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
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