They were on sale, so I didn't feel too bad about buying several pieces of the line. Bright yellows, reds, and aqua blues created artwork on fabric with black accents that drew my eye, immediately. I knew I wouldn't look like one of those athletes with toned arms and a flat stomach, but, for whatever reason, I felt compelled to buy running tank tops and running shorts from the store the other day. I'm not in the kind of shape those racer-back, running tank tops call for, but it fit around my body well enough. I like to have my arms and shoulders free of fabric when I run - it eliminates chaffing in weird places like the crook of your elbow which only those of us with extra padding would be privy to. I also liked the idea that I would be wearing what real runners often wear. Like God calling Gideon a warrior long before he was one, I like the idea of looking the part of the toned, seasoned runner that I pray to be some day.
I got my chance to shine this afternoon. Determined to give this thing an honest effort, I drove straight to the walking track right after work, having changed in the back office at work, not giving myself the chance to go home and there make some whiny excuse about being too tired to start today. I arrived with my training schedule, my music, my sunglasses, and an ounce (and not much more) of willpower to give this program a go.
I was a bit nervous, to be truthful. I like to workout. I even like to jog. I just hadn't in a while and knew that whatever shape I had gotten myself into some months ago had quickly taken on a whole new out-of-shape in a very short time frame.
I prayed in the car. That should give indication of just how nervous I was; asking the Lord to allow my body to work in the manner it had been created to. And, to please not let me vomit, pass out, or die on the concrete of the walking track. Not so much dignity in any of those things... as if squeezing myself into running clothes and pretending to be Olympic running material exuded even an iota of dignity.
I like to blare worship music while I run - partly to drown out my own labored breathing (like at the dentist - if you can hear the drill, the pain is so much worse) and partly to keep my mind focused on something other than what I was out to accomplish - just one little, 'ole thirty minute running workout.
The pigmentation of my skin allows for a pink, rosy complexion when I exert energy of any kind. My entire body was flaming red - the color of a fire engine - within three minutes of beginning my workout.
So, picture this: an obese woman, a bright yellow running tank top, skimpier-than-normal black running shorts, glowing neon skin, sucking air, sweat pouring, music cranked, sunglasses perched, thundering footsteps around and around on the walking trail. I can only imagine the sight that was me. Olympic-bound, indeed.
About twenty minutes into my thirty minute workout, side stitch killing me, barely able to catch a breath, tugging at my running tank top, desperately trying to wipe the sweat away before it ran into my eyes, counting down the minutes until I could call the workout finished, I feel the Spirit describing the situation as worship.
Worship?
The Bible is full of records of people worshiping the Lord. There are accounts of blessings and faithfulness that led His people to sing His praises; that led them to worship God. A simple definition of worship is to honor; therefore, the people of God, as shown throughout the Bible, honored the Lord for His being who He was; for bestowing blessings and favor that were not deserved; for doing things that they, as mere humans, could never have done on their own.
Exercising hasn't very often been my top priority. I can think of a thousand excuses and plan for a million other things to do instead of exercise. And, this late in the game, my body isn't in the physical shape it needs to be in to be able to do what it is that I've been called to do by God.
So, for me to be out on a walking track, making my body do what it was intended to do: muscles firing, bones structuring, lungs rhythmic, blood pumping, sweat cooling, ears hearing, eyes seeing; in this thirty minutes of agony, God is being honored. Worship.
Doesn't that just beat all?
My program calls for a day of rest tomorrow. But, Wednesday, I'll get back out there. I imagine it won't be any prettier than it was today, although I have a red and black patterned running tank top that might match my skin better than the yellow one of today.
But, I'll be worshiping God. Huffing and puffing and sweating and worshiping Him with all that I have for those thirty minutes. Not enough air capacity to sing actual praises to Him. Hands too sweaty to hold any type of instrument to make music to Him. Prayers for only the time to go quicker. But for every lap around the walking track I make, my body is in submission to His Will; honoring Him by doing what He created it to do. Worship. Doesn't that just beat all?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Living in the "No."
Two months.
Sixty days of detox, as if from an addictive substance, but more costly. Through this detox, with sober, bright-eyed clarity, I have come to realize just how addicted I was. 'Was' being a past-tense verb because, by the grace of God, I am no longer addicted but am in a life-long recovery. This is day sixty of that recovery, and I, cautiously but with great anticipation, share that there is, without a doubt, life after God's "No".
A breakup, really. I have endured, yet another, breakup. This one being of the greatest magnitude I have experienced to date. It was big. And ugly. And tearful - buckets of tears that have literally soaked circles on my bedsheets. A pain in my heart that I have felt like no other. An emptiness. A void, complete with a wondering of what to do, now.
And, as many have experienced after a terrible breakup, in those first few days of raw, exposed emotions, I zombied-around, putting one foot in front of the other, willing myself not to cry too much in front of others, hushed requests of prayers from those closest to me, everyone knowing something had happened but not knowing what.
Clarity presented itself in my thought-life. I realized very quickly how consumed I had been; constantly thinking about, envisioning, daydreaming, expecting. Very few thoughts that weren't in relation to this partner; very few moments that weren't given in loyalty to my obsession. Completely consumed.
Consumed by something God forbade me to have. My obsession manifested itself into a moment-by-moment dagger of a reminder that He shook His head in denial of my request, my plea, my demand. And, no matter how swiftly I moved, no matter how creative I was in orchestrating events, no matter how I bargained or ignored, His answer stood and still stands. "No."
Opening my tightly-clutched fist of a life-long dream - not a person or habit - was what brought me to my knees. God said "No" to a defining adjective of my future that had morphed into my reason for living; what I pined after, obsessed over, worshiped. I allowed it to consume my life; I lived for the high it brought.
I stopped living the life I was called to live and started living the life that I thought would bring about this dream. I closed God up into a me-shaped box, demanding my will over His, expecting Him to change His will to look like mine.
And, so in the midst of this anarchy, I did not hear His voice until I was invested, in love, heart-attached, full-blown infatuation.
It's a wonder I heard Him at all that night, but I did. Heard Him loud and clear. "No."
Surrender is not a white flag in the air, as depicted in history books and on movies. Not for me, anyway. Surrender is much bloodier than that; a final realization through exhaustion and loss of will power that I can no longer do it anymore. I fall face-first, prostrate, in the mud, muck, and mire, that I have most certainly caused, and weep. I give up; relinquish control; admit that I am powerless. Humbled.
A quiet strength, most assuredly the Holy Spirit within me, finally accepted His "No" as authority. Through a rainfall of tears, a small, humbled voice within me whispered, "Okay." Surrender. Acceptance. Deliverance.
Two months. Sixty days. One foot in front of the other. Step-by-step. Eyes clear and bright. Sober from the addiction and obsession of a dream not meant for me. Cautious with great anticipation of what is to come. Living in the "No".
Faith in the hope that God is true to His Word; that He has plans for me - plans to prosper me and not to harm me. Faith in the hope that He has begun a good work in me and that He delights to finish that good work. Faith that now that my hands are no longer gripping a self-manifested strategic life plan, that I will be able to take hold of the plans set for me by God.
Faith that living in the "No" has a greater purpose.
Faith that He has something planned that is more beautiful and more fulfilling than any dream I could come up with.
Sixty days of detox, as if from an addictive substance, but more costly. Through this detox, with sober, bright-eyed clarity, I have come to realize just how addicted I was. 'Was' being a past-tense verb because, by the grace of God, I am no longer addicted but am in a life-long recovery. This is day sixty of that recovery, and I, cautiously but with great anticipation, share that there is, without a doubt, life after God's "No".
A breakup, really. I have endured, yet another, breakup. This one being of the greatest magnitude I have experienced to date. It was big. And ugly. And tearful - buckets of tears that have literally soaked circles on my bedsheets. A pain in my heart that I have felt like no other. An emptiness. A void, complete with a wondering of what to do, now.
And, as many have experienced after a terrible breakup, in those first few days of raw, exposed emotions, I zombied-around, putting one foot in front of the other, willing myself not to cry too much in front of others, hushed requests of prayers from those closest to me, everyone knowing something had happened but not knowing what.
Clarity presented itself in my thought-life. I realized very quickly how consumed I had been; constantly thinking about, envisioning, daydreaming, expecting. Very few thoughts that weren't in relation to this partner; very few moments that weren't given in loyalty to my obsession. Completely consumed.
Consumed by something God forbade me to have. My obsession manifested itself into a moment-by-moment dagger of a reminder that He shook His head in denial of my request, my plea, my demand. And, no matter how swiftly I moved, no matter how creative I was in orchestrating events, no matter how I bargained or ignored, His answer stood and still stands. "No."
Opening my tightly-clutched fist of a life-long dream - not a person or habit - was what brought me to my knees. God said "No" to a defining adjective of my future that had morphed into my reason for living; what I pined after, obsessed over, worshiped. I allowed it to consume my life; I lived for the high it brought.
I stopped living the life I was called to live and started living the life that I thought would bring about this dream. I closed God up into a me-shaped box, demanding my will over His, expecting Him to change His will to look like mine.
And, so in the midst of this anarchy, I did not hear His voice until I was invested, in love, heart-attached, full-blown infatuation.
It's a wonder I heard Him at all that night, but I did. Heard Him loud and clear. "No."
Surrender is not a white flag in the air, as depicted in history books and on movies. Not for me, anyway. Surrender is much bloodier than that; a final realization through exhaustion and loss of will power that I can no longer do it anymore. I fall face-first, prostrate, in the mud, muck, and mire, that I have most certainly caused, and weep. I give up; relinquish control; admit that I am powerless. Humbled.
A quiet strength, most assuredly the Holy Spirit within me, finally accepted His "No" as authority. Through a rainfall of tears, a small, humbled voice within me whispered, "Okay." Surrender. Acceptance. Deliverance.
Two months. Sixty days. One foot in front of the other. Step-by-step. Eyes clear and bright. Sober from the addiction and obsession of a dream not meant for me. Cautious with great anticipation of what is to come. Living in the "No".
Faith in the hope that God is true to His Word; that He has plans for me - plans to prosper me and not to harm me. Faith in the hope that He has begun a good work in me and that He delights to finish that good work. Faith that now that my hands are no longer gripping a self-manifested strategic life plan, that I will be able to take hold of the plans set for me by God.
Faith that living in the "No" has a greater purpose.
Faith that He has something planned that is more beautiful and more fulfilling than any dream I could come up with.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Easy-Cheesy
I have spent the last four days shut inside my house with the heater roaring at full blast, which is uncommon for me; a 20 ounce mug that I found at Starbucks full of hot cocoa at least once a day; the quilt my mother made for me several years ago wrapped around me, and a bag of cheese puffs not far away.
The sleet began to fall late Monday night. The lowest temperatures Texas has seen in twenty years and roads covered in solid sheets of ice made for easy decisions to close schools on Tuesday and Wednesday. Burst water lines and sketchy electrical power added to the mix, leading the powers that be to close school for the remainder of the work week.
I'm not one for being cooped up. Growing up in Kansas was the only experience I needed to convince myself that I could handle a little roadtrip out to the grocery store on Tuesday. I needed some things. I hesitate to put those needed things in print lest someone mock me for the very idea that I "needed" them so as to risk my life to get them in weather as was such. I'll just go with: I needed some things. I am a good driver; a safe driver. And, I believe in the power of prayer.
It took me 35 minutes to get to the store no more than ten miles away. I said I was a good driver - people who drive fast on ice are NOT good drivers. What I hadn't counted on was the parking lot of the grocery store. The drive to the store was quite uneventful. The ice-skating event I participated in to get from my car to the front door would have won me a medal.
There were very few people in the store -imagine that! There were workers, though. A faithful few who went about their jobs as if the weather were no factor at all. Gathering my "needed" things, I made my way up the chip aisle, taking a short-cut to the check out lanes. And, there, shining like a beacon of gold, were the cheese puffs. Eye-level and beckoning, I picked up a bag.
Cheese puffs are not things I pick up on a regular basis. I lean more toward the tortilla chip or popcorn varieties of snacks. I have eaten cheese puffs before, as a child, getting orange-y powder on everything before I had the good-sense to wash my hands to keep my mother from grounding me for life. But, for whatever reason, I don't think to put them in my buggy on my regular grocery runs.
Tuesday was different. They called to me. They seemed, in my mind, to be the perfect compliment to a cold, blustery day. How this is true, I don't know. I can't make heads or tails of it, really. No more than I can explain the second trip I made to the grocery store on Thursday for another bag. Oh, there were other things that cropped up being needed, but I made a direct bee-line for the chip aisle. Another bag. Of cheese puffs.
Using any internet search engine to locate the health benefits of cheese puffs is futile. I know. I tried. There aren't any.
Apparently, even if my daily caloric intake could receive the 160 calories per serving, which is about 13 puffs, my body has no idea what to do with the stuff that cheese puffs are made of. Seriously. The junk that goes into making cheese puffs may taste good, but it is no good for your body. Our bodies weren't created to digest things like Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil or Monosodium Glutamate. All our bodies know to do is to store that stuff as fat, which is something I wish I'd known before the second bag was purchased. Oh well.
So, how come something that tastes so good can be so bad for us. Furthermore, how come things that taste so bad, like spinach and brussel sprouts, can be so good for us. It doesn't make sense to me.
And, if we can completely clear the table: how come stuff that is bad for us, looking further than our refrigerators and at the things we do in life, is so much fun? Like riding a motorcycle without a helmet; the cool breeze blowing through your hair, no clear sounds, just the rush of life standing still while you aren't. But, everyone knows that's not safe. The statistics are staggering of the number of motorcycle deaths each year due to not wearing a helmet. So, as exillerating as riding a motorcycle without a helmet is, it isn't good for us.
The flip-side is also true. Things that are good for us are often times, NOT fun. Like a colonoscopy - the health benefits are documented; the procedure, not so fun.
I just think life would have been a lot easier had God worked it out so that the good things in life were fun and the healthy things to eat were tasty. And, if He'd seen to it that the bad things in life were awful and painful and the nutrition-lacking things to eat tasted bad.
Easier. Life would be easier. That's all I'm saying.
I'd go for easy right about now. I am pretty terrible at doing what I am supposed to do, even if it causes pain or isn't immediately gratifying. I am equally as terrible at abstaining from that which isn't in my best interest but seems fun and exciting at the time.
But, perhaps if it were easy, I'd start thinking that I don't need His help or His Word or His Son. I'd stop relying on Him and start relying on things that won't get me any further than Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil or Monosodium Glutamate. If it were easy, I'd start banking on the easy-ness. And, then I'd be in more trouble than I am now with my cheese-powdered fingers death-gripping a bag of cheese puffs.
"For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:30
"Everything is permissible - but not everything is beneficial. Everything is permissible - but not everything is constructive." I Corinthian 10:23
The sleet began to fall late Monday night. The lowest temperatures Texas has seen in twenty years and roads covered in solid sheets of ice made for easy decisions to close schools on Tuesday and Wednesday. Burst water lines and sketchy electrical power added to the mix, leading the powers that be to close school for the remainder of the work week.
I'm not one for being cooped up. Growing up in Kansas was the only experience I needed to convince myself that I could handle a little roadtrip out to the grocery store on Tuesday. I needed some things. I hesitate to put those needed things in print lest someone mock me for the very idea that I "needed" them so as to risk my life to get them in weather as was such. I'll just go with: I needed some things. I am a good driver; a safe driver. And, I believe in the power of prayer.
It took me 35 minutes to get to the store no more than ten miles away. I said I was a good driver - people who drive fast on ice are NOT good drivers. What I hadn't counted on was the parking lot of the grocery store. The drive to the store was quite uneventful. The ice-skating event I participated in to get from my car to the front door would have won me a medal.
There were very few people in the store -imagine that! There were workers, though. A faithful few who went about their jobs as if the weather were no factor at all. Gathering my "needed" things, I made my way up the chip aisle, taking a short-cut to the check out lanes. And, there, shining like a beacon of gold, were the cheese puffs. Eye-level and beckoning, I picked up a bag.
Cheese puffs are not things I pick up on a regular basis. I lean more toward the tortilla chip or popcorn varieties of snacks. I have eaten cheese puffs before, as a child, getting orange-y powder on everything before I had the good-sense to wash my hands to keep my mother from grounding me for life. But, for whatever reason, I don't think to put them in my buggy on my regular grocery runs.
Tuesday was different. They called to me. They seemed, in my mind, to be the perfect compliment to a cold, blustery day. How this is true, I don't know. I can't make heads or tails of it, really. No more than I can explain the second trip I made to the grocery store on Thursday for another bag. Oh, there were other things that cropped up being needed, but I made a direct bee-line for the chip aisle. Another bag. Of cheese puffs.
Using any internet search engine to locate the health benefits of cheese puffs is futile. I know. I tried. There aren't any.
Apparently, even if my daily caloric intake could receive the 160 calories per serving, which is about 13 puffs, my body has no idea what to do with the stuff that cheese puffs are made of. Seriously. The junk that goes into making cheese puffs may taste good, but it is no good for your body. Our bodies weren't created to digest things like Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil or Monosodium Glutamate. All our bodies know to do is to store that stuff as fat, which is something I wish I'd known before the second bag was purchased. Oh well.
So, how come something that tastes so good can be so bad for us. Furthermore, how come things that taste so bad, like spinach and brussel sprouts, can be so good for us. It doesn't make sense to me.
And, if we can completely clear the table: how come stuff that is bad for us, looking further than our refrigerators and at the things we do in life, is so much fun? Like riding a motorcycle without a helmet; the cool breeze blowing through your hair, no clear sounds, just the rush of life standing still while you aren't. But, everyone knows that's not safe. The statistics are staggering of the number of motorcycle deaths each year due to not wearing a helmet. So, as exillerating as riding a motorcycle without a helmet is, it isn't good for us.
The flip-side is also true. Things that are good for us are often times, NOT fun. Like a colonoscopy - the health benefits are documented; the procedure, not so fun.
I just think life would have been a lot easier had God worked it out so that the good things in life were fun and the healthy things to eat were tasty. And, if He'd seen to it that the bad things in life were awful and painful and the nutrition-lacking things to eat tasted bad.
Easier. Life would be easier. That's all I'm saying.
I'd go for easy right about now. I am pretty terrible at doing what I am supposed to do, even if it causes pain or isn't immediately gratifying. I am equally as terrible at abstaining from that which isn't in my best interest but seems fun and exciting at the time.
But, perhaps if it were easy, I'd start thinking that I don't need His help or His Word or His Son. I'd stop relying on Him and start relying on things that won't get me any further than Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil or Monosodium Glutamate. If it were easy, I'd start banking on the easy-ness. And, then I'd be in more trouble than I am now with my cheese-powdered fingers death-gripping a bag of cheese puffs.
"For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:30
"Everything is permissible - but not everything is beneficial. Everything is permissible - but not everything is constructive." I Corinthian 10:23
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