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
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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
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