giant's head, water into wine, torn fishing nets due to the weight of the amount of fish caught on a specific side of a boat, debts paid, illnesses healed, sins forgiven.
And, I love to hear stories from family and friends about times that God reminded them that they, too, are in His hands; that He is already where they are afraid to go; that He has everything placed exactly where He deems best. Drastically premature babies with fully developed lungs, predestined introductions over coffee that led to career changes, more money than should have been in bank accounts, restaurant bills paid, addictions overcome, debts paid, illnesses healed, sins forgiven.
And, I think one of the coolest parts of being a child of God is the in-dwelling of the Spirit that we all receive once we've accepted Christ as our Savior. The Spirit, with Its gentle nudge of conviction and soft whisper of direction is what makes us more than we could ever be without Him. Through the Spirit, we are able to do things we would never be able to do without Him. And, by His Spirit, we are given the strength to do mightier things than our bodies are capable on their own.
As a child of God, with the Holy Spirit indwelling us, two plus two doesn't always equal four.
I finished the biography of a ballplayer last night that has held my attention for some years, now. He is a phenomenal ballplayer. But, his testimony is what has endeared him to me for so long. Drowning in a pool of addiction, this ballplayer was delivered by the Grace of God. And, many times in his biography, he mentions that he doesn't have all the answers and computations of why and how he was able to overcome this devastating addiction. His only consistent response is that it is a God-thing. God at work. Making him into something he could never be on his own. Helping him take steps out of a slimy pit and into the light of what God had called him to be.
And, I think that is right on. No coincidence to claim. Not all the answers. Just that sometimes, God makes things add up that shouldn't add up; He allows devastating actions to eventually equal a righteous outcome; He places tomorrows in lives that should never have seen today.
And, I ask you, how could all that glory be a coincidence?
Tomorrow will usher in a new year. This year will hold new beginnings and more opportunities. This year will bring birth and death. This year will bring victory and defeat. This year will bring joy and sorrow; healing and pain.
And, none of it is coincidence. All of it is divine purpose. I pray that we bask in His reminders that He has us in His hands; that He is already where we are afraid to go; that He has everything placed where He deems best. And, I pray we can see His fingertips when things add up that shouldn't add up; when devastating actions eventually lead to a righteous outcome; when He places tomorrows in lives that should never have seen today.
Happy New Year.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Priorities
The last date of publishing for my blog was in July. My calendar says November. There were a few days in September that I thought about logging on to see what my fingers might type out but knew that it had been months since I had given my blog a single thought and felt bad; like when you haven't called your friend in months and are so thwarted with shame that the thought of calling her to admit your neglect keeps you from calling and so another month passes. And then another.
I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
'Round about August, my life took off like a race horse who was startled into running with the shot of a starting gun. A new job that has stretched me in ways I thought only possible for Gumby; a heartache that wrecked me for a solid two weeks and still steamrolls through my heart sometimes; a sweat-induced beginning to my post-graduate work; new experiences, new faces - all have aided in my life being turned upside down. And, interestingly enough, the normal hum-drum of life begged to be addressed, too: laundry, dry cleaning, grocery shopping, bills, bathing. Until the only time to myself for things like writing was being spent sleeping. Literally. Sleeping.
I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
There were times, though, that I felt the shiver of the Holy Spirit calling me to write. He has called on me many times since July. I tend to have a single idea for a story - usually surrounding something has happened to me. And, if it is from God, the words that surround the single idea begin to come, seamlessly, flowing out of my fingers, cementing thoughts that help me understand what has happened or what I need to learn through the single idea experience. And, usually, I know instantly that I am to post it for others to read; for others to hear what He has called me to write - I assume He wants others to learn from my experience; that He gave me the gift of writing to proclaim His ways through our lives. A gift. A calling. My ministry.
I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
And, even knowing, believing this to be a gift, I essentially shrugged off the shiver from the Holy Spirit; ignored it. Preferring to sleep or complete my next grad school assignment or fill out Book Fair forms for school, I chose to place the Holy Spirit on hold. And, then, I forgot He had called. And now, it has been months since we've talked, and I am so thwarted with shame to admit my neglect that I fear another month will separate me further from His Spirit. And, so, this blog has grown dusty as evidence of my lack of communication with Him.
And, I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
"Create in me a clean heart, Oh Lord. And renew a right spirit within me." Psalms 51:10
I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
'Round about August, my life took off like a race horse who was startled into running with the shot of a starting gun. A new job that has stretched me in ways I thought only possible for Gumby; a heartache that wrecked me for a solid two weeks and still steamrolls through my heart sometimes; a sweat-induced beginning to my post-graduate work; new experiences, new faces - all have aided in my life being turned upside down. And, interestingly enough, the normal hum-drum of life begged to be addressed, too: laundry, dry cleaning, grocery shopping, bills, bathing. Until the only time to myself for things like writing was being spent sleeping. Literally. Sleeping.
I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
There were times, though, that I felt the shiver of the Holy Spirit calling me to write. He has called on me many times since July. I tend to have a single idea for a story - usually surrounding something has happened to me. And, if it is from God, the words that surround the single idea begin to come, seamlessly, flowing out of my fingers, cementing thoughts that help me understand what has happened or what I need to learn through the single idea experience. And, usually, I know instantly that I am to post it for others to read; for others to hear what He has called me to write - I assume He wants others to learn from my experience; that He gave me the gift of writing to proclaim His ways through our lives. A gift. A calling. My ministry.
I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
And, even knowing, believing this to be a gift, I essentially shrugged off the shiver from the Holy Spirit; ignored it. Preferring to sleep or complete my next grad school assignment or fill out Book Fair forms for school, I chose to place the Holy Spirit on hold. And, then, I forgot He had called. And now, it has been months since we've talked, and I am so thwarted with shame to admit my neglect that I fear another month will separate me further from His Spirit. And, so, this blog has grown dusty as evidence of my lack of communication with Him.
And, I am terribly ashamed that something so important to me has become so not.
"Create in me a clean heart, Oh Lord. And renew a right spirit within me." Psalms 51:10
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Bsaeball Splats
If you look really closely at the bluebonnet painting on my wall in my living room, you'll see a spot where, it looks like, a baseball covered in blue and green paint splatted its way into the landscape picture I was painting. And, I wish I could blame that spot on a baseball, but the real story is that I was angry at my professor and went and nearly ruined an otherwise decent piece of artwork done by a hot-headed, know-it-all novice. The next part of the story involves me huffing and puffing and stomping my way out of the art room in front of several students who were there to spend extra time on their paintings and not to witness a college-aged hissy fit. But, that is what they got. And, it mustn't have been my first one because no one seemed all that surprised that it had happened. The next day, no one even mentioned it happening. But, the rest of the story - the really impressive part of the story - is that after a few days of getting over myself, I tucked tail and apologized to that professor who I was angry at for acting the way I had, and that professor was the one who showed me how to fix the baseball splat so that you would have to look really closely at the painting to even see it.
I have a lot of stories like that woven through the threads of my memories - stories about these really passionate outbursts that hang on some small detail that set me off; always some major injustice in my mind. Like the time in second grade when one little boy liked one of my little friends, and his way of showing her that he liked her was to tag her "it" with such a punch that it made tears well up in her eyes. I don't recall all the details of what happened next, but I will say that if I were a recess monitor and I saw a little girl reading the riot act to a bawling little boy while gripping the collar of his faded blue jean jacket with a white-knuckled grip, I'd make that little girl sit out at recess for a whole week, too. And, like the time, in seventh grade, when I had to picket the school board meeting-and later speak at one-to let them know how I wouldn't stand for the use of the ozone-deflating Styrofoam divided plates in our middle school cafeteria any longer. And, like the time, in college, when I insisted on calling the mother of a friend who was full-fledged, knee-deep in her own battle with bulimia, and I didn't trust her to handle it on her own that summer.
My personality is pretty complex; a jumble of insecurities and confidences; high expectations and heightened emotions for both myself and those in at least a 5 year radius of having known me at all. I wear my heart on my sleeve, identify the futuristic potential in all, work tirelessly to make amends, seek justice for the underdog, laugh loud, cry hard, fall fast - as if I'm the spawn of a drunk Superman and Rosie the Riveter handling a hefty dose of PMS.
And, the kicker - I think God made me exactly this way. It has taken me a long time to understand this concept of God knowing exactly what He was doing in giving me what He gave me. He absolutely knitted me in my mother's womb with these raw emotions and pocket empathy. He had an overall picture and a divine plan when he handed out a double portion of awareness for people in need, love for children, words to express, and passion into my DNA strands. That hand basket was a tough one to carry through out my adolescence. It was cumbersome and hard to get a grip on; it was too heavy and seemed needless for me to be carrying it at all. I dropped it all the time - spilling the contents all over the place, hurting people with my words, damaging my credibility with my professors, but endearing friends who felt protected and loved.
The sixth chapter of Judges finds Gideon hiding out in a winepress, threshing wheat that he intended to keep away from the conquering Midianite army who, for the seven years prior, had found great victory in ravaging everything of the Israelites, including their crops, livestock, and trust in their Deliverer. Gideon is the self-proclaimed least of his family; his family the weakest of the clans (v.15), and still an Angel of the Lord addresses him as, "... mighty warrior." (v.12) And, if you aren't familiar with God and His forte' in taking normal, low-life, nobodies like you and me and using them in mighty, amazing ways, you might think, for a second, that God is being facetious; like calling a small, yappy dog that fits inside the palm of your hand, "Killer." But, that isn't God's style, as far as I can tell. He is more of a tell-it-like-it-is God; and usually, a tell-it-like-it's-GOING-to-be God. And, that is what He does with Gideon. He addresses him according to what he will become. Gideon, blessed by God, goes on to defeat the Midianites for two more chapters, taking down any idols he finds on the way. Gideon's victories are two-fold: militarily, he defeats the Midianites, and sets the Israelites back on solid, safe, secure ground; and religiously, he is essential in bringing the Israelites back into communion with God, their Divine Deliverer for a time, albeit short-lived. No one else would have thought Gideon would be any kind of warrior; much less a mighty one. No one else could see it. But, God did. God knitted Gideon in his mother's womb with exactly the DNA make-up that was needed to accomplish what God had would call him to do. God saw past what Gideon was; straight to what Gideon would be.
And so it goes with this once hot-headed, know-it-all novice whose overgrown hand basket of emotions and responses once dominated her daily life. He has seen past what I was; straight through to what He called me to be.
It shouldn't surprise you that, through my nine years of teaching 4th graders, the number of them with emotional and anger issues that find themselves in my homeroom classroom is staggering. That, too, is God's style, as far as I can tell. They are my favorite type of kids; the ones locked up inside too- big emotions that come spilling out in the form of hissy fits and outbursts. And, by the grace of God and through His Sovereignty, He allows me a glimpse into what these kids will become; what He is planning to do with them and their overgrown hand baskets. And, He gives me the task of teaching them to fix the baseball splats so that you have to look really closely to even see them.
"When the angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior." Judges 6:12
I have a lot of stories like that woven through the threads of my memories - stories about these really passionate outbursts that hang on some small detail that set me off; always some major injustice in my mind. Like the time in second grade when one little boy liked one of my little friends, and his way of showing her that he liked her was to tag her "it" with such a punch that it made tears well up in her eyes. I don't recall all the details of what happened next, but I will say that if I were a recess monitor and I saw a little girl reading the riot act to a bawling little boy while gripping the collar of his faded blue jean jacket with a white-knuckled grip, I'd make that little girl sit out at recess for a whole week, too. And, like the time, in seventh grade, when I had to picket the school board meeting-and later speak at one-to let them know how I wouldn't stand for the use of the ozone-deflating Styrofoam divided plates in our middle school cafeteria any longer. And, like the time, in college, when I insisted on calling the mother of a friend who was full-fledged, knee-deep in her own battle with bulimia, and I didn't trust her to handle it on her own that summer.
My personality is pretty complex; a jumble of insecurities and confidences; high expectations and heightened emotions for both myself and those in at least a 5 year radius of having known me at all. I wear my heart on my sleeve, identify the futuristic potential in all, work tirelessly to make amends, seek justice for the underdog, laugh loud, cry hard, fall fast - as if I'm the spawn of a drunk Superman and Rosie the Riveter handling a hefty dose of PMS.
And, the kicker - I think God made me exactly this way. It has taken me a long time to understand this concept of God knowing exactly what He was doing in giving me what He gave me. He absolutely knitted me in my mother's womb with these raw emotions and pocket empathy. He had an overall picture and a divine plan when he handed out a double portion of awareness for people in need, love for children, words to express, and passion into my DNA strands. That hand basket was a tough one to carry through out my adolescence. It was cumbersome and hard to get a grip on; it was too heavy and seemed needless for me to be carrying it at all. I dropped it all the time - spilling the contents all over the place, hurting people with my words, damaging my credibility with my professors, but endearing friends who felt protected and loved.
The sixth chapter of Judges finds Gideon hiding out in a winepress, threshing wheat that he intended to keep away from the conquering Midianite army who, for the seven years prior, had found great victory in ravaging everything of the Israelites, including their crops, livestock, and trust in their Deliverer. Gideon is the self-proclaimed least of his family; his family the weakest of the clans (v.15), and still an Angel of the Lord addresses him as, "... mighty warrior." (v.12) And, if you aren't familiar with God and His forte' in taking normal, low-life, nobodies like you and me and using them in mighty, amazing ways, you might think, for a second, that God is being facetious; like calling a small, yappy dog that fits inside the palm of your hand, "Killer." But, that isn't God's style, as far as I can tell. He is more of a tell-it-like-it-is God; and usually, a tell-it-like-it's-GOING-to-be God. And, that is what He does with Gideon. He addresses him according to what he will become. Gideon, blessed by God, goes on to defeat the Midianites for two more chapters, taking down any idols he finds on the way. Gideon's victories are two-fold: militarily, he defeats the Midianites, and sets the Israelites back on solid, safe, secure ground; and religiously, he is essential in bringing the Israelites back into communion with God, their Divine Deliverer for a time, albeit short-lived. No one else would have thought Gideon would be any kind of warrior; much less a mighty one. No one else could see it. But, God did. God knitted Gideon in his mother's womb with exactly the DNA make-up that was needed to accomplish what God had would call him to do. God saw past what Gideon was; straight to what Gideon would be.
And so it goes with this once hot-headed, know-it-all novice whose overgrown hand basket of emotions and responses once dominated her daily life. He has seen past what I was; straight through to what He called me to be.
It shouldn't surprise you that, through my nine years of teaching 4th graders, the number of them with emotional and anger issues that find themselves in my homeroom classroom is staggering. That, too, is God's style, as far as I can tell. They are my favorite type of kids; the ones locked up inside too- big emotions that come spilling out in the form of hissy fits and outbursts. And, by the grace of God and through His Sovereignty, He allows me a glimpse into what these kids will become; what He is planning to do with them and their overgrown hand baskets. And, He gives me the task of teaching them to fix the baseball splats so that you have to look really closely to even see them.
"When the angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior." Judges 6:12
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Queen of Expectations
I have, for a long time, wanted to learn to surf. I don't live very close to an ocean, but details have never been my strong suit. So, you can imagine my excitement when a friend and I decided to vacation in South Padre for a long weekend! I immediately found a surf school that took reservations online and signed up for the first lesson of the first day we'd be on the island! I was stoked which is a surfing term meaning a little too excited. For weeks before the trip, I researched how to surf so I'd have a leg up on the other beginner surfers. I watched documentaries like the movie- bust Blue Crush and the Beach Boys' Kokomo video endlessly. I would practice in my living room, laying tummy side-down on the "board", paddling out to the deep water where the good waves came in. My imagination went wild. I would hop up on my pretend board and ride the gigantic wave all the way into shore, waving to all the on-lookers and gawkers who had come out from the little touristy shops and beach bars to see the first-timer that could ride the waves better than some of the professionals. Not ALL the professionals, mind you. Just some of them.
Much to my dismay, on the drive down to the island, we had a pretty serious flat that shredded the tire. I spent my surf lesson time sitting in the lobby of a Discount Tire waiting for the not-so-beachy mechanic to put a new tire on the car. Bummer, dude. Totally.
If I were given a crown to wear, it would not be because of my state-recognized beauty like Miss Texas. My crown would be bestowed because of my uncanny ability to set really high expectations upon things that I have absolutely no control over. The Queen of Expectations. May she ever reign.
Expectations. I set them up like a bartender sets up a round of drinks. Most times, my reality cannot keep up with these really creative, albeit imaginary, expectations. I can't write something down in my day-planner without envisioning how it will all pan out in the end. "Dinner with Sandy and Luke at the Oasis".... insert dream sequence music from the movies.... imagine: hugs all around since we haven't seen each other in a while, they'll mention how I look like I'm losing weight, and I'll ask when Sandy is due and what they did with their other two precious children for the night. Dinner will be delicious, but the conversation will be even better, turning into raucous laughter by the end of the night because that is what the three of us do, laugh raucously. Then, we'll fight over the bill and end up paying for our own meals, like we do every time, Then, hugs and talks of how we should do this more often. Luke will get Sandy in the car and then walk me to mine and ask about whatever man is in my life and why he isn't here with us walking me to my car instead of Luke. I'll roll my eyes and tell him to keep praying for that.... insert dream sequence music from the movies. There. All before the ink from my pen dries in my day-planner.
But, the ironic thing - and perhaps a game the Lord plays with me to get me to drop this bad habit - is that those expectations are rarely met. Did you know the Oasis closes early on Sundays. And, Sandy and Luke couldn't find a babysitter for the two precious children, so they just brought them along which would have been fine except that the youngest one didn't feel well and only wanted to be held by his momma, making it hard for Sandy to hug, eat, or laugh raucously. Since the Oasis was closed, we puttered around Grand Prairie looking for another, suitable, place to dine that their kids would like so they would be entertained so we could get down to the business of talking and laughing. But, after 45 minutes, there wasn't another place, other than McDonalds, that appeared suitable. So, McDonalds it was - for less than a half hour until the youngest one threw up, and Luke announced that it was time to go. And as he is stuffing kids and wife into the car, he turns to me and apologizes and says, "I know you don't understand since you don't have a husband or kids..." and he says something else about this being just how things went these days, but I had stopped listening by that point because I could have done without the punch to the gut reminder of how my life's expectations hadn't measured up, either. I walked myself to the car, fighting back tears. This was NOT how the night was supposed to go. Not at all.
But, I wonder how differently I would have felt about the evening had I not had the dream sequence playing in my mind the whole time, telling me how the evening "should" be going.
To be perfectly honest, I don't know how NOT to have expectations about everything I do. It seems automatic to me - it isn't something I think about doing. I just do it - me and Nike.
Control issues. You think?
I come from a long-line of control seekers. The DNA that spirals down from my father's side of the family has firmly implanted the desire to run things, plan things, double check things, control things. And, I am my father's daughter. I guess I figure that if I run things, plan things, double check things, and control things, then I always know what's coming. There is less of a chance that something won't work out; less of a chance that I will be blind-sided; less of a chance that my feelings will get stepped on or that my heart will be mishandled, dropped, and broken. And, even as I type these words, I see the falacy in that idea. Because, obviously, I have heard the call of God on my life to drop my nets and follow Him. And, I have claimed to be a follower, but I am looking at the net still clenched in my hands. Just in case. If I drop the net, then I won't be in control. And, if I am not in control, then someone else will be. And, I just don't know that I can trust someone with my life.
Trust issues. You think?
I went to a local outdoor sports store some years back to overcome a fear that I have of heights. The store has a climbing wall within the store that, on Saturdays, is available to the general public, for a small fee and a signature on a liability consent form, for climbing. I went to climb that wall. I went to conquoer my fears. I had worn all the right clothing, the right kind of shoes, had the harness on, and the okay from the spotter on the ground to begin my climb. I had chosen the beginner side of the climbing wall so the handholds were easy enough to reach. I had read somewhere that the idea to sustain momentum on a climbing wall is to use your feet and legs more than your arms to climb. I have strong, muscular legs, and so I concentrated on using them more than my much weaker arms. I moved quickly, willing myself not to look down or up, just at the spot where I was at the time. I climbed higher and higher, praying that at some point, my fear of heights would drop off before I did. Because, try as I might to make my legs do all the work, my arms began to shake from the strenuous exercise. I tried to ignore it and press on to the top until I came to a very small foothold that I couldn't get my foot comfortably on. The spotter from the ground encouraged me to step quickly on it and pull myself to the next foothold using my arms. My shaking- like-Jello arms. Uh. Good plan, Mr. Know-It-All.... but it wasn't going to work for me. I tried several other ways to get past this stumbling step in my quest to the top of my fear. The spotter tells me again, as if I am deaf and not just overweight and under conditioned and scared to death, that all I need to do is step quickly and pull myself up to the next hold with my arms. I couldn't do it. All this monkey-ing around had atrophied my arms even more. I became very aware that I was going to let go before I was going to be able to overcome the challenging step. And, I wasn't sure what the harness was for, but I suddenly felt very afraid of free-falling all the way down to the ground in the middle of this outdoor sports store. "I can't go any further." I said in defeat to the spotter on the ground. "You're done?" he calls back up. "I'm done." I confirm. "Okay," he says, "Just let go of the wall. I'll let you down slowly." I'm sorry, what?! Let go of the wall! I had thought the climb was the way to overcome my fears. No, no. It had nothing on what it took me to let go of the wall and trust the spotter on the ground to lower me down to the ground. I fought some kind of strong armed demons up there on that wall, hanging by thin threads of arms, knowing I was going to have to let go and trust this man for two seconds with my life. The story is anti-climactic. I did let go. I free-fell all of a millimeter and then he slowly lowered me down as he had been trained to do, I assume. I somehow managed to thank the spotter, pay my money, gather my pride and that fear of heights up and headed to my car before I realized that I was going to have to try it again. I hadn't accomplished anything I had planned, save for not peeing in my pants in front of the group of customers who had gathered to watch me climb. Trusting people is hard for me. You can imagine how much harder it is for me to trust a spotter I can't even see with my life. But, that is exactly what Christ has called us to do; He asks us to bring all of our worries, all of our plans, all of our control, all of our expectations and place them in His hands. He has called us to drop whatever we are doing and follow Him. He has asked us to trust Him with our lives. And, I struggle with it. I pray every night that He'll take my life and make it into something that only He can. And, I fight with Him every morning to have my life back.
The trophy case I have of things I have worked out all on my own that turned out right is empty. Not one trophy. Not one thing that I have worked out on my own has ever turned out right. Ever. But, I guess I am a hopeless believer that someday it will. Either that or a glutton for punishment or maybe both because I still insist on working for that trophy. I can't imagine anything more scary than to place my life in the hands of someone else. It isn't that I have such a stellar track record in handling my life - I don't.
But, I do have a stellar God. I have a God who is breaking down the wall of my fears and insecurities brick by brick and replacing them with His truths and His ways Scripture by Scripture. I am not good at trusting Him. But, I am getting better at it. And, the interesting thing is that the closer I get to Him, the easier it is to tell Him that I am afraid of trusting Him. And, the more I tell Him of my fears of trusting Him, the clearer He speaks and the closer He comes.
Expectations. I still set them up too quickly, effortlessly, sometimes before I even know that I am doing it. But, I think the more I trust God, the less secure I'll feel in these expectations. Then, I can lay my crown aside and just enjoy the benefits of having a God who has everything under control. Everything.
King of Kings. May He ever reign.
Much to my dismay, on the drive down to the island, we had a pretty serious flat that shredded the tire. I spent my surf lesson time sitting in the lobby of a Discount Tire waiting for the not-so-beachy mechanic to put a new tire on the car. Bummer, dude. Totally.
If I were given a crown to wear, it would not be because of my state-recognized beauty like Miss Texas. My crown would be bestowed because of my uncanny ability to set really high expectations upon things that I have absolutely no control over. The Queen of Expectations. May she ever reign.
Expectations. I set them up like a bartender sets up a round of drinks. Most times, my reality cannot keep up with these really creative, albeit imaginary, expectations. I can't write something down in my day-planner without envisioning how it will all pan out in the end. "Dinner with Sandy and Luke at the Oasis".... insert dream sequence music from the movies.... imagine: hugs all around since we haven't seen each other in a while, they'll mention how I look like I'm losing weight, and I'll ask when Sandy is due and what they did with their other two precious children for the night. Dinner will be delicious, but the conversation will be even better, turning into raucous laughter by the end of the night because that is what the three of us do, laugh raucously. Then, we'll fight over the bill and end up paying for our own meals, like we do every time, Then, hugs and talks of how we should do this more often. Luke will get Sandy in the car and then walk me to mine and ask about whatever man is in my life and why he isn't here with us walking me to my car instead of Luke. I'll roll my eyes and tell him to keep praying for that.... insert dream sequence music from the movies. There. All before the ink from my pen dries in my day-planner.
But, the ironic thing - and perhaps a game the Lord plays with me to get me to drop this bad habit - is that those expectations are rarely met. Did you know the Oasis closes early on Sundays. And, Sandy and Luke couldn't find a babysitter for the two precious children, so they just brought them along which would have been fine except that the youngest one didn't feel well and only wanted to be held by his momma, making it hard for Sandy to hug, eat, or laugh raucously. Since the Oasis was closed, we puttered around Grand Prairie looking for another, suitable, place to dine that their kids would like so they would be entertained so we could get down to the business of talking and laughing. But, after 45 minutes, there wasn't another place, other than McDonalds, that appeared suitable. So, McDonalds it was - for less than a half hour until the youngest one threw up, and Luke announced that it was time to go. And as he is stuffing kids and wife into the car, he turns to me and apologizes and says, "I know you don't understand since you don't have a husband or kids..." and he says something else about this being just how things went these days, but I had stopped listening by that point because I could have done without the punch to the gut reminder of how my life's expectations hadn't measured up, either. I walked myself to the car, fighting back tears. This was NOT how the night was supposed to go. Not at all.
But, I wonder how differently I would have felt about the evening had I not had the dream sequence playing in my mind the whole time, telling me how the evening "should" be going.
To be perfectly honest, I don't know how NOT to have expectations about everything I do. It seems automatic to me - it isn't something I think about doing. I just do it - me and Nike.
Control issues. You think?
I come from a long-line of control seekers. The DNA that spirals down from my father's side of the family has firmly implanted the desire to run things, plan things, double check things, control things. And, I am my father's daughter. I guess I figure that if I run things, plan things, double check things, and control things, then I always know what's coming. There is less of a chance that something won't work out; less of a chance that I will be blind-sided; less of a chance that my feelings will get stepped on or that my heart will be mishandled, dropped, and broken. And, even as I type these words, I see the falacy in that idea. Because, obviously, I have heard the call of God on my life to drop my nets and follow Him. And, I have claimed to be a follower, but I am looking at the net still clenched in my hands. Just in case. If I drop the net, then I won't be in control. And, if I am not in control, then someone else will be. And, I just don't know that I can trust someone with my life.
Trust issues. You think?
I went to a local outdoor sports store some years back to overcome a fear that I have of heights. The store has a climbing wall within the store that, on Saturdays, is available to the general public, for a small fee and a signature on a liability consent form, for climbing. I went to climb that wall. I went to conquoer my fears. I had worn all the right clothing, the right kind of shoes, had the harness on, and the okay from the spotter on the ground to begin my climb. I had chosen the beginner side of the climbing wall so the handholds were easy enough to reach. I had read somewhere that the idea to sustain momentum on a climbing wall is to use your feet and legs more than your arms to climb. I have strong, muscular legs, and so I concentrated on using them more than my much weaker arms. I moved quickly, willing myself not to look down or up, just at the spot where I was at the time. I climbed higher and higher, praying that at some point, my fear of heights would drop off before I did. Because, try as I might to make my legs do all the work, my arms began to shake from the strenuous exercise. I tried to ignore it and press on to the top until I came to a very small foothold that I couldn't get my foot comfortably on. The spotter from the ground encouraged me to step quickly on it and pull myself to the next foothold using my arms. My shaking- like-Jello arms. Uh. Good plan, Mr. Know-It-All.... but it wasn't going to work for me. I tried several other ways to get past this stumbling step in my quest to the top of my fear. The spotter tells me again, as if I am deaf and not just overweight and under conditioned and scared to death, that all I need to do is step quickly and pull myself up to the next hold with my arms. I couldn't do it. All this monkey-ing around had atrophied my arms even more. I became very aware that I was going to let go before I was going to be able to overcome the challenging step. And, I wasn't sure what the harness was for, but I suddenly felt very afraid of free-falling all the way down to the ground in the middle of this outdoor sports store. "I can't go any further." I said in defeat to the spotter on the ground. "You're done?" he calls back up. "I'm done." I confirm. "Okay," he says, "Just let go of the wall. I'll let you down slowly." I'm sorry, what?! Let go of the wall! I had thought the climb was the way to overcome my fears. No, no. It had nothing on what it took me to let go of the wall and trust the spotter on the ground to lower me down to the ground. I fought some kind of strong armed demons up there on that wall, hanging by thin threads of arms, knowing I was going to have to let go and trust this man for two seconds with my life. The story is anti-climactic. I did let go. I free-fell all of a millimeter and then he slowly lowered me down as he had been trained to do, I assume. I somehow managed to thank the spotter, pay my money, gather my pride and that fear of heights up and headed to my car before I realized that I was going to have to try it again. I hadn't accomplished anything I had planned, save for not peeing in my pants in front of the group of customers who had gathered to watch me climb. Trusting people is hard for me. You can imagine how much harder it is for me to trust a spotter I can't even see with my life. But, that is exactly what Christ has called us to do; He asks us to bring all of our worries, all of our plans, all of our control, all of our expectations and place them in His hands. He has called us to drop whatever we are doing and follow Him. He has asked us to trust Him with our lives. And, I struggle with it. I pray every night that He'll take my life and make it into something that only He can. And, I fight with Him every morning to have my life back.
The trophy case I have of things I have worked out all on my own that turned out right is empty. Not one trophy. Not one thing that I have worked out on my own has ever turned out right. Ever. But, I guess I am a hopeless believer that someday it will. Either that or a glutton for punishment or maybe both because I still insist on working for that trophy. I can't imagine anything more scary than to place my life in the hands of someone else. It isn't that I have such a stellar track record in handling my life - I don't.
But, I do have a stellar God. I have a God who is breaking down the wall of my fears and insecurities brick by brick and replacing them with His truths and His ways Scripture by Scripture. I am not good at trusting Him. But, I am getting better at it. And, the interesting thing is that the closer I get to Him, the easier it is to tell Him that I am afraid of trusting Him. And, the more I tell Him of my fears of trusting Him, the clearer He speaks and the closer He comes.
Expectations. I still set them up too quickly, effortlessly, sometimes before I even know that I am doing it. But, I think the more I trust God, the less secure I'll feel in these expectations. Then, I can lay my crown aside and just enjoy the benefits of having a God who has everything under control. Everything.
King of Kings. May He ever reign.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Exactly As It Should Be
He wasn't what I had pictured when I signed up to take classes at the seminary downtown this spring. My quest to dive into the Word was met with expectations of an old, graying, white man who would, most certainly, be the one to usher me into this deeper study and more intimate glimpse of God. I don't know where I came up with that generalization of what a Bible professor looks like, except to say that I am human and white and perhaps more stereotypical than I care to be. But, God has a sense of humor. And His sense of humor strolled into my first class to take attendance, set things up, and introduce himself before I realized that he wasn't the professor's assistant. He was the professor. Young, fashion-forward, articulate, Dominican Republican born - he was not old, graying, or white; not at all what I had expected; and not someone I had planned to accept teaching on Job from. What did this kid have to say about suffering? Seriously.
The main building, I was told, was erected in 1954. It was currently being used as the children's wing. This building back here was new, having been designed to match the original facade with its pinkish-red bricks and white wood trim, and was being used as the Family Life Center. To find the sanctuary, I was to follow this long corridor and take a right. The church was quite a bit bigger than I thought it would be. And, I got the feeling there was a lot of old money holding up the walls and keeping the ministers employed. My tun to the right brought me to a set of white, wooden double doors with small square cutouts at eye-level. Old school. Beyond them, the room opened up, revealing a cavernous room with lines of pews in neat rows from the front of the room all the way back. Huge windows on either side, all the way up the wall to a ceiling that seemed barely there, gave something for children too young to understand the message to count. I pictured myself sitting in those pews, my 4-year -old legs too short to reach the ground, counting the stained glass windows of our home church. It smelled the same, this church and my childhood church. And for me, smells resonate and swing open the floodgates of memories.
God and I huddled that first night of class at the seminary. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to listen to this young man - emphasis on 'young' - talk to me about the suffering of Job, and I confessed it to God right away. I recognized that my own pride and expectations were bogging up the channel, and I prayed that He would somehow break through that barrier so I wouldn't miss anything. And, as God always does, He came through. My young, fashion-forward, articulate, Dominican Republican -born teacher wasted little time in explaining why he was there. Job was a book he could identify with. He explained in few details but with much passion how a family tragedy had slammed his nice, neat theology headlong into his reality and what was left standing was what he decided to put his faith in. He worked his hands to illustrate points. His chisled facial features gave away what revelation had meant the most to him. He raised and lowered his voice, daring us to feel what he and Job felt all too well. And when class dismissed, I sat speechless. I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be, no matter what expectations I might have had. What was, was exactly what was supposed to be.
Ms. Lilly spoke quietly to us, surprised to find us where we had never been before. She, being one of the matriarchs of the church, told us she had been worshipping with the congregation since 1943. We asked in complete reverence if we had taken her seat, gathering our things in case we had, it being much more her pew than ours. "No, no," she responded. "I always sit three rows back. You're safe." She winked. Our group was a motley crew, to say the least. Ages, races, and religious backgrounds melted together in support of the one who had endeared himself to us. We were there to show support. "Where's the band?" my classmate asked in a hushed voice as the song leader hummed his pitch pipe, searching for the opening key. "No band. It's a doctrinal issue. They don't use instruments," I answered, knowing. I knew all the songs. Not just the words, but the melody and the harmony; the four part harmony. I grew up accapella. The verses and voice chords to "Just As I Am" and "Doxology" came flooding back to me; the rise and flow of the soprano notes that mix with the alto to create something that must be what heaven sounds like. I had lost that sound somewhere between what God had delivered me from and what God had delivered me to, and it sounded even more angelic than I had ever remembered it. The new song books were in the pew rack, denoting progression from what had always been to keeping up with what was now. I understood. So it was in my own life. But, I could bet there was some old closet tucked away somewhere behind the sanctuary that had the old song books stacked in neat rows, collecting dust, and preserving memories like the ones I felt welling up inside me. The words ever true, the music just as sweet.
It wasn't your typical seminary Bible class. I could tell that right off. My young teacher assumed we had read the text - the book of Job - and would stir up class discussions with questions like, "So, was the Satan in Job the same Satan in the New Testament?" And, all of us older, wiser students would fire off what we had been taught as children or what our professors had taught us when we'd gone off to Bible college. And, after a little while of talking, we would stop and wonder if anything we'd just said made any sense to anyone else because it suddenly made no sense to us. Upon dismissal, I would book it out of there to sit in my car and regroup, praying that the Lord reveal Himself to me such that I could explain it to my class the next week. I knew what I knew about God. I just didn't know why I knew what I knew. I had friends at work who would ask me about the class, wanting to reap some of the harvest of knowledge. I got to the point where I couldn't answer their questions about why the class had been so profound the night before. "What happened?" they would ask. "I don't know! It just got me thinking." And, then I would ask them, "Do you think the Satan in Job is the same Satan in the New Testament?" And, then off they'd go, sounding like the rambling idiot I had sounded like the night before at class. But, I started to look forward to Tuesday nights. I began to anticipating the challenge. I gave myself up to it, wondering what in the world the Lord was teaching me through this young teacher who had power-washed my expectations until all I could expect was to hear from God.
The communion trays were the same bright, shiny silver with the red velvet inlay that make the funny, reflective shapes on the ceiling if you have most of the lights in the sanctuary turned down. I had taught my nieces and nephew to watch for those reflective shapes when they were toddlers, as I had done as a little girl. We all, instinctively, look up to see them, even now that we're too old to be entertained by them. The lights were too bright in this church to see the shapes, but I knew they'd be there if the lighting was right. The progression flowed like I remembered, save for the redirection I had to give my fellow classmates who practiced communion differently at their own churches. "Sip the juice, replace the cup - all in one fluid motion." I have experienced many different rituals and traditions surrounding communion; different kinds of bread, different kinds of juice, some churches eat and drink together. But, the sentiment has always been the same. The remembrance has always been the same. The sacrifice honored has always been the same. I settled in to the sameness, feeling comfortably at home, looking for reflections on the ceiling, knowing that they were there, even if they weren't. Because some things don't change, no matter what else does.
For weeks, as class got started, my seminary teacher would dutifully listen to, write down, and pray for our prayer requests and petitions; sick relatives, lost jobs, marriages in trouble - all were laid at the foot of the throne of Heaven, in hopes that His great mercy would see fit to bat an eye at our troubles, burdens, and cares. And, one week, our teacher, himself asked us to pray for him. We listened as he gave us the run-down of a packed scheduled that only a working, seminary student can fathom that included sharing the pastoral duties of the church he had been attending since coming to seminary. We dutifully listened to, wrote down, and promised to pray for him as he attempted to climb this mountain of responsibilities. Then, the suggestion, by one of the students, that we make the trip out to hear him preach made its way around the room. Several of us agreed that a more marvelous suggestion was never made; our prayers in the flesh. We would go. We would listen. We would support.
Every good preacher begins a sermon with a joke, and my seminary class teacher was true to his calling. My seminary classmates and I sat stacked in pews, supportive, ready to hear how different our teacher might sound coming from a pulpit instead of a class lecturn. But, he did not sound different, perhaps an indication of the calling on his life by God. He wasted little time, presenting his message through the Word that he felt we needed to hear, mincing few words about God's children's tendancy toward self-absorption. And, somewhere between his last point and the invitation song, it hit me: this was exactly where I was supposed to be. Right in the smack-dab middle of a journey. I wasn't where I used to be, but I'm not where I'm meant to end up, either; just right here in the middle. I was bookend-ed, that Sunday morning; able to see where I had been - and suddenly overwhelmingly humbled by the foundation that had been poured long before I knew I would need it with a peep-hole into the future, feeling a little lighter having shed some pretty heavy expectations. Isn't it just like God to bring you through something that you didn't know you were in? And, isn't it just like God to use the most unexpected guide to help mark your journey and usher you into a deeper study and more intimate glimpse of Him?
The main building, I was told, was erected in 1954. It was currently being used as the children's wing. This building back here was new, having been designed to match the original facade with its pinkish-red bricks and white wood trim, and was being used as the Family Life Center. To find the sanctuary, I was to follow this long corridor and take a right. The church was quite a bit bigger than I thought it would be. And, I got the feeling there was a lot of old money holding up the walls and keeping the ministers employed. My tun to the right brought me to a set of white, wooden double doors with small square cutouts at eye-level. Old school. Beyond them, the room opened up, revealing a cavernous room with lines of pews in neat rows from the front of the room all the way back. Huge windows on either side, all the way up the wall to a ceiling that seemed barely there, gave something for children too young to understand the message to count. I pictured myself sitting in those pews, my 4-year -old legs too short to reach the ground, counting the stained glass windows of our home church. It smelled the same, this church and my childhood church. And for me, smells resonate and swing open the floodgates of memories.
God and I huddled that first night of class at the seminary. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to listen to this young man - emphasis on 'young' - talk to me about the suffering of Job, and I confessed it to God right away. I recognized that my own pride and expectations were bogging up the channel, and I prayed that He would somehow break through that barrier so I wouldn't miss anything. And, as God always does, He came through. My young, fashion-forward, articulate, Dominican Republican -born teacher wasted little time in explaining why he was there. Job was a book he could identify with. He explained in few details but with much passion how a family tragedy had slammed his nice, neat theology headlong into his reality and what was left standing was what he decided to put his faith in. He worked his hands to illustrate points. His chisled facial features gave away what revelation had meant the most to him. He raised and lowered his voice, daring us to feel what he and Job felt all too well. And when class dismissed, I sat speechless. I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be, no matter what expectations I might have had. What was, was exactly what was supposed to be.
Ms. Lilly spoke quietly to us, surprised to find us where we had never been before. She, being one of the matriarchs of the church, told us she had been worshipping with the congregation since 1943. We asked in complete reverence if we had taken her seat, gathering our things in case we had, it being much more her pew than ours. "No, no," she responded. "I always sit three rows back. You're safe." She winked. Our group was a motley crew, to say the least. Ages, races, and religious backgrounds melted together in support of the one who had endeared himself to us. We were there to show support. "Where's the band?" my classmate asked in a hushed voice as the song leader hummed his pitch pipe, searching for the opening key. "No band. It's a doctrinal issue. They don't use instruments," I answered, knowing. I knew all the songs. Not just the words, but the melody and the harmony; the four part harmony. I grew up accapella. The verses and voice chords to "Just As I Am" and "Doxology" came flooding back to me; the rise and flow of the soprano notes that mix with the alto to create something that must be what heaven sounds like. I had lost that sound somewhere between what God had delivered me from and what God had delivered me to, and it sounded even more angelic than I had ever remembered it. The new song books were in the pew rack, denoting progression from what had always been to keeping up with what was now. I understood. So it was in my own life. But, I could bet there was some old closet tucked away somewhere behind the sanctuary that had the old song books stacked in neat rows, collecting dust, and preserving memories like the ones I felt welling up inside me. The words ever true, the music just as sweet.
It wasn't your typical seminary Bible class. I could tell that right off. My young teacher assumed we had read the text - the book of Job - and would stir up class discussions with questions like, "So, was the Satan in Job the same Satan in the New Testament?" And, all of us older, wiser students would fire off what we had been taught as children or what our professors had taught us when we'd gone off to Bible college. And, after a little while of talking, we would stop and wonder if anything we'd just said made any sense to anyone else because it suddenly made no sense to us. Upon dismissal, I would book it out of there to sit in my car and regroup, praying that the Lord reveal Himself to me such that I could explain it to my class the next week. I knew what I knew about God. I just didn't know why I knew what I knew. I had friends at work who would ask me about the class, wanting to reap some of the harvest of knowledge. I got to the point where I couldn't answer their questions about why the class had been so profound the night before. "What happened?" they would ask. "I don't know! It just got me thinking." And, then I would ask them, "Do you think the Satan in Job is the same Satan in the New Testament?" And, then off they'd go, sounding like the rambling idiot I had sounded like the night before at class. But, I started to look forward to Tuesday nights. I began to anticipating the challenge. I gave myself up to it, wondering what in the world the Lord was teaching me through this young teacher who had power-washed my expectations until all I could expect was to hear from God.
The communion trays were the same bright, shiny silver with the red velvet inlay that make the funny, reflective shapes on the ceiling if you have most of the lights in the sanctuary turned down. I had taught my nieces and nephew to watch for those reflective shapes when they were toddlers, as I had done as a little girl. We all, instinctively, look up to see them, even now that we're too old to be entertained by them. The lights were too bright in this church to see the shapes, but I knew they'd be there if the lighting was right. The progression flowed like I remembered, save for the redirection I had to give my fellow classmates who practiced communion differently at their own churches. "Sip the juice, replace the cup - all in one fluid motion." I have experienced many different rituals and traditions surrounding communion; different kinds of bread, different kinds of juice, some churches eat and drink together. But, the sentiment has always been the same. The remembrance has always been the same. The sacrifice honored has always been the same. I settled in to the sameness, feeling comfortably at home, looking for reflections on the ceiling, knowing that they were there, even if they weren't. Because some things don't change, no matter what else does.
For weeks, as class got started, my seminary teacher would dutifully listen to, write down, and pray for our prayer requests and petitions; sick relatives, lost jobs, marriages in trouble - all were laid at the foot of the throne of Heaven, in hopes that His great mercy would see fit to bat an eye at our troubles, burdens, and cares. And, one week, our teacher, himself asked us to pray for him. We listened as he gave us the run-down of a packed scheduled that only a working, seminary student can fathom that included sharing the pastoral duties of the church he had been attending since coming to seminary. We dutifully listened to, wrote down, and promised to pray for him as he attempted to climb this mountain of responsibilities. Then, the suggestion, by one of the students, that we make the trip out to hear him preach made its way around the room. Several of us agreed that a more marvelous suggestion was never made; our prayers in the flesh. We would go. We would listen. We would support.
Every good preacher begins a sermon with a joke, and my seminary class teacher was true to his calling. My seminary classmates and I sat stacked in pews, supportive, ready to hear how different our teacher might sound coming from a pulpit instead of a class lecturn. But, he did not sound different, perhaps an indication of the calling on his life by God. He wasted little time, presenting his message through the Word that he felt we needed to hear, mincing few words about God's children's tendancy toward self-absorption. And, somewhere between his last point and the invitation song, it hit me: this was exactly where I was supposed to be. Right in the smack-dab middle of a journey. I wasn't where I used to be, but I'm not where I'm meant to end up, either; just right here in the middle. I was bookend-ed, that Sunday morning; able to see where I had been - and suddenly overwhelmingly humbled by the foundation that had been poured long before I knew I would need it with a peep-hole into the future, feeling a little lighter having shed some pretty heavy expectations. Isn't it just like God to bring you through something that you didn't know you were in? And, isn't it just like God to use the most unexpected guide to help mark your journey and usher you into a deeper study and more intimate glimpse of Him?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tomatoes, Chips, and the Holy Spirit
I called my mom to let her know that I had started the project, but after the allotted amount of days, there was nothing to show for it, I had broken it. She assured me that I hadn't done anything wrong. She said that since I had followed the directions on the box exactly, that it wasn't anything I had done. It was just that sometimes things like this don't work out. Perhaps the seeds had been bad. "Well, I didn't follow the directions exactly on the box," I confessed. There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. Oh.
Over Spring Break, I had told her that I had planned to start a pot garden on the balcony of my apartment. After clarifying that the word "pot" was in reference to the containers within which I would grow the desired vegetables (green peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes), we proceeded to the store to check out the garden supplies and to see what we could see by way of pots. We compared pots, read plant food labels, and dreamed about my little balcony farm before we stumbled upon something new and exciting. Upside down tomato-growing kits. What?! What a clever idea! You water from the top! How cute! Wouldn't that be fun?! One for you and one for me! Basket, cashier, money, done.
The directions are written in multiple languages. There are pictures on the box to illustrate most steps of the instructions. And still, I fudged a little. The packet of seeds tore easily enough, but the seeds were so teeny, tiny that my chubby fingers had trouble gathering just the "three per hole" as directed for complete success. I ended up dumping the seeds in my hand and then scattering them as best I could into the three holes. This, apparently, had been my tomato plant demise, because after the 7-10 days of waiting for those little seeds to germinate, I had nothing in my green planter bucket but soil. It was a sad day.
* * *
After showing a friend of mine some class pictures from previous years, she looked up at me and asked if I could pinpoint the time that I started gaining weight. I snapped to attention. I looked at her in disbelief. I calculated my words, knowing defensiveness would point to her being correct in her observation that in recent years, I had gained weight. But, she was right. I have gained weight. And, so, I told her that I didn't know, took my pictures, and hit my knees in prayer. Conviction lead me to look at my diet. And, to own up to the fact that I have been abusing food since I was in college.
Gluttony is a sin, and I am a gluttonous sinner. Eating has become the one thing I can control. And, in that idea, I have lost complete control. Eating is not for nutritional value anymore. It is for emotional release. It is a reward when I have had a good day. It is sympathy when I have had a bad day. It is the thing I come home to every night because there is nothing else to come home to. It is what to do when there is nothing else to do. It makes me full when I feel empty. It has consumed more time, money, and effort in my life than I care to admit. Although, who am I kidding? The pudgy cheeks, muffin top, and bigger clothes sizes say more than I have ever dreamed of saying.
My first encounter with the Holy Spirit was through a Bible study of the Fruit of the Spirit. I had read the passage in Galatians countless times but had never really understood it until this Bible study. After the study was over, I understood the fruit of the Spirit to be gifts, given by God, to enable us to act as He has commanded us to. But, I also understood that we would need the indwelling, supernatural power of the Holy Spirit to pull off this fruit; that they were not things we could do on our own. Not for any length of time, anyway. I believe that the Holy Spirit is such that He enables me to do things that I would never be able to do without Him. He can make me into something that I cannot make on my own. He is God's battery, if you will, inside each of us who have chosen Christ. Like the batteries of a flashlight, the Holy Spirit makes us work.
* * *
I was sitting outside in my rocking chair, listening to worship music and enjoying the Springtime weather. As I settled my gaze on the "broken" green, upside down tomato bucket, my eye caught something that hadn't been there the day before. I grabbed the bucket and shed my sunglasses. There, in the bucket, were two teeny, tiny shoots of a growing tomato plant. They were less than an inch tall. But, they had tiny leaves and enormous potential to be full-blown, tomato-producing plants. I was so excited! I hadn't killed them! They had grown, just as the directions said they would, even with my indifference to following the directions exactly. They were little bitty, now. But, they would grow. I would water them and leave them in the sunlight, and they would grow. And, when it was time, they would produce tomatoes! Ripe, red, juicy tomatoes! Just like the directions said. Because that is what they were designed to do!
* * *
I read about this lady who only ate the bent-over tortilla chips out of the basket at restaurants. Those were the ones she liked best. The ones that were the more complete triangle were too wide to fit in her mouth comfortably with the dollop of salsa on top. So, she only ate the bent -over chips. Sometimes, the basket was overflowing with bent-over chips. She ate them all. Sometimes, there weren't any bent-over chips in the basket at all. She ate none. She only ate the bent-over tortilla chips. I tend to lean toward the bent-over chips, myself. However, it has never occurred to me to only eat those. There is a whole basket full. Why just eat the bent-over chips? But, today, I tried something different. I prayed before the meal - out in my car before anyone else showed up to meet me. I asked for the Holy Spirit to help me; to sustain me; to guide me; and by all means, to stop me. There were five bent-over chips in the basket. I ate only those. Five chips. Lest you miss the magnitude of this sight, let me tell you that I have polished off a whole basket by myself more than once. But, today, I ate five chips. I made other positive adjustments to my normal eating habits during this meal; the most noteworthy - those five chips.
Baby steps. The Holy Spirt seeps in through any crack we allow Him. The tiniest amount of control we relinquish to Him is used for His glory and contains enormous potential for a life lived relying solely on His Spirit. Like those tomato shoots, the Holy Spirit may be seen in teeny, tiny ways in my life, right now, but He will grow. If I continue to pray and study in the Scriptures, and daily submit my life to Him, His Spirit will grow within me. And, when it is time, my life will produce the fruit of the Spirit, gifts from God, allowed to be used through me to glorify Him. Just like His Word commands. Because that is what I have been designed to do.
"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." Galatians 5:22
Over Spring Break, I had told her that I had planned to start a pot garden on the balcony of my apartment. After clarifying that the word "pot" was in reference to the containers within which I would grow the desired vegetables (green peppers, cucumbers, and tomatoes), we proceeded to the store to check out the garden supplies and to see what we could see by way of pots. We compared pots, read plant food labels, and dreamed about my little balcony farm before we stumbled upon something new and exciting. Upside down tomato-growing kits. What?! What a clever idea! You water from the top! How cute! Wouldn't that be fun?! One for you and one for me! Basket, cashier, money, done.
The directions are written in multiple languages. There are pictures on the box to illustrate most steps of the instructions. And still, I fudged a little. The packet of seeds tore easily enough, but the seeds were so teeny, tiny that my chubby fingers had trouble gathering just the "three per hole" as directed for complete success. I ended up dumping the seeds in my hand and then scattering them as best I could into the three holes. This, apparently, had been my tomato plant demise, because after the 7-10 days of waiting for those little seeds to germinate, I had nothing in my green planter bucket but soil. It was a sad day.
* * *
After showing a friend of mine some class pictures from previous years, she looked up at me and asked if I could pinpoint the time that I started gaining weight. I snapped to attention. I looked at her in disbelief. I calculated my words, knowing defensiveness would point to her being correct in her observation that in recent years, I had gained weight. But, she was right. I have gained weight. And, so, I told her that I didn't know, took my pictures, and hit my knees in prayer. Conviction lead me to look at my diet. And, to own up to the fact that I have been abusing food since I was in college.
Gluttony is a sin, and I am a gluttonous sinner. Eating has become the one thing I can control. And, in that idea, I have lost complete control. Eating is not for nutritional value anymore. It is for emotional release. It is a reward when I have had a good day. It is sympathy when I have had a bad day. It is the thing I come home to every night because there is nothing else to come home to. It is what to do when there is nothing else to do. It makes me full when I feel empty. It has consumed more time, money, and effort in my life than I care to admit. Although, who am I kidding? The pudgy cheeks, muffin top, and bigger clothes sizes say more than I have ever dreamed of saying.
My first encounter with the Holy Spirit was through a Bible study of the Fruit of the Spirit. I had read the passage in Galatians countless times but had never really understood it until this Bible study. After the study was over, I understood the fruit of the Spirit to be gifts, given by God, to enable us to act as He has commanded us to. But, I also understood that we would need the indwelling, supernatural power of the Holy Spirit to pull off this fruit; that they were not things we could do on our own. Not for any length of time, anyway. I believe that the Holy Spirit is such that He enables me to do things that I would never be able to do without Him. He can make me into something that I cannot make on my own. He is God's battery, if you will, inside each of us who have chosen Christ. Like the batteries of a flashlight, the Holy Spirit makes us work.
* * *
I was sitting outside in my rocking chair, listening to worship music and enjoying the Springtime weather. As I settled my gaze on the "broken" green, upside down tomato bucket, my eye caught something that hadn't been there the day before. I grabbed the bucket and shed my sunglasses. There, in the bucket, were two teeny, tiny shoots of a growing tomato plant. They were less than an inch tall. But, they had tiny leaves and enormous potential to be full-blown, tomato-producing plants. I was so excited! I hadn't killed them! They had grown, just as the directions said they would, even with my indifference to following the directions exactly. They were little bitty, now. But, they would grow. I would water them and leave them in the sunlight, and they would grow. And, when it was time, they would produce tomatoes! Ripe, red, juicy tomatoes! Just like the directions said. Because that is what they were designed to do!
* * *
I read about this lady who only ate the bent-over tortilla chips out of the basket at restaurants. Those were the ones she liked best. The ones that were the more complete triangle were too wide to fit in her mouth comfortably with the dollop of salsa on top. So, she only ate the bent -over chips. Sometimes, the basket was overflowing with bent-over chips. She ate them all. Sometimes, there weren't any bent-over chips in the basket at all. She ate none. She only ate the bent-over tortilla chips. I tend to lean toward the bent-over chips, myself. However, it has never occurred to me to only eat those. There is a whole basket full. Why just eat the bent-over chips? But, today, I tried something different. I prayed before the meal - out in my car before anyone else showed up to meet me. I asked for the Holy Spirit to help me; to sustain me; to guide me; and by all means, to stop me. There were five bent-over chips in the basket. I ate only those. Five chips. Lest you miss the magnitude of this sight, let me tell you that I have polished off a whole basket by myself more than once. But, today, I ate five chips. I made other positive adjustments to my normal eating habits during this meal; the most noteworthy - those five chips.
Baby steps. The Holy Spirt seeps in through any crack we allow Him. The tiniest amount of control we relinquish to Him is used for His glory and contains enormous potential for a life lived relying solely on His Spirit. Like those tomato shoots, the Holy Spirit may be seen in teeny, tiny ways in my life, right now, but He will grow. If I continue to pray and study in the Scriptures, and daily submit my life to Him, His Spirit will grow within me. And, when it is time, my life will produce the fruit of the Spirit, gifts from God, allowed to be used through me to glorify Him. Just like His Word commands. Because that is what I have been designed to do.
"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." Galatians 5:22
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Inclement Weather
The phone calls started early in the evening. One by one, as my friends and I sat watching movies at another friend's house, calls came in for kids to go home. Apparently, according to the weather man, a snow storm was coming, and the only way Texans know to brace themselves is by bringing all their chickens in for the night. Most parents came to get their kids, mentioning how bad it was getting out there and how much more comfortable they felt being the ones driving, as opposed to trusting their 16-year-old kids, my friends, to the snow. No call came for me. When I phoned home to let them know I was on my way, Dad seemed unimpressed. I asked if he was going to be waiting out front for me when I got home. His answer - "Baby, it's cold outside. Come inside when you get here. Then, I'll know you made it home." Fine. I made the five-mile trek home, having never driven in snow before, flawlessly. There were two, perfectly straight, unwavering tire tracks in the snow, marking my route and my confidence in a God who seemingly shows out through weather.
I grew up in Wichita, Kansas - in the smack-dab heart of Tornado Alley. One would think that because of the documented destruction and devastation that a tornado causes, an element of respect would emerge. One would think. My dad ran a local radio station in Wichita. Anytime inclement weather rode into town, he was up and out the door to check on the transmitter; assuring the listeners of Oz that their radio programs would be uninterrupted. My mother, being a super-mom, could not waste time in a basement away from laundry and dishes and papers to grade. So, when the tornado sirens screamed, they rounded us kids up and herded us down to the basement before heading out to the transmitter or over to the sink to finish the dinner dishes. And, once in the basement we had little worry about what was happening above ground. Our basement boasted amenities like a TV and fridge and Nintendo game system. We had all we could ever want, save for a bathroom. We just didn't let our feathers get too ruffled by things like tornadoes.
One of my all-time favorite things to do is sit out on my balcony, in my rocking chair, listening to music while a rainstorm rolls in. If the temperature is right, I'll slip off my shoes and prop my bare feet up on the railing and watch the lightening show that usually accompanies North Texas thunderstorms. My neighbor across the way does not like this. She is, obviously, a mother. A mother to the core such that she would shout out across the way, waving at me to go inside. One particular time, I took off my headphones long enough to see what she was yelling about. "Get yourself inside! There's a bad storm coming. You shouldn't be out in this weather!" she yells. I just smiled, waved, slipped my headphones back on, and continued rocking. I don't take my headphones off anymore for her. I just smile and keep watching God show off.
I am not of the mind to understand meteorologists and their science. I don't really want to. Arctic air masses, downdrafts, McFarland signature thrusts, and atmospheric pressure have nothing on God's fingers and whispers and laughter which is what I imagine inclement weather as being. There is something comforting about the changing weather. It's a visible reminder, for me, that God is in complete control; that He created something so complex as a human that can sit out on her balcony to watch something else so complex as a lightening storm. He runs it all. He moves it all. Humans and weather are ever-changing, but God is not. And, that is very comforting to me.
"...He causes his sun to rise..., and sends rain..." Matthew 6:45
I grew up in Wichita, Kansas - in the smack-dab heart of Tornado Alley. One would think that because of the documented destruction and devastation that a tornado causes, an element of respect would emerge. One would think. My dad ran a local radio station in Wichita. Anytime inclement weather rode into town, he was up and out the door to check on the transmitter; assuring the listeners of Oz that their radio programs would be uninterrupted. My mother, being a super-mom, could not waste time in a basement away from laundry and dishes and papers to grade. So, when the tornado sirens screamed, they rounded us kids up and herded us down to the basement before heading out to the transmitter or over to the sink to finish the dinner dishes. And, once in the basement we had little worry about what was happening above ground. Our basement boasted amenities like a TV and fridge and Nintendo game system. We had all we could ever want, save for a bathroom. We just didn't let our feathers get too ruffled by things like tornadoes.
One of my all-time favorite things to do is sit out on my balcony, in my rocking chair, listening to music while a rainstorm rolls in. If the temperature is right, I'll slip off my shoes and prop my bare feet up on the railing and watch the lightening show that usually accompanies North Texas thunderstorms. My neighbor across the way does not like this. She is, obviously, a mother. A mother to the core such that she would shout out across the way, waving at me to go inside. One particular time, I took off my headphones long enough to see what she was yelling about. "Get yourself inside! There's a bad storm coming. You shouldn't be out in this weather!" she yells. I just smiled, waved, slipped my headphones back on, and continued rocking. I don't take my headphones off anymore for her. I just smile and keep watching God show off.
I am not of the mind to understand meteorologists and their science. I don't really want to. Arctic air masses, downdrafts, McFarland signature thrusts, and atmospheric pressure have nothing on God's fingers and whispers and laughter which is what I imagine inclement weather as being. There is something comforting about the changing weather. It's a visible reminder, for me, that God is in complete control; that He created something so complex as a human that can sit out on her balcony to watch something else so complex as a lightening storm. He runs it all. He moves it all. Humans and weather are ever-changing, but God is not. And, that is very comforting to me.
"...He causes his sun to rise..., and sends rain..." Matthew 6:45
Doug
I heard Doug the other day. Every now and again, his song comes on the radio. I crank it up and sing along and somewhere during the verses that we pretend have nothing to do with illegal recreational drugs, I always say, "Hey Doug. Glenna's doing fine. She's doing just fine." And then, I finish out the song, loud and proud.
His song came on all the time, it seemed, right after the funeral. I couldn't go a day, for a while, where it didn't come on at least once. And, since it came on so often, I figured it best to say hello and let him know how his wife was doing. I didn't know what to tell him about his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I didn't know any of them too well. But, his wife, I knew. And, I knew that she was getting along as best she could. And, I knew that her well-being was what he had been most concerned with there at the end.
Colon cancer is hell. It strikes fast and hard. It snakes its way through the digestive track and clings to the very walls of the colon. It is terribly painful and brings with it some of the most uncomfortable side effects of all the cancers. Doug's December diagnosis was met with a fist-in-the-air fight song of beating the odds. After a March surgery to see what was removable, the doctors gave him 18 months to live, assuming he underwent chemotherapy. Forking over the money to pay for those chemotherapy pills hurt worse than the side effects of the actual treatment. Doug's hair stayed firmly in place, he rarely got sick, never felt the exhaustion you read about. He continued to work and fish and play with his grandchildren as if there weren't some foreign growth in his body silently killing him.
His physical decline became noticeable in mid-August. He stopped joining the group for lunch after church. He stopped meeting up for the movies. He stopped caring about fishing lures and treble hooks. He stopped being able to stand for as long as any activity would require of him. He started needing around-the-clock care; Glenna took the wife-shift - she was never far from his side.
Late one Sunday night, Doug seemed agitated, fitful, uncomfortable. He thrashed around in the bed, making a mess of the sheets and blankets. Glenna was handing over the reigns of night-watchman to Doug's sister in hopes of some much-needed rest. Before she left, she sat on the bed and told Doug, "I'm going to be fine. If you need to go, you just go on and go. I understand. I'm going to be fine." His thrashing calmed. He had the permission he needed. He died not an hour later.
And amid all the planning that loved ones do to occupy the time that seems to stretch like a life-sized rubber band between death and grieving, and living again, someone remembered that Doug had mentioned wanting "Spirit in the Sky" played at his funeral. Doug liked a good joke as well as the next guy, so there had to be a chuckle when this notion came up of actually playing the song at his funeral.
But, you can't very well argue with a dead man. Not one that had spent his life wanting very little other than for his wife to be happy, his children and grandchildren to be close by, and some good fishing weather every now and again. He asked for a specific song. What could they do?
So, after the kind words, healing Scripture, and loving prayers had been said, the familiar opening chords rang out as we all got to our feet to file out and view the casket. It was hard not to bob your head a little. And, by the time we young people on the back row made it up to pay our last respects to Doug, we were all but dancing. It was what Doug had wanted. That, and to make sure his wife would be okay.
And, she is doing fine, Doug. Just fine.
"Prepare yourself
you know it's a must
Gotta have a friend in Jesus
So you know that when you die
He's gonna recommend you
to the spirit in the sky."
-Norm Greenbaum
"Spirit in the Sky"
His song came on all the time, it seemed, right after the funeral. I couldn't go a day, for a while, where it didn't come on at least once. And, since it came on so often, I figured it best to say hello and let him know how his wife was doing. I didn't know what to tell him about his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I didn't know any of them too well. But, his wife, I knew. And, I knew that she was getting along as best she could. And, I knew that her well-being was what he had been most concerned with there at the end.
Colon cancer is hell. It strikes fast and hard. It snakes its way through the digestive track and clings to the very walls of the colon. It is terribly painful and brings with it some of the most uncomfortable side effects of all the cancers. Doug's December diagnosis was met with a fist-in-the-air fight song of beating the odds. After a March surgery to see what was removable, the doctors gave him 18 months to live, assuming he underwent chemotherapy. Forking over the money to pay for those chemotherapy pills hurt worse than the side effects of the actual treatment. Doug's hair stayed firmly in place, he rarely got sick, never felt the exhaustion you read about. He continued to work and fish and play with his grandchildren as if there weren't some foreign growth in his body silently killing him.
His physical decline became noticeable in mid-August. He stopped joining the group for lunch after church. He stopped meeting up for the movies. He stopped caring about fishing lures and treble hooks. He stopped being able to stand for as long as any activity would require of him. He started needing around-the-clock care; Glenna took the wife-shift - she was never far from his side.
Late one Sunday night, Doug seemed agitated, fitful, uncomfortable. He thrashed around in the bed, making a mess of the sheets and blankets. Glenna was handing over the reigns of night-watchman to Doug's sister in hopes of some much-needed rest. Before she left, she sat on the bed and told Doug, "I'm going to be fine. If you need to go, you just go on and go. I understand. I'm going to be fine." His thrashing calmed. He had the permission he needed. He died not an hour later.
And amid all the planning that loved ones do to occupy the time that seems to stretch like a life-sized rubber band between death and grieving, and living again, someone remembered that Doug had mentioned wanting "Spirit in the Sky" played at his funeral. Doug liked a good joke as well as the next guy, so there had to be a chuckle when this notion came up of actually playing the song at his funeral.
But, you can't very well argue with a dead man. Not one that had spent his life wanting very little other than for his wife to be happy, his children and grandchildren to be close by, and some good fishing weather every now and again. He asked for a specific song. What could they do?
So, after the kind words, healing Scripture, and loving prayers had been said, the familiar opening chords rang out as we all got to our feet to file out and view the casket. It was hard not to bob your head a little. And, by the time we young people on the back row made it up to pay our last respects to Doug, we were all but dancing. It was what Doug had wanted. That, and to make sure his wife would be okay.
And, she is doing fine, Doug. Just fine.
"Prepare yourself
you know it's a must
Gotta have a friend in Jesus
So you know that when you die
He's gonna recommend you
to the spirit in the sky."
-Norm Greenbaum
"Spirit in the Sky"
DNA vs. God's Will
I have, somewhere deep in my DNA structure, a gene that causes me to want to make things happen.
A born cruise-director. If I could just be put in charge of the clipboard with the master list of activities, snapping my fingers and pointing to where and when things were going to happen, answering questions for those who weren't listening, and readjusting my sun visor as I demonstrated the exit route after having done the giant slide at the back of the boat, I would have fulfilled one of my life's desires.
An insta-conductor. I have never been able to play an instrument; can barely carry a tune; have no idea what those little notes on the steps mean. But, if I could be that guy in the tux, waving the stick with everyone poised and looking at me to know what happens next, I could die a happy woman.
A wanna-be wedding planner. The absolute delirium I would feel in getting to be the person who knew when everything was to arrive, who was to be where at what time, the time-keeper, the delivery-checker, the go-to woman in the headset would be enough to float me right on up to heaven with a smile on my face.
So, you can imagine the fall out when, upon putting the Lord on in baptism, I learned that He wanted to be the cruise-director, the conductor, and the wedding planner - all in one. I handled it well for a time. I was gracious enough to let God think He was in control from November of my 6th grade year until the following September. Then, we began having problems. I had agreed to let God be the prayer-answerer, as long as He stuck to the prayers I had asked for. You know, did what I said. But, from my 7th grade year on, I realized that I had a rogue -God on my hands. He wasn't always where I needed Him to be. And, He certainly wasn't answering my prayers like I had wanted Him to. This incensed me to no end. I had plans! I had dreams! I had things to do! I knew where everything was and when it was to take place! Obviously, he hadn't noticed the clip board, the stick-thing, or the headset. He, clearly, did not recognize that I was the one in charge; the one making things happen.
I sat at a homecoming football game a few years out of college watching the young ladies be driven around the track, sitting high on the back of a very expensive car, being escorted to their place on the field, all of them waiting to hear their name being called as that year's homecoming queen. As each girl was introduced, the announcer gave a run-down of the things that she had participated in at school and church, and he listed out loud for all to hear her goals and dreams for the future. Each girl's goals had to do with whatever career path she wanted to take: "Barbara Sue wants to attend Texas Tech University and major in Veterinary Science." Her dreams had to do with her family life: "Barbara Sue wants to be married with three kids by the time she is 34." I sat in the stands, wearing black and red to support the team I was going for, freezing cold from an early-October cold front that had moved in, shaking my head, completed jaded. I had been one of those high school girls with goals and dream, too. None of the things on my list of goals and dreams had manifested themselves. My ability to make things happen had failed. And, God had been boycotting my prayer requests for some time, by then.
I asked for a set of Oneida 18/10 stainless flatware from a department store for Christmas about three years ago. I had been using the cheap, plastic-handled, college-y kind for all of my adult life. I was holding out on real flatware in hopes that whatever fiance ended up next to me and I would register for some at Macy's so our friends would have something to buy us for our wedding showers. I am embarrassed to admit all of the things that I "held out on" while waiting for the life I had dreamed up to start taking shape. The problem was, my real life had already begun taking shape. I just hadn't had a thing to do with the shaping of it, and it didn't look anything like I had dreamed it would. I had sucummbed to God's Will, by then. Gave in to it. Admitted defeat. Waved a white flag and surrendered to it. And, so on Christmas morning, there in bright-colored wrapping, tied up with a bow, an outward sign of the acceptance of how my life had shifted from what I wanted to what God had prepared.
My mom teaches middle schoolers. God help her. She teaches three classes of regular English and one class of fancy English. Her coworker teaches three classes of fancy English and one class of regular English. To me, it seems like it would make more sense and be less work for one teacher to teach all of the regular English and the other teacher to teach all of the fancy English. I made noise as such to my mother who assured me that, although she had similar thoughts, she trusted the schedule-makers because they knew all the rules, they had years of experience in creating schedules, and they had the big picture in mind. She recognized that just because it didn't make sense to her (or her know-it-all, cruise director, insta-conductor, wedding planner wanna-be daughter), it didn't mean that it didn't make sense at all. Her classes were a detail in the school's big picture. And, she trusted the person with the big picture.
Oh, that I would be able to apply such a concept to my life!
I finished reading a book this past week that spoke on, among other things, trusting God. Not trusting God to do this or that for us. Just trusting God. And, I was convicted by the idea that trusting God to do something for us is to have expectations. Trusting God to do what He Wills is to have faith.
Clipboards, stick-things, and headsets are a part of me. I am who I am. But, I want to make sure that I have a free hand to take hold of what God has for me, whatever it may be in this life. And, I want to trust God - not to do what I want but to do what He Wills.
"' For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord. 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" Jeremiah 29:11
"'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the Lord." Isaiah 55:8
A born cruise-director. If I could just be put in charge of the clipboard with the master list of activities, snapping my fingers and pointing to where and when things were going to happen, answering questions for those who weren't listening, and readjusting my sun visor as I demonstrated the exit route after having done the giant slide at the back of the boat, I would have fulfilled one of my life's desires.
An insta-conductor. I have never been able to play an instrument; can barely carry a tune; have no idea what those little notes on the steps mean. But, if I could be that guy in the tux, waving the stick with everyone poised and looking at me to know what happens next, I could die a happy woman.
A wanna-be wedding planner. The absolute delirium I would feel in getting to be the person who knew when everything was to arrive, who was to be where at what time, the time-keeper, the delivery-checker, the go-to woman in the headset would be enough to float me right on up to heaven with a smile on my face.
So, you can imagine the fall out when, upon putting the Lord on in baptism, I learned that He wanted to be the cruise-director, the conductor, and the wedding planner - all in one. I handled it well for a time. I was gracious enough to let God think He was in control from November of my 6th grade year until the following September. Then, we began having problems. I had agreed to let God be the prayer-answerer, as long as He stuck to the prayers I had asked for. You know, did what I said. But, from my 7th grade year on, I realized that I had a rogue -God on my hands. He wasn't always where I needed Him to be. And, He certainly wasn't answering my prayers like I had wanted Him to. This incensed me to no end. I had plans! I had dreams! I had things to do! I knew where everything was and when it was to take place! Obviously, he hadn't noticed the clip board, the stick-thing, or the headset. He, clearly, did not recognize that I was the one in charge; the one making things happen.
I sat at a homecoming football game a few years out of college watching the young ladies be driven around the track, sitting high on the back of a very expensive car, being escorted to their place on the field, all of them waiting to hear their name being called as that year's homecoming queen. As each girl was introduced, the announcer gave a run-down of the things that she had participated in at school and church, and he listed out loud for all to hear her goals and dreams for the future. Each girl's goals had to do with whatever career path she wanted to take: "Barbara Sue wants to attend Texas Tech University and major in Veterinary Science." Her dreams had to do with her family life: "Barbara Sue wants to be married with three kids by the time she is 34." I sat in the stands, wearing black and red to support the team I was going for, freezing cold from an early-October cold front that had moved in, shaking my head, completed jaded. I had been one of those high school girls with goals and dream, too. None of the things on my list of goals and dreams had manifested themselves. My ability to make things happen had failed. And, God had been boycotting my prayer requests for some time, by then.
I asked for a set of Oneida 18/10 stainless flatware from a department store for Christmas about three years ago. I had been using the cheap, plastic-handled, college-y kind for all of my adult life. I was holding out on real flatware in hopes that whatever fiance ended up next to me and I would register for some at Macy's so our friends would have something to buy us for our wedding showers. I am embarrassed to admit all of the things that I "held out on" while waiting for the life I had dreamed up to start taking shape. The problem was, my real life had already begun taking shape. I just hadn't had a thing to do with the shaping of it, and it didn't look anything like I had dreamed it would. I had sucummbed to God's Will, by then. Gave in to it. Admitted defeat. Waved a white flag and surrendered to it. And, so on Christmas morning, there in bright-colored wrapping, tied up with a bow, an outward sign of the acceptance of how my life had shifted from what I wanted to what God had prepared.
My mom teaches middle schoolers. God help her. She teaches three classes of regular English and one class of fancy English. Her coworker teaches three classes of fancy English and one class of regular English. To me, it seems like it would make more sense and be less work for one teacher to teach all of the regular English and the other teacher to teach all of the fancy English. I made noise as such to my mother who assured me that, although she had similar thoughts, she trusted the schedule-makers because they knew all the rules, they had years of experience in creating schedules, and they had the big picture in mind. She recognized that just because it didn't make sense to her (or her know-it-all, cruise director, insta-conductor, wedding planner wanna-be daughter), it didn't mean that it didn't make sense at all. Her classes were a detail in the school's big picture. And, she trusted the person with the big picture.
Oh, that I would be able to apply such a concept to my life!
I finished reading a book this past week that spoke on, among other things, trusting God. Not trusting God to do this or that for us. Just trusting God. And, I was convicted by the idea that trusting God to do something for us is to have expectations. Trusting God to do what He Wills is to have faith.
Clipboards, stick-things, and headsets are a part of me. I am who I am. But, I want to make sure that I have a free hand to take hold of what God has for me, whatever it may be in this life. And, I want to trust God - not to do what I want but to do what He Wills.
"' For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord. 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" Jeremiah 29:11
"'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the Lord." Isaiah 55:8
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Crystal Clear
I just want to be clear on something.
If I could, I would bottle every positive comment made, compliment expressed, smile given in reference to these blog postings so that I could actually drink them. I am that prideful. After I've posted a new blog, I check it regularly for the next several days to see if someone has commented on something I have said. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, when someone I didn't know read the blog and commented about how it had uplifted her for the day. I relished the idea that something I said had done that for her. I am that prideful. I have known, for a long time, that God granted me the gift of writing. He blessed with the ability to string words together in such a way that you would read it and enjoy it and probably want to hear more. He did all the work, but I want all the credit. I am that prideful. Sometimes, I reread my words over and over out loud and to myself because I am so please with how they sounded and how perfectly they captured exactly what I was trying to say. And, I forget about God and His gift-giving, all together. I am that prideful.
I am that prideful.
And, I am that insecure.
For all of my life, I have sought the affirmation of others. I have tap danced my feet to oblivion just to hear the applause. I have joked and flung sarcasm just to hear the roar of laughter. I have lied and pretended to create a better story. I took what others said about me and my life and my appearance and my worth and my personality and my writing and have used it as the very food needed to keep on living. I have been on a self-worth high thanks to the smile or accolade from someone else. I have groveled in the self-worth pit of mud and muck thanks to a jeer or rejection from someone else. I have ridden the roller coaster. I have surfed the ebb and flow. I have trekked the valley and scaled the peak.
And, it has gotten me nothing.
So, I just want to be completely clear on this:
I am a fraud. I am useless. I am wrong most of the time. I cannot do what I say I can do. I did not do what I said I did. I will not do what I said I would. I am afraid of more things than I could ever list. I am weak. I am puny. I am slime. I am scum. I am wretched. I am gross. I am stupid. I am unlovable. I should not be trusted. I am a liar. I am a cheat. I am crooked. I am terrible with money. I do not deserve anything that I have been given. I should be put to death. I should be thrown out. I should be cast aside. I should never have been given a second chance. I am completely unworthy.
So, if you happen to see ANYTHING other than the things I have just listed, please recognize that you have seen a miracle that ONLY the Lord God can do, through His Spirit. It is by His Grace and through His mighty hand that I am anything other than what I have listed above.
I just want to be completely clear on this.
"But, by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace to me was not without affect. No, I worked harder than all of them - yet, not I, but the grace of God that was with me." I Corinthians 15:10
If I could, I would bottle every positive comment made, compliment expressed, smile given in reference to these blog postings so that I could actually drink them. I am that prideful. After I've posted a new blog, I check it regularly for the next several days to see if someone has commented on something I have said. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, when someone I didn't know read the blog and commented about how it had uplifted her for the day. I relished the idea that something I said had done that for her. I am that prideful. I have known, for a long time, that God granted me the gift of writing. He blessed with the ability to string words together in such a way that you would read it and enjoy it and probably want to hear more. He did all the work, but I want all the credit. I am that prideful. Sometimes, I reread my words over and over out loud and to myself because I am so please with how they sounded and how perfectly they captured exactly what I was trying to say. And, I forget about God and His gift-giving, all together. I am that prideful.
I am that prideful.
And, I am that insecure.
For all of my life, I have sought the affirmation of others. I have tap danced my feet to oblivion just to hear the applause. I have joked and flung sarcasm just to hear the roar of laughter. I have lied and pretended to create a better story. I took what others said about me and my life and my appearance and my worth and my personality and my writing and have used it as the very food needed to keep on living. I have been on a self-worth high thanks to the smile or accolade from someone else. I have groveled in the self-worth pit of mud and muck thanks to a jeer or rejection from someone else. I have ridden the roller coaster. I have surfed the ebb and flow. I have trekked the valley and scaled the peak.
And, it has gotten me nothing.
So, I just want to be completely clear on this:
I am a fraud. I am useless. I am wrong most of the time. I cannot do what I say I can do. I did not do what I said I did. I will not do what I said I would. I am afraid of more things than I could ever list. I am weak. I am puny. I am slime. I am scum. I am wretched. I am gross. I am stupid. I am unlovable. I should not be trusted. I am a liar. I am a cheat. I am crooked. I am terrible with money. I do not deserve anything that I have been given. I should be put to death. I should be thrown out. I should be cast aside. I should never have been given a second chance. I am completely unworthy.
So, if you happen to see ANYTHING other than the things I have just listed, please recognize that you have seen a miracle that ONLY the Lord God can do, through His Spirit. It is by His Grace and through His mighty hand that I am anything other than what I have listed above.
I just want to be completely clear on this.
"But, by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace to me was not without affect. No, I worked harder than all of them - yet, not I, but the grace of God that was with me." I Corinthians 15:10
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The Juggler
He told me to shut up and stand still.
I tend to like the stories more about Him comforting and loving His children, and I promise I don't question His love for me. I just thought He would be less.... cut throat when He spoke. I had hoped He would be calm and quieting and maybe just whisper a breezy revelation into my ear. But, no. Not for me. It was more of a close-up shout that blew my hair up, away from my face, and caused me to close my eyes to avoid eyeball windburn. I could have smelled what He had had for dinner. His voice, although raised, was still loving, but it had the "And don't talk back to me, young lady!" timber to it; the kind you don't question. And, so, I didn't question it. I just nodded my head in reverence, slumped my shoulders, and turned to do what I knew I had to do.
My brother can juggle. He taught himself in college. He started with little bean bags and worked his way up to fruit from the produce section of the supermarket. Then, my mother "helped" him work his way back down to things that were already purchased and not necessarily edible, for safety and sanitary reasons. And, I always thought I wanted to learn to juggle. My brother looked so cool doing it. But then, my life started needing to be juggled and it stopped looking so cool. And, I kind of wished it was just my brother who knew how to keep things in the air long enough to toss something else up, and I wished it were just bean bags or even fruit from the produce section of the supermarket and not my own life that was being tossed up.
Asking for God's direction is not for the faint of heart. Seriously. If you're going to ask, the next important thing to be ready to do is what He says. I get stalled in that second step sometimes. I ask, and then keep asking until He changes His mind and tells me what I want to hear. He hasn't ever changed His mind... so, it would make more sense to listen to Him the first time, wouldn't it? I know. I know.
So, somewhere between throwing something else in the air and catching another something as it was falling, God let me know that what He expected me to do was to shut up and stand still. He had probably been telling me to do this for some time, but I was too busy asking Him over and over again what He wanted me to do to hear His answer. I was dumbfounded. Stand still? Then, everything would fall.
But, then, I could put my arms down and stop juggling.
The wreckage was massive. The destruction awesome. Most of the things I had been juggling were totaled. My heart was broken. My life a mess. It has taken me years to sift through and clean up the pile of people, attitudes, thoughts, lies, feelings, situations, consequences, theologies, and ideas that I had been juggling for so long.
But, it has been in the clean-up that I realize that God knows what He's doing. A teeny, tiny part of His master plan revealed and understood by another teeny, tiny part.
Most of the things that I had been juggling shattered into a million pieces. And, when I dug down deep enough to find the shattered pieces, they weren't worth saving. I pointed to the shattered mess and yelled at God, "Look at what you made me do! How could you?" But, even as I yelled at God, I knew that I was the benefactor in the situation. He helped sweep up the last of the pieces and with a breath of redeeming love, He blew the dirt away to reveal a clean, unblemished spot where I could see His reflection.
Some things were broken but salvageable. Big pieces of relationships and ideas were recognizable. Finding all the pieces proved to be the hard part. But, I knew, at once, that I was to search the entire area to find those that were missing. I presented the pieces to God and asked Him to put back together something that I had caused to break, and without hesitation, He took the pieces from me and began to glue them back together with His Spirit, giving the glue time enough to dry and those of us involved time enough to heal. Reconstruction, although altered, is almost always stronger.
And, there were some things, more things than I realized, that were not phased, in the least, during the tumble. I saw these things as the solid, cornerstones on which to begin rebuilding my life. Promises and truths from His Word that stood the test of trial and tribulations. People who knew me better than I knew myself, who saw the fall coming, who committed to being there when it was time to move on. Parts of me that turned out stronger than I thought, more resilient than expected, steadier than what was shown before.
Years have passed. Time has healed wounds. Love has replaced fear. Priorities have changed.
God has remained the same through it all. Whispering breezy revelations to those who will listen, yelling for those who won't. Always ready to breath redeeming love into an empty vessel and reconstruct salvageable broken-ness.
Juggling occupies the hands. God occupies the heart.
The easiest way to stop juggling is to stand still and shut up.
I tend to like the stories more about Him comforting and loving His children, and I promise I don't question His love for me. I just thought He would be less.... cut throat when He spoke. I had hoped He would be calm and quieting and maybe just whisper a breezy revelation into my ear. But, no. Not for me. It was more of a close-up shout that blew my hair up, away from my face, and caused me to close my eyes to avoid eyeball windburn. I could have smelled what He had had for dinner. His voice, although raised, was still loving, but it had the "And don't talk back to me, young lady!" timber to it; the kind you don't question. And, so, I didn't question it. I just nodded my head in reverence, slumped my shoulders, and turned to do what I knew I had to do.
My brother can juggle. He taught himself in college. He started with little bean bags and worked his way up to fruit from the produce section of the supermarket. Then, my mother "helped" him work his way back down to things that were already purchased and not necessarily edible, for safety and sanitary reasons. And, I always thought I wanted to learn to juggle. My brother looked so cool doing it. But then, my life started needing to be juggled and it stopped looking so cool. And, I kind of wished it was just my brother who knew how to keep things in the air long enough to toss something else up, and I wished it were just bean bags or even fruit from the produce section of the supermarket and not my own life that was being tossed up.
Asking for God's direction is not for the faint of heart. Seriously. If you're going to ask, the next important thing to be ready to do is what He says. I get stalled in that second step sometimes. I ask, and then keep asking until He changes His mind and tells me what I want to hear. He hasn't ever changed His mind... so, it would make more sense to listen to Him the first time, wouldn't it? I know. I know.
So, somewhere between throwing something else in the air and catching another something as it was falling, God let me know that what He expected me to do was to shut up and stand still. He had probably been telling me to do this for some time, but I was too busy asking Him over and over again what He wanted me to do to hear His answer. I was dumbfounded. Stand still? Then, everything would fall.
But, then, I could put my arms down and stop juggling.
The wreckage was massive. The destruction awesome. Most of the things I had been juggling were totaled. My heart was broken. My life a mess. It has taken me years to sift through and clean up the pile of people, attitudes, thoughts, lies, feelings, situations, consequences, theologies, and ideas that I had been juggling for so long.
But, it has been in the clean-up that I realize that God knows what He's doing. A teeny, tiny part of His master plan revealed and understood by another teeny, tiny part.
Most of the things that I had been juggling shattered into a million pieces. And, when I dug down deep enough to find the shattered pieces, they weren't worth saving. I pointed to the shattered mess and yelled at God, "Look at what you made me do! How could you?" But, even as I yelled at God, I knew that I was the benefactor in the situation. He helped sweep up the last of the pieces and with a breath of redeeming love, He blew the dirt away to reveal a clean, unblemished spot where I could see His reflection.
Some things were broken but salvageable. Big pieces of relationships and ideas were recognizable. Finding all the pieces proved to be the hard part. But, I knew, at once, that I was to search the entire area to find those that were missing. I presented the pieces to God and asked Him to put back together something that I had caused to break, and without hesitation, He took the pieces from me and began to glue them back together with His Spirit, giving the glue time enough to dry and those of us involved time enough to heal. Reconstruction, although altered, is almost always stronger.
And, there were some things, more things than I realized, that were not phased, in the least, during the tumble. I saw these things as the solid, cornerstones on which to begin rebuilding my life. Promises and truths from His Word that stood the test of trial and tribulations. People who knew me better than I knew myself, who saw the fall coming, who committed to being there when it was time to move on. Parts of me that turned out stronger than I thought, more resilient than expected, steadier than what was shown before.
Years have passed. Time has healed wounds. Love has replaced fear. Priorities have changed.
God has remained the same through it all. Whispering breezy revelations to those who will listen, yelling for those who won't. Always ready to breath redeeming love into an empty vessel and reconstruct salvageable broken-ness.
Juggling occupies the hands. God occupies the heart.
The easiest way to stop juggling is to stand still and shut up.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
What Really Matters
My dad was the dunker. He and I had practiced out of the water several times, he telling me what he would say and when to grab my nose. So, when the time came, we executed the task with superb precision. I had gotten a little emotional when he asked me if I believed that Jesus was the Son of God and that He had come and died to take away my sins. At the time, I was embarrassed by the tears. Now, I am embarrassed that I was embarrassed - there never being a more appropriate time to be emotional. I came up out of the waters of baptism on that fine Wednesday evening to a line of proud huggers, mostly my parents' friends, and the promise of a robe and a crown and a soul-to-soul reunion with Jesus someday
I spent the next fifteen years trying to be good - not cussing, not drinking, not smoking, not having sex, not worshiping using instruments, not accidentally swallowing the wrong kind of bread during communion. You know, being good. Not sinning. There were a hosts of things listed in the Bible that I knew I shouldn't do. And, there were a host of things preached from every pulpit of every church I ever attended that also equalled sin that I was expected to abstain from. And, for whatever reason, I understood that if I wanted to be loved, saved, and accepted into heaven, I was to follow these laws; the ones from the Bible and the ones from the pulpit.
I was terrible at it. I was always finding myself in the middle of some kind of sin. And, then, I would think of one of those lesser-known sins (gossip, lying, gluttony) and really sink. And, since I couldn't seem to keep myself out of sin, I knew that I couldn't really be saved, loved, and accepted into heaven. I was only "in" for as long as I could be good, and I wasn't very good at being good. I was pretty sure I had been placed on probationary status there in the Book of Life and that at any minute, my sins would show up, God would roll his eyes, and thump me out of line but always allowing me to try again to earn my spot back. He was a gracious God, after all.
I do not know where I got the jilted and twisted idea that my actions, good works, and faith got me from point A to point B, and then God's grace took over, getting me from point B to the pearly gates of heaven and that robe and crown I was promised. And, I cannot pinpoint the day when Christ's sacrifice for me became real I cannot remember when I stopped thinking God's grace was the grout between the tiles of my righteousness and understood His righteousness was all there was. But, by the grace of God, I did come to understand. He was all I had. He was all there was.
Luke's telling of the Parable of the Lost Son resonates with me; more so these days than ever before. I had always pictured that lost son demanding his inheritance and then hustling himself right down to the local bar to blow it all. Luke 15:13 says he "... squandered his wealth in wild living..." That phrase gave way to my imagining all sorts of terrible sins that the Lost Son threw his money away on.
But, in truth, all of us suffer in wild living and money squandering without the saving Grace that Jesus brought us. No matter how good I am or how little I sin, I am nothing without Jesus and God's grace and mercy. Even in my best days of strong faith, good works, and letter of the law following, it amounts to nothing without Jesus. it's all pig slop without Him; every bit of it.
"But the father said to his servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him..." Luke 15:22a
I have been promised a robe and a crown. And some sweet day, I'll sing up there, wearing my robe and crown, the song of victory. Not because I have been so good. But, because He is.
I spent the next fifteen years trying to be good - not cussing, not drinking, not smoking, not having sex, not worshiping using instruments, not accidentally swallowing the wrong kind of bread during communion. You know, being good. Not sinning. There were a hosts of things listed in the Bible that I knew I shouldn't do. And, there were a host of things preached from every pulpit of every church I ever attended that also equalled sin that I was expected to abstain from. And, for whatever reason, I understood that if I wanted to be loved, saved, and accepted into heaven, I was to follow these laws; the ones from the Bible and the ones from the pulpit.
I was terrible at it. I was always finding myself in the middle of some kind of sin. And, then, I would think of one of those lesser-known sins (gossip, lying, gluttony) and really sink. And, since I couldn't seem to keep myself out of sin, I knew that I couldn't really be saved, loved, and accepted into heaven. I was only "in" for as long as I could be good, and I wasn't very good at being good. I was pretty sure I had been placed on probationary status there in the Book of Life and that at any minute, my sins would show up, God would roll his eyes, and thump me out of line but always allowing me to try again to earn my spot back. He was a gracious God, after all.
I do not know where I got the jilted and twisted idea that my actions, good works, and faith got me from point A to point B, and then God's grace took over, getting me from point B to the pearly gates of heaven and that robe and crown I was promised. And, I cannot pinpoint the day when Christ's sacrifice for me became real I cannot remember when I stopped thinking God's grace was the grout between the tiles of my righteousness and understood His righteousness was all there was. But, by the grace of God, I did come to understand. He was all I had. He was all there was.
Luke's telling of the Parable of the Lost Son resonates with me; more so these days than ever before. I had always pictured that lost son demanding his inheritance and then hustling himself right down to the local bar to blow it all. Luke 15:13 says he "... squandered his wealth in wild living..." That phrase gave way to my imagining all sorts of terrible sins that the Lost Son threw his money away on.
But, in truth, all of us suffer in wild living and money squandering without the saving Grace that Jesus brought us. No matter how good I am or how little I sin, I am nothing without Jesus and God's grace and mercy. Even in my best days of strong faith, good works, and letter of the law following, it amounts to nothing without Jesus. it's all pig slop without Him; every bit of it.
"But the father said to his servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him..." Luke 15:22a
I have been promised a robe and a crown. And some sweet day, I'll sing up there, wearing my robe and crown, the song of victory. Not because I have been so good. But, because He is.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Taking a stand
I blame David Hess.
He was the owner of the gym that I worked out at in high school. He was also a church member and family friend which, apparently, gave him the right to boss me around while I worked out at his gym. He wasn't my personal trainer, as such, but he thought he was. The only thing I got to decided was what cardio machine to use and for how long. Once I was finished with that, he took over. He started me on this circuit training system and pushed me to do the complete circuit more than once each time I came to the gym. He had me doing these weighted calf raises. I hated weighted calf raises! I complained throughout the entire set of reps only to find that because of my bad attitude, he expected me to do another set of them.
As much as I hated to admit it, however, I was really feeling the results. Not too long after I started going to David's gym, I noticed these muscles in my legs that hadn't been there before! My calves, especially seemed really strong and tight. Perhaps my bad attitude and extra reps had paid off!
Every October and November, shoe stores assemble their displays of tall, leather boots that have made it to the "Must Have" list of every major fashion designer's table. They go with everything. But, I have to longingly walk right by those displays. To this day, some ten years after David's weighted calf raises, I cannot fit my calf into these tall leather boots. My calf muscles will overpower any zipper, any day. I hate it. I want those boots. And, I blame David Hess.
Life, sometimes, feels like a pinball machine to me. Little levers of issues and conflict, unexpected traumas, and devastating situations sling me forward and propel me headlong into a maze of flashing lights and ringing bells. The more bumps and bruises I receive, the more points I rack up.
I used to think my job was to fight: fists up, face grimacing, stomach taunt, ready to block the first blow and prepared to deliver the second. I would fling my arms around and yell and curse and say things that I thought would thwart the enemy and his evil schemes to take my joy, convince me of my shallow worth, and destroy me from the outside in. It only led to my exhaustion, usually tears, and always turned into a pitiful cry to God that I couldn't do it; I couldn't fight against an enemy who hit below the belt.
The book of Joshua is like the prequel to the series Band of Brothers. Joshua is one page after another of wars and attacks, lists of kings overthrown, inheritances taken, strategies, war plans, and outcries to God. If the Israelites sought God's divine attack plan, they were given victory. God gave them every detail of how and when to attack the opposition; those who were not in the Lord's army.
A few years ago, I was seeking God's attack plan for the opposition; the enemy who hit below the belt. I recognized that my efforts to fight were in vain. And, I stumbled upon Ephesians 6. I had read it so very many times before, but for some reason, it sounded different to me. Verses 10-18 call us to put on the full armor of God. We are called, once we have put on the full armor of God, to stand. No fists, no words. Just to stand.
"Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes." Eph 6:11 (emphasis mine)
"Therefore put on the full armor of God so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." Eph 6:13 (emphasis mine)
"Stand firm then..." Eph 6:14a (emphasis mine)
Our attack strategy is to know the Word of God, continually pray, and to STAND. The only weapons needed to carry out this attack strategy against the Prince of Darkness is your Bible, open communication between you and God, and strong legs!
God will fight for us. He does all the hard work. We are to raise our voices in prayer and scripture, dig our heels in, and stand.
We are to stand through the pain of loss and suffering. We are to stand against the winds of lies and deception. We are to stand amidst the lack of understanding. We are to stand among the ruins. We are to stand until He calls us to "Fall Out!"
And, suddenly my perception has changed. Those tall leather boots don't look so appealing. My heart is filled with gratitude that I had parents and teachers and mentors in my life to help develop my strong, sturdy spiritual legs. And, my heart is filled with sheepish gratitude for David Hess and his weighted calf raises that developed my strong legs that have helped me dig in deep and stand up under the weight of an enemy that hits below the belt.
He was the owner of the gym that I worked out at in high school. He was also a church member and family friend which, apparently, gave him the right to boss me around while I worked out at his gym. He wasn't my personal trainer, as such, but he thought he was. The only thing I got to decided was what cardio machine to use and for how long. Once I was finished with that, he took over. He started me on this circuit training system and pushed me to do the complete circuit more than once each time I came to the gym. He had me doing these weighted calf raises. I hated weighted calf raises! I complained throughout the entire set of reps only to find that because of my bad attitude, he expected me to do another set of them.
As much as I hated to admit it, however, I was really feeling the results. Not too long after I started going to David's gym, I noticed these muscles in my legs that hadn't been there before! My calves, especially seemed really strong and tight. Perhaps my bad attitude and extra reps had paid off!
Every October and November, shoe stores assemble their displays of tall, leather boots that have made it to the "Must Have" list of every major fashion designer's table. They go with everything. But, I have to longingly walk right by those displays. To this day, some ten years after David's weighted calf raises, I cannot fit my calf into these tall leather boots. My calf muscles will overpower any zipper, any day. I hate it. I want those boots. And, I blame David Hess.
Life, sometimes, feels like a pinball machine to me. Little levers of issues and conflict, unexpected traumas, and devastating situations sling me forward and propel me headlong into a maze of flashing lights and ringing bells. The more bumps and bruises I receive, the more points I rack up.
I used to think my job was to fight: fists up, face grimacing, stomach taunt, ready to block the first blow and prepared to deliver the second. I would fling my arms around and yell and curse and say things that I thought would thwart the enemy and his evil schemes to take my joy, convince me of my shallow worth, and destroy me from the outside in. It only led to my exhaustion, usually tears, and always turned into a pitiful cry to God that I couldn't do it; I couldn't fight against an enemy who hit below the belt.
The book of Joshua is like the prequel to the series Band of Brothers. Joshua is one page after another of wars and attacks, lists of kings overthrown, inheritances taken, strategies, war plans, and outcries to God. If the Israelites sought God's divine attack plan, they were given victory. God gave them every detail of how and when to attack the opposition; those who were not in the Lord's army.
A few years ago, I was seeking God's attack plan for the opposition; the enemy who hit below the belt. I recognized that my efforts to fight were in vain. And, I stumbled upon Ephesians 6. I had read it so very many times before, but for some reason, it sounded different to me. Verses 10-18 call us to put on the full armor of God. We are called, once we have put on the full armor of God, to stand. No fists, no words. Just to stand.
"Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes." Eph 6:11 (emphasis mine)
"Therefore put on the full armor of God so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." Eph 6:13 (emphasis mine)
"Stand firm then..." Eph 6:14a (emphasis mine)
Our attack strategy is to know the Word of God, continually pray, and to STAND. The only weapons needed to carry out this attack strategy against the Prince of Darkness is your Bible, open communication between you and God, and strong legs!
God will fight for us. He does all the hard work. We are to raise our voices in prayer and scripture, dig our heels in, and stand.
We are to stand through the pain of loss and suffering. We are to stand against the winds of lies and deception. We are to stand amidst the lack of understanding. We are to stand among the ruins. We are to stand until He calls us to "Fall Out!"
And, suddenly my perception has changed. Those tall leather boots don't look so appealing. My heart is filled with gratitude that I had parents and teachers and mentors in my life to help develop my strong, sturdy spiritual legs. And, my heart is filled with sheepish gratitude for David Hess and his weighted calf raises that developed my strong legs that have helped me dig in deep and stand up under the weight of an enemy that hits below the belt.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Content to Be
I am single. And, I don't want to be.
I want to be married. I want, with every fiber of my being, to be happily married. And, I want God to pick him out for me.
And, because of this deep-seeded desire of my heart, I have a hard time with the verse in the Bible that says, "... for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances." Philippians 4:11b.
I am just so stinkin' proud of Paul for being such a trooper. You know, Paul the persecutor of Christians until, on the road to Damascus, he is struck blind until he promises to stop being so hateful and start spreading the Good News. Of course, people are hesitant to accept Mr. Mighty Transformation, so making friends wasn't his strongest quality for a long time. People jeered him, stoned him, plotted against him, turned him away, beat him to near-death, threw him in jail, spit on him, hated him... and he has the nerve to say in his letter to the Philippians that he has learned to be content in whatever circumstances he is handed.
I have always felt selfish for being so strong-willed about my husband who I was certain was just around the next corner of my life. And, here is Paul, hanging out in jail, bloodied and beaten and singing songs to the Lord, all content and satisfied with his life.
I thought, for a long time, that content meant 'not wanting'.... like, I am content in being single so I do not want to be married any longer. And, I could throw off all of my wants and desires except that one. That desire to be married has thorned my side and kept me from being 'content' all these years.
But, in further contemplation about the word content, I have come to the realization that I have had the definition incorrect all these years. Being content doesn't mean void of wanting. I believe it means being satisfied with not receiving what is wanted.
I believe that God is Sovereign and has infinite wisdom. I believe He loves me better and more abundantly than anyone else. I believe He hears my cries. I believe He hears the prayers and petitions for my husband. I believe He knows the desires of my heart and will give them to me if I choose Him over them. Because of these beliefs, I know that if I am single, it is because there is a good, good reason for me to be single. And, in that, I am satisfied. I am content. The want has not gone anywhere. It is still, very much, deep in my heart. But, I am satisfied with the knowledge that God has chosen another path for me today, and, for today, I will follow the path that He has chosen for me, even if that path takes me away from my wants.
So, maybe it was WHO Paul believed in that gave him such a irritating high as to sing songs of worship in jail. Maybe Paul understood that our hope isn't in what is hoped FOR, but in WHOM we hope IN. And, if that were my stance, I bet I could drum up the nerve to sing a verse or two, as well.
I want to be married. I want, with every fiber of my being, to be happily married. And, I want God to pick him out for me.
And, because of this deep-seeded desire of my heart, I have a hard time with the verse in the Bible that says, "... for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances." Philippians 4:11b.
I am just so stinkin' proud of Paul for being such a trooper. You know, Paul the persecutor of Christians until, on the road to Damascus, he is struck blind until he promises to stop being so hateful and start spreading the Good News. Of course, people are hesitant to accept Mr. Mighty Transformation, so making friends wasn't his strongest quality for a long time. People jeered him, stoned him, plotted against him, turned him away, beat him to near-death, threw him in jail, spit on him, hated him... and he has the nerve to say in his letter to the Philippians that he has learned to be content in whatever circumstances he is handed.
I have always felt selfish for being so strong-willed about my husband who I was certain was just around the next corner of my life. And, here is Paul, hanging out in jail, bloodied and beaten and singing songs to the Lord, all content and satisfied with his life.
I thought, for a long time, that content meant 'not wanting'.... like, I am content in being single so I do not want to be married any longer. And, I could throw off all of my wants and desires except that one. That desire to be married has thorned my side and kept me from being 'content' all these years.
But, in further contemplation about the word content, I have come to the realization that I have had the definition incorrect all these years. Being content doesn't mean void of wanting. I believe it means being satisfied with not receiving what is wanted.
I believe that God is Sovereign and has infinite wisdom. I believe He loves me better and more abundantly than anyone else. I believe He hears my cries. I believe He hears the prayers and petitions for my husband. I believe He knows the desires of my heart and will give them to me if I choose Him over them. Because of these beliefs, I know that if I am single, it is because there is a good, good reason for me to be single. And, in that, I am satisfied. I am content. The want has not gone anywhere. It is still, very much, deep in my heart. But, I am satisfied with the knowledge that God has chosen another path for me today, and, for today, I will follow the path that He has chosen for me, even if that path takes me away from my wants.
So, maybe it was WHO Paul believed in that gave him such a irritating high as to sing songs of worship in jail. Maybe Paul understood that our hope isn't in what is hoped FOR, but in WHOM we hope IN. And, if that were my stance, I bet I could drum up the nerve to sing a verse or two, as well.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Africa or Bust
Late-night calls home for a parent to come pick me up from whoever's house I was sleeping-over at were not uncommon during my formidable years. I would be fine until it was time to go to sleep. Then, I would get panicky. My stomach would start to hurt. I wouldn't be able to breath. Then, the fear would creep in, forcing me to tell my friend that I wanted to go home. The shame of being the big baby who had to go home in the middle of the night was NEVER more than the fear of having to stay.
So, I quickly dismissed the fleeting thoughts of my going to Africa to do mission work. That would be a really expensive phone call, a smidgen more than a quick drive through the neighborhood to get me, and the shame factor amps a little considering I'm 32.
But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b
I went to a little junior college nestled in a quaint little west Texas town for my freshmen year. Well, half of my freshmen year. It seems that, although bustling during the week, little junior colleges roll up their sidewalks and bed down for the weekend. This was not ideal for a car-less newbie freshmen who was homesick before she even pulled out of the driveway. I cried for four months straight. I had near-constant stomach aches, I ate sporadically, and slept less. I contemplated how much nicer death would be if it meant I could, at least, be at home. I filed transfer papers before midterms. I was completely packed and drove to my last final that December. I was home by supper.
But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b
The transition to being among the working class in Dallas was quite a bit less traumatic. I only cried for a few days. The stomach aches subsided after a few months. And I had a car that I drove back and forth from Abilene to Dallas frequently. I held myself together during the day. And, at all other times, I kept myself very busy. I read a lot. I would go driving, just to prove to myself that I wasn't "stuck" anywhere.
But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b
These whispers have to be from the Lord. I would NEVER, on purpose, decide that I needed to travel to a whole other continent for any length of time to do anything. That is so very far out of my comfort zone.
And, I think that is precisely why God has been calling me to Africa; to think of someone else's needs; to work myself to exhaustion for someone who cannot repay me; to get a much-needed, swift kick in the perspective; to show me how futile my superiority complex is; to help me recognize that this world is not my home, and that I should never feel so comfortable that I would rather be here than at Home with Him.
"Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?' And I said, "Here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8
So, I quickly dismissed the fleeting thoughts of my going to Africa to do mission work. That would be a really expensive phone call, a smidgen more than a quick drive through the neighborhood to get me, and the shame factor amps a little considering I'm 32.
But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b
I went to a little junior college nestled in a quaint little west Texas town for my freshmen year. Well, half of my freshmen year. It seems that, although bustling during the week, little junior colleges roll up their sidewalks and bed down for the weekend. This was not ideal for a car-less newbie freshmen who was homesick before she even pulled out of the driveway. I cried for four months straight. I had near-constant stomach aches, I ate sporadically, and slept less. I contemplated how much nicer death would be if it meant I could, at least, be at home. I filed transfer papers before midterms. I was completely packed and drove to my last final that December. I was home by supper.
But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b
The transition to being among the working class in Dallas was quite a bit less traumatic. I only cried for a few days. The stomach aches subsided after a few months. And I had a car that I drove back and forth from Abilene to Dallas frequently. I held myself together during the day. And, at all other times, I kept myself very busy. I read a lot. I would go driving, just to prove to myself that I wasn't "stuck" anywhere.
But, still the whispers of the Lord to go to Africa. There is much work to be done there. "...here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8b
These whispers have to be from the Lord. I would NEVER, on purpose, decide that I needed to travel to a whole other continent for any length of time to do anything. That is so very far out of my comfort zone.
And, I think that is precisely why God has been calling me to Africa; to think of someone else's needs; to work myself to exhaustion for someone who cannot repay me; to get a much-needed, swift kick in the perspective; to show me how futile my superiority complex is; to help me recognize that this world is not my home, and that I should never feel so comfortable that I would rather be here than at Home with Him.
"Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?' And I said, "Here am I. Send me!" Isaiah 6:8
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Keepin' it real
I think I could just kick that Jillian Michaels in the shin. She and her 30 Day Shred. And her perfectly toned abs. And her encouraging spirit and her own fat-to-skinny story that has propelled her to do what she can to help women not have to go through what she went through. Yeah. She's the one. I mean, kick her HARD in the shin.
I am not one to obsess over needing to lose weight. I used to obsess over the idea that I was fat. I have, more times than I care to count, obsessed over how much I could do and how long I could go at the gym, thinking it would help me lose weight. I have obsessed over the magical numeric equation of calories that could be consumed without ousting my hard, obsessed work in the gym. But, I have never obsessed over the need to lose weight. I guess I figure the need, itself, is pretty outright; an undeniable fact. No need to obsess over something so concrete.
But, it occurred to me this evening, while Jillian Michaels was shouting out encouragement for me to "Keep going!" and "Push through!" during the last segment of Level One strength training (squats and shoulder raises - eesh!), that I am most obsessed with failing. Failing. Not passing. Not completing the task at hand. Not winning. Not making the cut. Not fulfilling what was sought out to accomplish. Failing.
This personal trainer with arms the size of Civil War canons comes to my school three days a week to assist some of us teachers in our quest to health via exercise. He charges a teeny, tiny fee for a 45-minute workout that comes complete with running sprints, squats, encouragement throughout, and a prayer for us to meet our goals at the end. I know. I just hate him.
He started coming back in September, all fired up and wanting to help. I decided pretty quickly that I didn't like him. He was nice and accomodating. He remembered people's names and asked where they had been the last workout session. He told people they were doing well and praised their hard work. He helped people over the plateau of weight loss by creating specific diet plans and tweaking their workouts to push them a little harder. He smiled a lot. Ew. It just made my skin crawl.
Several people from school encouraged me to join them. My friends and coworkers started fitting into dresses and jumpsuits and clothes from years ago that were unflattering to them before Coach Big Guns showed up. Coach Big Guns, himself, tried to get me to take the icy plunge into the depths of horror that was their workout sessions. But, don't worry. I stayed strong for four months.
Then, last week, I succumbed to their pleas. Mostly, it was my friend Cookie's doing. Cookie, although she has mentioned wanting to, doesn't mother me. She doesn't nag. She doesn't tell me what I should do. She would just say, in passing, how much better she felt having worked out. She would just mention, off the cuff, that yesterday was a tough workout but that everyone had encouraged her to keep going until she was through. She would slip in how we are all in a place to better ourselves for the mission that God had called us to. You know, sneaky stuff, like that.
Coach Bug Guns was late for the first two sessions I attended. His excuses, although legitimate, made it very easy for me to snuggle down deeper in my poor judgement of him. I added arrogant, lazy, and habitually late to the list of disdainful qualities about him. He and Jillian Michaels would make a lovely couple. Of course, she wouldn't be able to walk what with the injury to her shin and all. But, he could carry her, no problem. Remember, his arms? Huge.
I was making dinner a few minutes ago, thinking about how much I dislike that Jillian Michaels and how I would write a blog about wanting to kick her in the shin which I thought was a fine way to start a new blog post when the pattern struck me.
These lovely people with hearts, as far as I know, of gold, wanting to help others who have not mastered the art of purposely pushing their bodies to work for them represent the element of change that peak my deepest obsession. It isn't them that I don't like, so much as it is the thing they represent: the opportunity for change. They are my fear's enemy. The opportunity to change is on one side of the battle field; my fear of failing is on the other. The war is waged. Up until now, I had given into the fear. I had given up the fight long before it ever really got heated.
Well. Let me just say this as I gather my things and cross the battle lines.
I am not on Fear's side. I am on Change's side.
"For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline." II Timothy 1:7
I am not one to obsess over needing to lose weight. I used to obsess over the idea that I was fat. I have, more times than I care to count, obsessed over how much I could do and how long I could go at the gym, thinking it would help me lose weight. I have obsessed over the magical numeric equation of calories that could be consumed without ousting my hard, obsessed work in the gym. But, I have never obsessed over the need to lose weight. I guess I figure the need, itself, is pretty outright; an undeniable fact. No need to obsess over something so concrete.
But, it occurred to me this evening, while Jillian Michaels was shouting out encouragement for me to "Keep going!" and "Push through!" during the last segment of Level One strength training (squats and shoulder raises - eesh!), that I am most obsessed with failing. Failing. Not passing. Not completing the task at hand. Not winning. Not making the cut. Not fulfilling what was sought out to accomplish. Failing.
This personal trainer with arms the size of Civil War canons comes to my school three days a week to assist some of us teachers in our quest to health via exercise. He charges a teeny, tiny fee for a 45-minute workout that comes complete with running sprints, squats, encouragement throughout, and a prayer for us to meet our goals at the end. I know. I just hate him.
He started coming back in September, all fired up and wanting to help. I decided pretty quickly that I didn't like him. He was nice and accomodating. He remembered people's names and asked where they had been the last workout session. He told people they were doing well and praised their hard work. He helped people over the plateau of weight loss by creating specific diet plans and tweaking their workouts to push them a little harder. He smiled a lot. Ew. It just made my skin crawl.
Several people from school encouraged me to join them. My friends and coworkers started fitting into dresses and jumpsuits and clothes from years ago that were unflattering to them before Coach Big Guns showed up. Coach Big Guns, himself, tried to get me to take the icy plunge into the depths of horror that was their workout sessions. But, don't worry. I stayed strong for four months.
Then, last week, I succumbed to their pleas. Mostly, it was my friend Cookie's doing. Cookie, although she has mentioned wanting to, doesn't mother me. She doesn't nag. She doesn't tell me what I should do. She would just say, in passing, how much better she felt having worked out. She would just mention, off the cuff, that yesterday was a tough workout but that everyone had encouraged her to keep going until she was through. She would slip in how we are all in a place to better ourselves for the mission that God had called us to. You know, sneaky stuff, like that.
Coach Bug Guns was late for the first two sessions I attended. His excuses, although legitimate, made it very easy for me to snuggle down deeper in my poor judgement of him. I added arrogant, lazy, and habitually late to the list of disdainful qualities about him. He and Jillian Michaels would make a lovely couple. Of course, she wouldn't be able to walk what with the injury to her shin and all. But, he could carry her, no problem. Remember, his arms? Huge.
I was making dinner a few minutes ago, thinking about how much I dislike that Jillian Michaels and how I would write a blog about wanting to kick her in the shin which I thought was a fine way to start a new blog post when the pattern struck me.
These lovely people with hearts, as far as I know, of gold, wanting to help others who have not mastered the art of purposely pushing their bodies to work for them represent the element of change that peak my deepest obsession. It isn't them that I don't like, so much as it is the thing they represent: the opportunity for change. They are my fear's enemy. The opportunity to change is on one side of the battle field; my fear of failing is on the other. The war is waged. Up until now, I had given into the fear. I had given up the fight long before it ever really got heated.
Well. Let me just say this as I gather my things and cross the battle lines.
I am not on Fear's side. I am on Change's side.
"For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline." II Timothy 1:7
Sunday, January 3, 2010
My rock (ing chair)
My parents tell a story of waking in the early morning hours to the irritating squeak of the springs on a toy rocking horse that was a Christmas present for my brother. It was a 16-month-old me. My brother got very little time on his rocking horse, according to their story. Apparently, I pretended it was mine and acted as such.
Santa brought me my own rocking chair the next Christmas. It being 1980, the rocking chair was a brown striped tweed material with orange vinyl accents. I think it may have matched my mother's living room assemble, horrifyingly enough. It was miniature - perfect for a three-year-old. I rocked in it until the sliders at the bottom literally broke off. It was a sad, sad day when we had to throw that rocking chair in the dumpster.
I developed terrible stomach pains in middle school. They would come on quickly and stay for minutes, hours, and sometimes days. There was no medicine that proved to lessen the pain, and doctors would come up empty handed as to what was causing the pain. I would sit, for as long as the pain lasted, in a brown-clothed rocking recliner that my granny gave my mother when we moved to Texas the summer before. I would rock and rock and rock, deliberately breathing in a Lamaze-type ritual that would help me make it through the pain. (Once we moved to Abilene, a doctor took a chance on the fact that, even as young as I was, I may have gallstones causing the stomach pain. He performed surgery to remove the gallbladder that was, as he suspected, full of stones.)
Granny gave us a blue glider not long after we moved to Abilene. It quickly became "mine." It was where I would go when I was rattled with adolescent emotions too confusing to speak about. It was where I went to work through whatever drama clogged my though processes. It was where I silently gathered my strength to be able to move away to college for a semester. (No rocking chair in Levelland, Texas proved to be a terrible idea so I came home to attend college that winter in Abilene.)
I have a white, wooden rocking chair here at my current place - two, actually. One is a backup, I guess, having learned from my 4-month stint in Levelland. I sit out on my balcony, no matter the weather, almost every day. It is a place to think. It is a place to sort out and process. It is a place to dream. It is a place of comfort.
David said in Psalms 71 "Be my rock of refuge.... (God) is my rock and my fortress..." Several more times, David couples the comforting thoughts of a fortress and refuge with God being a rock. Turn the noun (rock) into a verb (rocking) and you can see the special bond that I have had with God since I was old enough to climb onto a plastic, squeaky-spring rocking horse at 16 months.... He is my rock (ing chair). He helps me work through pain, physical or otherwise. He sorts out the emotions too confusing to speak about. He works through whatever drama clogs my thought processes. He supplies my strength to help me do what I am most certain I cannot do. He clears my head. He sorts and processes things. He hears and tweaks my dreams. He is my comfort. He is my refuge. He is my fortress. He is my rock (ing chair).
Santa brought me my own rocking chair the next Christmas. It being 1980, the rocking chair was a brown striped tweed material with orange vinyl accents. I think it may have matched my mother's living room assemble, horrifyingly enough. It was miniature - perfect for a three-year-old. I rocked in it until the sliders at the bottom literally broke off. It was a sad, sad day when we had to throw that rocking chair in the dumpster.
I developed terrible stomach pains in middle school. They would come on quickly and stay for minutes, hours, and sometimes days. There was no medicine that proved to lessen the pain, and doctors would come up empty handed as to what was causing the pain. I would sit, for as long as the pain lasted, in a brown-clothed rocking recliner that my granny gave my mother when we moved to Texas the summer before. I would rock and rock and rock, deliberately breathing in a Lamaze-type ritual that would help me make it through the pain. (Once we moved to Abilene, a doctor took a chance on the fact that, even as young as I was, I may have gallstones causing the stomach pain. He performed surgery to remove the gallbladder that was, as he suspected, full of stones.)
Granny gave us a blue glider not long after we moved to Abilene. It quickly became "mine." It was where I would go when I was rattled with adolescent emotions too confusing to speak about. It was where I went to work through whatever drama clogged my though processes. It was where I silently gathered my strength to be able to move away to college for a semester. (No rocking chair in Levelland, Texas proved to be a terrible idea so I came home to attend college that winter in Abilene.)
I have a white, wooden rocking chair here at my current place - two, actually. One is a backup, I guess, having learned from my 4-month stint in Levelland. I sit out on my balcony, no matter the weather, almost every day. It is a place to think. It is a place to sort out and process. It is a place to dream. It is a place of comfort.
David said in Psalms 71 "Be my rock of refuge.... (God) is my rock and my fortress..." Several more times, David couples the comforting thoughts of a fortress and refuge with God being a rock. Turn the noun (rock) into a verb (rocking) and you can see the special bond that I have had with God since I was old enough to climb onto a plastic, squeaky-spring rocking horse at 16 months.... He is my rock (ing chair). He helps me work through pain, physical or otherwise. He sorts out the emotions too confusing to speak about. He works through whatever drama clogs my thought processes. He supplies my strength to help me do what I am most certain I cannot do. He clears my head. He sorts and processes things. He hears and tweaks my dreams. He is my comfort. He is my refuge. He is my fortress. He is my rock (ing chair).
Friday, January 1, 2010
My New Year's Resolution
I have this ritual. A tradition, if you will.
Every New Year's Day, I take down the Christmas stuff, clean my entire apartment, and purge everything. I take bags and bags of things to Goodwill and bags and bags of things to the dumpster. By the end of the day, it is as if Christmas were never here. My apartment smells fresh and clean. My closets, cabinets, and cupboards are lighter and roomier. And, usually my lower back aches because I am getting older now, and that is what lower backs that are getting older do.
Usually, in this state of OCD bliss, I make my New Year's Resolutions. I always list the amount of weight I want to lose first and the amount of debt I want to tackle second. Then, I wrap up the list with the desire to change some terrible flaw in my personality. There. Done.
But this year: something different. Here I sit on New Year's night, with a little more than an hour until it turns into the 2nd of January. The tree is still up, the apartment is only half-way cleaned. The bags and bags of things are scattered here and there, waiting to be taken to their appropriate resting places. For the first time ever, I am not writing my resolutions down in a cheap, spiral notebook, I am blogging them. And, those New Year's Resolutions look different, too.
2010 New Year's Resolutions
1. Learn more of the Word:
I grew up in a church. I cannot remember a time that I did not have a Bible of my own. I went to a Christian university where Bible classes were non-negotiable to graduate. I worked as a counselor at a Christian camp. I went on mission trips. There is absolutely no reason for me, at 32, to not know the Bible backward and forward. But, I confess to you, that I do not. I have read most of it. I have studied a lot of it. I can quote a few verses. But, I do not KNOW the Word of God. So, I resolve, with some help from Dallas Theological Seminary Center for Biblical Studies and some personal Bible studies that can be purchased at your local Christian bookstore, to learn more of God's Word. The struggles of the past six or seven months have always led me to a calling to know His Word. But, I have not heeded that calling until now. I am expecting, as with every instance when obedience takes place in the Kingdom of God, for big things to happen with this learning.
2. Take on an adventuresome spirit:
I like structure. I like schedules. I like lists. I like being in charge. These personality traits do not lend themselves, willingly, to someone wishing to be adventuresome. However, after reading Donald Miller's new book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, I have taken on a new mantra: Live a good story. So far, I have lived a safe, solid, comfortable story. There is nothing wrong with living that kind of story. Except that it is kind of..... boring. My mother writes a Christmas letter each year to catch all her friends up on what has happened in our family since the last Christmas letter. The blurb about me was.... boring. It isn't Mom's fault. I didn't DO anything all that exciting for which to write about. And, so, God help me, I resolve to throw off the need to control everything and take on an adventuresome spirit. I resolve to recognize and participate in the adventures that are happening right under my nose, in my own life, that I don't see, right now, as adventures. And, I resolve to seek out and participate in other adventures that God sends my way.
There. Done. And my lower back doesn't even hurt.
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