The Man withered on the edge of his skinny cot. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his yellowed, leathery fingers. Smoke rose in lazy tendrils from its blistering nub, twisting into ghosts that taunted him with vague memories before joining the milky haze that filled the tiny room. He squinted, but mostly out of habit. The smoke didn't bother him anymore. It had become a friend, rising and falling in time with his breath until the two were like one being, merely existing.
His view was a dingy gray wall, not at all bad if you were partial to the color of old underwear. Tighty-whities, his wife used to call them. He was a boxer man, couldn't stand the confinement of briefs. A while back (time, like the smoke, had lost its shape), the irony in that might have made him smirk. But the fact that he could reach out and touch the wall in front of him had lost its bitter humor. He could vaguely remember a time when his walls were brighter, whiter. Perfect for making shadow puppets. But that was Before. Before the smoke. Before the bars. Before he stopped living life in color.
Smoke slithered through the iron bars and glided along the corridor. He brought the cigarette to his mouth, clamping his cracked lips around his only hope. One deep pull, and he concentrated on the smoke invading his lungs, suffocating him one cell at a time. He held it in as long as he could, until he felt his lungs burning
(ashes, ashes, we all fall down)
and then let it seep out as he reached for a fresh cigarette. He lit it from the smoldering butt, pulling in deep again. Death, he'd learned, was a process. Pull. Hold. Release. Repeat.
He didn't consider himself a smoker, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word. Technically, he supposed he fit the description. Except he didn't crave cigarettes. He actually hated the things. So no, he wouldn't call himself a smoker. He was more like a fugitive, using the smoke to escape his life until nothing was left but to call it a day.
Footsteps slapped along the corridor floors. The Jailer. Right on time. The Man used to fight back. But the smoke took care of that, too. Still, The Jailer returned every day, as punctual as the rising sun.
The Man stared at the wall as the footsteps halted outside his cell. He didn't have to look at The Jailer to know that his ample belly was pressed against the bars and that he was running stubby fingers through a greasy combover as gray and dingy as the wall. But The Man knew better than to underestimate The Jailer. Because he was a contradiction. He may look like a half-wit, but he was powerful. His power came from the bars. And his words. Oh yes, his words.
"Ain't you gonna say hi?"
The Man ignored him. It always started out this way.
"Didn't your mama teach you no manners? Ain't you got no respect? R - E - S - P - E - C - T? You know what I mean. That Knight broad sang all about it."
"Aretha Franklin."
"Huh?"
"It was Aretha Franklin. Not Gladys Knight."
"Whatever." The Jailer shrugged. "Don't make no diff'rence. They both sing."
The silence hung in the air, battling the smoke.
"You ain't forgot why you're here." It wasn't a question. The Man remained quiet. He'd heard it before.
"Nah, you ain't forgot. None of 'em ever forget. But I tell ya, the whinin' gets me every time. 'I didn't do it. It wasn't my fault. Somebody else done it. I wanna go home.' Eventually, they quiet down, though. Just like you. I don't know which I like better. The moanin' or the givin' in."
The Man didn't need to look at The Jailer to see how much he enjoyed the moans. He thrived on them.
"I hear it all. Men and women whinin' all damn day and night."
The Man looked right into the The Jailer's smirk. He'd been waiting for this moment.
"Ah, didn't know that, did ya? Been here all this time and never knew this is an equal-rights prison. No playin' favorites here, no sir. It don't matter if you're a man or woman, black or white, eight or eighty. These here bars don't discriminate."
The Man shouldn't have been surprised. This wasn't your everyday offender housing.
He used to be a whiner. It was Her fault, always Her fault. He'd never so much as whimpered in his other life. In that life, he was a take-your-licks kinda guy. But prison did things to a man. And then time, that shapeless bandit, snuck up on him. He got lost in the smoke until he didn't know who to blame and his heart was nothing but a fossil.
That's when he gave in, when they all gave in. The whining stopped and the silence became it's own kind of abuse. And they stayed...quiet.
But The Jailer didn't. He never did.
"You're guilty, just like the rest of 'em. You know that, don't ya? You ain't never done nuthin' right in your life. A bad seed, that's what you are. Ain't nuthin' gonna grow from a bad seed. I heard you before. It's Her fault. She done it. Ain't that right? But you know she woulda never done what she done if you woulda been worth any more'n the dog turd I stepped in this mornin'."
The Man put his head in his hands. Smoke simmered in front of him, billowing and gathering strength like a thunderhead. If only... His fists clenched and he drove them into his eyes, pushing the thought away.
"You want that drink, don't ya?" The Jailer always knew. "No sense lyin' 'bout it, 'specially to yourself. Come on, let's have one together. Just you and me. Old pals, just shootin' the bull."
The Man kept his face in his hands. Fighting. Always fighting.
In the silence, the thunderhead grew darker, pulsing with anticipation. When The Man finally looked up, it had drifted into a corner of the room to watch and wait.
The Jailer sighed. "No? Well, if you're sure. Know what I'm sure of? Ain't no one ever loved you. Not your mama. Not your daddy. Not your kids. And definitely not Her. Who could ever love you? You just keep messin' up, son. Cause you're stupid. Worse 'n that, you're a drunk. A stupid, guilty drunk. And you always will be. Soon as you get that, and I mean really understand it down deep in your gut, you and I will get along just fine."
The Jailer rattled the bars, laughed, and was gone.
But his words weren't. Stupid. Guilty. Drunk. They hung in the air alongside the smoke, like hot-air balloons, fueled by the knowledge
(the understanding down deep in his gut)
that The Jailer was right. He had to be. It was the only way life made any sense.
The Man concentrated on his heart, willing the beats to become farther apart. Willing the balloons and the smoke to suffocate it.
Please, he thought.
The cigarette dropped to the floor and smoldered, before snuffing itself out. He didn't notice.
Please.
He didn't hear the scraping of the rickety wooden chair as it was pulled up on the other side of the bars. He didn't notice The One who sat in it.
When The Man finally looked up, he saw him. Despite the smoke, despite the twisted balloons that danced around him, he could see The One in the Wooden Chair, and he was smiling.
His smile was different, not mocking like The Jailer's. He can afford to smile like that, thought The Man. He's on the other side of the bars.
The One in the Wooden Chair chuckled. The Man wanted to look away, but he couldn't. The smoke had cleared enough that he could see that The One's eyes were deep green, the same color of the lake where his father used to take him fishing.
The Man hadn't thought of his father in a long time, ever since the smoke started to thicken. Those fishing trips had been something in a relationship overflowing with nothing. The tradition of barely speaking hung on (it always did), but somehow, out on the lake so early in the morning that the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, sparkling its morning greeting on the water's lazy ripples...somehow the silence fit. And then later, passing the thermos of lemonade that his mama had packed - few words were said, an occasional 'please' or 'thank you' for propriety's sake. But that was okay. Sometimes words weren't necessary. That was one of those times.
The Man looked away. Away from the memories. Away from The One in the Wooden Chair.
Wood scraped against cement as The One scooted his chair closer to the bars.
"You don't believe any of that nonsense, do you?" he said. "He's a liar, you know. One might say he's the Father of Lies."
The Man snorted. Whoever this man was, he must not know the whole story. If he did, he'd know The Man was guilty. Except...except somehow it was Her fault, too. It was all so confusing. He took a deep breath, drawing what was left of the smoke into him.
"You're the one keeping yourself behind bars," The One said. "Not Her. Not your father. Not even The Jailer."
The Man looked back at him. The One in the Wooden Chair waved at the smoke, and it was gone. Not weakened. Not diminished. Gone.
"Filling your life with distractions doesn't weaken the Truth. It doesn't extinguish the Light. It just makes it harder for you to see."
"And what is the Truth?"
"The Truth is you put yourself behind these bars. The Jailer can't keep you in prison unless you let him. The only truth he has is that you have done some bad things. But the real Truth, the Truth for which I was sent, is that you are forgiven. And you are loved."
The One scooted his chair closer, scraping the wood against the cement. "I was sent here to show you The Way out," he said. "Don't you want to get out?"
"I can't get out. This is where I belong. Besides, what the hell do you know? No disrespect, but you haven't been here. You don't know my story."
The One in the Wooden Chair smiled. "My child, I designed your story. It's inscribed on my heart."
There it was. The game-changer. The smoke had cleared and suddenly he knew. He understood
(down deep in his gut)
and questions flew from The Man's lips like angry bees out of a hive.
"Then why? Why would you do this to me? Was this what you had planned for me? What kind of horrible plan is this? Is this how you treat people you love? Is this how you show forgiveness?"
The One sighed. "I get that a lot." He sighed again. "Everything I do, everything, is for you. Never against you. One day, you'll understand."
"That's it? One day I'll understand? I'll tell you what I understand. Today, right here and now, I understand that you just gave me the lousiest explanation I've ever heard."
The One chuckled. "Would you like something a bit more concrete?"
The Man shrugged.
"Come closer," The One said. He put his arms through the bars, palms up. At first, The Man couldn't see anything. Reluctantly, he leaned forward a bit. That's when he saw the flat, white scars on The One's palms, jagged circles about the size of a dime.
"Keep watching," The One whispered.
The Man watched, and the scars began to puff and turn pink, and then an angry red. The flesh bubbled and then erupted, peeling away from the center of the scar. Blood poured from the gaping holes, and The Man closed his eyes...
(forgive them, father, for they know not what they do)
...a little boy laughing and bouncing up and down on a bed.
...a girl in pink pajamas beside him, holding a flashlight, trying to keep the beam steady on the white wall where a shadow leapt back and forth trying to find the light.
...leathery fingers intertwining to make a giraffe and then a lion and then a bunny.
The Man remembered. He remembered a boy in round glasses and a girl with curly blond pigtails. He remembered laughter. He remembered piggy back rides and tight hugs and goodnight kisses.
"Ah, now that's more like it," said The One.
"But your hands," replied The Man, opening his eyes. The scars had flattened and become white again. The One pulled his arms back behind the bars.
"What about them?"
"How? I mean, why? Why would you..." The Man's voice trailed off.
The One smiled. "So that you could have shadow puppets and tight hugs and fishing trips and sweet lemonade."
"But I'm not innocent."
"I never said you were. I said you are forgiven." Wood scraped against cement as The One in the Wooden Chair got up.
"It's up to you. Freedom is right around the corner. Come. Follow me."
The One in the Wooden Chair walked down the corrider, took a left, and disappeared.
The Man was tired. So tired. He closed his eyes for just a second.
And then...click.
He opened his eyes, and the cell door stood open.
He looked around. Could he? Footsteps echoed from down the corridor - the slapping tread of The Jailer. Once The Jailer arrived, the cell door would slam shut again.
Straight ahead and take a left. That's where The One with the Wooden Chair had gone.
He stood. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him. One step. And then another. He was at the door. The forgotten wooden chair was in front of him. He picked it up, and as The Jailer's footsteps paused
(froze, he froze in disbelief),
The Man stepped outside his cell.
He opened his eyes to a creamy white wall. The ghosts of shadow puppets danced along it. Her side of the bed was still empty, but it was a big bed, not a skinny cot, and that made all the difference.
Tousled blond pigtails popped up over the side of the bed, followed by a pair of round glasses.
"Daddy?" the Face Behind the Pigtails asked.
"Yes?"
"It's morning," said the Face Behind the Glasses.
"It is, isn't it?" The Man replied. Sunshine peeked through a slit in the heavily-curtained windows, and somewhere, a wooden chair scraped against cement. Leaning forward. Watching. Waiting.
The Man smiled.
Pigtails and Glasses scurried into the bed. They snuggled up into The Man, whose arms hadn't forgotten how to hug them tight.
"Where have you been? We've missed you," she whispered.
"You've been gone a long time," he said.
"You're right," The Man replied. "I have been gone awhile. But I'm back now."
I'm back now.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
The Ghost of Thanksgiving Past
Hebrews 12: 28-29 - "Therefore, since we receive a kingdom which cannot be shaken, let us show gratitude, by which we may offer to God an acceptable service with reverence and awe; for our God is a consuming fire."
My biggest problem with writing is ideas. Either I have nothing, or a million ideas are bouncing around in my head and I can't decide which one I want to use.
Thursday was one of those Nothing kind of days. I had the itch to blog again, but I had Nothing. My days lately have been cloudy - no storms, but not a lot of sunshine, either. I've been wandering through them on auto-pilot.
Thursday was one of those Nothing kind of days. I had the itch to blog again, but I had Nothing. My days lately have been cloudy - no storms, but not a lot of sunshine, either. I've been wandering through them on auto-pilot.
So I asked God to give me something to write about. And I drove on.
About five minutes later, as I was pulling into a parking place at the grocery store, my phone took a tumble and landed between the console and the seat. I dug down to retrieve it...right into a pile of petrified crumbs. No phone. I felt around gingerly, thinking, "I really need to vacuum out this car." No phone. I moved the seat back as far as it would go. More crumbs, but no phone. I shifted the seat forward until my knees were in the steering wheel and still no phone. I turned around to see if it had slid into the back, and sure enough, there it was - right next to a sheet of paper.
The paper looked like it was ripped out of a journal, which is not surprising. My six-year-old daughter loves to write. She has tons of journals. She keeps some of them in the back pocket of the passenger seat in my car. Unfortunately, when something she's written doesn't meet her satisfaction, it gets ripped out and thrown on the floor. She's my messy genius.
The paper had my handwriting on it and I saw the word thankful written many times. I picked it up and turned it over. It was dated November 14, 1998.
"This should be good," I thought, as my mind took me back. The edges of my memory blurred and faded. I was 23. Single. Living another life.
As I read, the past and the present collided.
November 14, 1998
November 14, 1998
1. ...thankful that I have a goal and am putting everything I am into achieving it. (Goal? What goal? If it was a life goal, I should remember it. Wonder if I met my goal. It probably had something to do with my crazy friends. Or 6th Street. Or cute boys.)
2. ...thankful that I have an independent nature and the courage to try new things. (Okay, true. Glad that I knew myself enough to recognize that. Wonder what 'new things' I was referring to. Probably had something to do with my crazy friends. Or 6th Street. Or cute boys.)
3. ...thankful that I am finally graduating! (Now THAT was something to be thankful for. Yep. 5 1/2 years. I blame my crazy friends. And 6th Street. And cute boys.)
4. ...thankful that I can spot bad guys quickly and get rid of them without hanging on forever. (BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! ...as the Rolodex in my head ticks away another half-decade of Boneheads.)
5. ...thankful that I'm no longer stuck in situations that I don't want to be in. (Way to go, 1998 Courtney. Can you please get in touch with 2012 Courtney?)
6. ...thankful that I have the foresight to not get stuck in situations I don't want to be in. (Where the heck was Foresight when I needed it in 2002? And 2003? And 2008? And 2010???)
November 11, 2012
Thank you, God, for giving me material to work with. You're pretty awesome. And You have a remarkable sense of humor.
I've said it before - I'm not good with gratitude. I have such a hard time saying "thank you." When someone compliments me, I just don't believe it. I am much better with criticism. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, and I will get right on it. But I have no idea what to do with compliments. They just hang in the air like wisps of smoke, until I shoo them back into Nothingness.
Thank you, God, for giving me material to work with. You're pretty awesome. And You have a remarkable sense of humor.
I've said it before - I'm not good with gratitude. I have such a hard time saying "thank you." When someone compliments me, I just don't believe it. I am much better with criticism. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, and I will get right on it. But I have no idea what to do with compliments. They just hang in the air like wisps of smoke, until I shoo them back into Nothingness.
I also find it hard to be grateful for blessings, because I'm constantly on the lookout for things that need fixing. Blessings get forgotten in the sea of my mistakes. If I do happen to notice a blessing, I feel like a phony for being grateful when I have so much that needs fixing.
And God smiles from the backseat of my car. He chuckles. He nudges that list from 1998 a little closer.
I'm a Beautiful Mess. I'm a Work in Progress. I'm His Unfinished Business.
And God smiles from the backseat of my car. He chuckles. He nudges that list from 1998 a little closer.
I'm a Beautiful Mess. I'm a Work in Progress. I'm His Unfinished Business.
Being grateful doesn't have to be about making lists and writing Thank You cards and updating my Facebook status every day in November. Choosing gratitude isn't about words. For me, for now, for today, Gratitude is about Living Graciously and recognizing that there's more to my life than the bad choices I've made and the messes I've created.
It can be the squirrels I saw playing a game of chase this morning on the oak tree across the street...
or running in the park with my son...
or the hidden grin on my student's face as I high-five him for reading fluently...
or witnessing my daughters grow into their roles as sisters and friends...
or the beautiful view of the hill country from my perch at recess...
or the hugs that I get from my children every day as they see me in the halls at school.
When I think about it hard enough, I can even turn those messes into blessings. Every difficult year brought me closer to God. Every mistake was a lesson learned. Every obstacle was a chance to grow into the woman God wants me to be. Every person God placed in my life has given me a gift that I use today to make decisions about the paths I take. There are the Steel Magnolias, women whose journeys have been woven together with mine - Wendy and Marte and Joi and Julie and Missy and Shawn and Ruth and Lisa and Adrienne and Annie and Becky and Candice and Suzy and Jeanne and Rachel and Patty ..and ...and ...and. There is the Cardinal who taught me how to love and helped me find my Soul Song. Even the Boneheads deserve my gratitude - they helped me define what I deserve and helped teach me about forgiveness.
Living Graciously is knowing that I have an unshakable God Whose consuming fire turns all my ashes into beauty. And thanking Him for giving me one more breath. And one more. And one more.
I can choose to define myself by my mistakes or by my blessings. It's not easy, and there are days that I would like to hide under my covers. But on those difficult days, I can remind myself to Live Graciously. Then I can throw back the covers and face the sunlight.
And that is something to be thankful for.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
The Girl Behind the Podium
Matthew 9:13 - "But go and learn what this means: 'I desire compassion, and not sacrifice,' for I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners."
I am not a winner.
My number never gets called in raffles.
I don't win money on scratch-off lottery tickets.
My name was never chosen for the primo parking place at work.
The shelves in my bedroom have always been packed with books instead of trophies.
But when I was eight years old, I won the hokey-pokey contest at the skate rink. I can still remember it. Contests weren't my thing, especially contests that involved dancing. I've always had this thing about humiliating myself in public. But the lights bouncing off the disco balls must have played tricks on my mind, because before I knew it, I was in the middle of the rink with a couple dozen other kids. The music started. My skate went in. My skate went out. My skate went in and my shin took a beating as I flailed it all about. I attempted to turn myself around without taking down the whole circle. The fact that it was a contest was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted to survive.
Finally, the DJ announced the winner: "The girl with the pigtails!" I looked around the circle. None of the girls had their hair in pigtails. Who was he talking about? Was he talking about me? Me??? How could I have won? I had pokeyed when I was supposed to hokey. My shakin' was more like convulsin'. The kids around me had toppled like dominoes when I'd turned myself around. Surely there was another girl in pigtails who deserved to win. But my friends were clapping and cheering, pushing me toward the DJ booth. I looked at the man behind the booth, and he was waving me over. I wobbled on over to pick up my free ice cream coupon (I bet Mr. DJ felt a twinge of buyer's remorse when I took a nose dive halfway there) and quickly redeemed it. As my friends headed back to the rink with Cyndi Lauper, I sat on a bench and ate my ice cream, thinking, 'I better finish this before Mr. DJ realizes he made a mistake.'
Like I said, I'm not a winner.
Okay, okay. I have to admit that I was up for the "Martyr of the Year" award not too long ago. It's nothing much, really. I mean, truly, it is a very prestigious award. Not everyone is qualified to be in the running, let alone win. I hear this year's winner was supposed to receive an unlimited supply of pitiful looks and at least one "Bless her little heart" each day for a year, along with the original prize (a Guilt-Free Pass to be as Hateful and Vindictive and Judgmental as circumstances warrant - can you say heaven???). But the qualifications are stringent. An applicant must meet all three. The nominees (you know who you are) like to call them The Three S's. Of course, I had to fill out my application all by myself. Not one person even thought to nominate me. They were all too busy to notice what a saint I've been. Selfish fools. Anyway, I filled out the application and put a giant, black check in each of the three qualification boxes. Struggled? Check. Suffered? Check. Sacrificed? Check, Check. I was a Shoo-In.
My application was processing, and I was eight pages into a rockin' acceptance speech. I had the stage and podium all picked out. The auditorium was large enough to fit all the people who deserved to witness my ascension to sainthood. I took my position behind the podium, put the finishing touches on my speech, adjusted the spotlight, and waited. And waited. And waited.
The audience was silent. There was no clapping, no hip-hip-hoorays. No one sang, "For She's a Jolly Good Martyr." I was kind of hoping for a rendition of "The Saints Go Marching In," because I know we all want to be in that number. But nooooooooooooo.
Don't you people know what I've BEEN THROUGH???
Turns out my application got stuck in "Processing." It seems I'd forgotten to send in the required processing fee. Because ain't nothin' free in this world. Even a martyr has to pay her dues. It didn't cost much, really. It was a fee I already paid each and every day, which is probably why I overlooked it on the application. I'd spent so much of it, I hardly even missed my Happiness.
I slunk away from behind the podium, embarrassed and confused. Where had I gone wrong? Where was my prize? Hadn't I tried and endured and given in and let go? My heart was so turned in on itself, I didn't hear God's footsteps as He graciously took back His position of glory.
Every time I claimed a sacrifice, I was making my life about me. What I'd done. What I'd endured. What I'd given up. I was giving myself the glory.
It wasn't until God turned my heart toward Him that I was able to see that my Sacrifices, my Suffering, my Struggles, were all of my own making. I was never a Victim. I volunteered for the life I was living. I allowed people to make me feel unworthy. I allowed guilt to make my choices for me. I allowed fear to keep me in chains. I allowed people to take advantage of me. I created that life, and then I justified every bad choice I made by blaming it on all I'd Sacrificed. I wrote out my Happiness check each and every day, and gladly handed it over to Misery, as if I owed him.
When it comes to martyrdom, there's never a winner. Oh, you can get close - so close, you can taste it. It's what keeps you coming back for more. The vindication! The absolution! Not to mention the bonus, the free gift with purchase, that hides all of your own defects under the martyr's mask. Sure, martyrdom is expensive. And it has a bad aftertaste. Not to mention, it always leaves you hungry for more. But it feels so good. Who cares what it costs?
The Girl Behind the Podium doesn't. The Girl Behind the Podium is still waiting for her prize. She's filling out new applications, and ticking off new sacrifices left and right, as she continues to chase the spotlight.
But I don't belong in the spotlight. There is only one Light, and it won't shine on the Girl Behind the Podium, no matter how many applications she submits. God calls the sinners, not the martyrs. And the only thing God has called me to do is turn my life over to Him. From there, it's just about following the Light. It hasn't been easy so far. I've had to do some things I haven't really wanted to do. I've been scared. I've gotten discouraged. I've been angry. I've stumbled and I've wanted to quit. But when I start to feel like I'm sacrificing, I know it's time to look at myself and see if the choices I'm making are God's will. God doesn't call me to sacrifice, He calls me to follow. If I'm making my choices about me - my fears or my doubts or my desires - that's my will, not His.
Because it's no sacrifice to give Him your life. The prize you receive in return is totally worth it.
No application required.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Yesterday
John 8:44-45 "You are of your father the devil, and you want to do the desires of your father. He was a murderer from the beginning, and does not stand in the truth because there is no truth in him. Whenever he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies. But because I speak the truth, you do not believe Me."
Yesterday, I met up with some old friends to watch a football game. The game was horrible, but the conversation wasn't. We caught up on each others' lives and reminisced about old times. I laughed a lot...when I wasn't yelling at the TV.
I went home after the game. Instead of post-game celebrations, I had a date with a laundry basket. It was back to reality, and back to the place where my mind runs marathons. As I folded the laundry, I thought about the conversation with my friends from Yesterday. And I remembered who I was Yesterday. I cringed as memories slammed into my mind. It was a massive pile-up, each memory crashing recklessly into the one before it. Every sin, every mistake, every failure pounded away at my heart, leaving it full of gashes and dents. Memories of the girl who was always one bad choice away from the pit. Memories of the girl who tried to find herself in others. Memories of the girl who ran from God.
Yesterday, I hated myself. Yesterday, I was convinced I was not worthy of God's love. Yesterday, I opened the door for the devil and let him strut right into my heart.
The enemy is smart! I imagine he carries around a chalkboard with my name on it, tallying every mistake, failure, and sin. Each tally mark is a weapon he will use against me.
remember when you... SLASH!
how could you forget that time you... STAB!
let me remind you how often you... SLICE!
you've failed too many times. you've made too many mistakes. you've sinned too much to deserve love and forgiveness.
I believed the lies. And the devil laughed.
But yesterday, when I heard his laughter, when my heart was ready to crumble beneath the pile-up of mistakes and failures, I turned away from the enemy's taunts, and I prayed. I prayed to never be that girl again. I prayed for redemption. I prayed for forgiveness. The laughter faded, and I heard a small, quiet voice say that I was already forgiven.
God doesn't keep tally marks. He doesn't even own a chalkboard, because there's nothing to write on it. My sins are erased before I even commit them. Imagine that! Washed away by the blood of a Savior who knew me and loved me before I was even born!
So why do I listen to the enemy? Why are his lies so much more believable than the Truth? Why does it take a massive pile-up of Yesterdays before I recognize his lies and turn away to pray? I really don't know. I don't know why it's so much easier to believe the bad than the good. Jesus asked the same question. "But because I speak the truth, you do not believe Me. Which one of you convicts Me of sin? If I speak truth, why do you not believe Me?" (John 8:45-46)
I don't have the answer, but He does. "He who is of God hears the words of God; for this reason you do not hear them, because you are not of God.” (John 8:47)
I don't want to let the enemy's lies into my heart. I want to hear the words of God, so I have to make a conscience effort Today to be "of God" - believing and trusting and serving and giving and praying and loving and forgiving and surrendering. If Jesus lives in my heart, there won't be any room for the devil's lies.
Today, I saw a community be "of God" as they celebrated the life of a little boy who went Home to be with His Savior two years ago. Today, I saw a mother and a father be "of God" as they put their trust in a God who will give purpose to their pain. Today, I saw friends and family be "of God" as they rallied around these brave parents, giving and serving and loving and praying to keep a little boy's memory alive. Today, I saw Jesus in hundreds of faces, smiling through tears, with heads bowed and voices singing thanks and praise for the brief life of a baby angel.
You know whose voice I didn't hear Today? The voice that couldn't find a way in. The voice that was speechless in the presence "of God." The voice that turned and ran in fear from a Community of Christ.
Don't let the enemy in. Don't let him use your Yesterdays. Tell him that Today, you know that you are loved. Today, you will believe the Truth. Today, you will serve your Savior.
Yesterday is gone.
Today, your heart belongs to Jesus.
Yesterday, I met up with some old friends to watch a football game. The game was horrible, but the conversation wasn't. We caught up on each others' lives and reminisced about old times. I laughed a lot...when I wasn't yelling at the TV.
I went home after the game. Instead of post-game celebrations, I had a date with a laundry basket. It was back to reality, and back to the place where my mind runs marathons. As I folded the laundry, I thought about the conversation with my friends from Yesterday. And I remembered who I was Yesterday. I cringed as memories slammed into my mind. It was a massive pile-up, each memory crashing recklessly into the one before it. Every sin, every mistake, every failure pounded away at my heart, leaving it full of gashes and dents. Memories of the girl who was always one bad choice away from the pit. Memories of the girl who tried to find herself in others. Memories of the girl who ran from God.
Yesterday, I hated myself. Yesterday, I was convinced I was not worthy of God's love. Yesterday, I opened the door for the devil and let him strut right into my heart.
The enemy is smart! I imagine he carries around a chalkboard with my name on it, tallying every mistake, failure, and sin. Each tally mark is a weapon he will use against me.
remember when you... SLASH!
how could you forget that time you... STAB!
let me remind you how often you... SLICE!
you've failed too many times. you've made too many mistakes. you've sinned too much to deserve love and forgiveness.
I believed the lies. And the devil laughed.
But yesterday, when I heard his laughter, when my heart was ready to crumble beneath the pile-up of mistakes and failures, I turned away from the enemy's taunts, and I prayed. I prayed to never be that girl again. I prayed for redemption. I prayed for forgiveness. The laughter faded, and I heard a small, quiet voice say that I was already forgiven.
God doesn't keep tally marks. He doesn't even own a chalkboard, because there's nothing to write on it. My sins are erased before I even commit them. Imagine that! Washed away by the blood of a Savior who knew me and loved me before I was even born!
So why do I listen to the enemy? Why are his lies so much more believable than the Truth? Why does it take a massive pile-up of Yesterdays before I recognize his lies and turn away to pray? I really don't know. I don't know why it's so much easier to believe the bad than the good. Jesus asked the same question. "But because I speak the truth, you do not believe Me. Which one of you convicts Me of sin? If I speak truth, why do you not believe Me?" (John 8:45-46)
I don't have the answer, but He does. "He who is of God hears the words of God; for this reason you do not hear them, because you are not of God.” (John 8:47)
I don't want to let the enemy's lies into my heart. I want to hear the words of God, so I have to make a conscience effort Today to be "of God" - believing and trusting and serving and giving and praying and loving and forgiving and surrendering. If Jesus lives in my heart, there won't be any room for the devil's lies.
Today, I saw a community be "of God" as they celebrated the life of a little boy who went Home to be with His Savior two years ago. Today, I saw a mother and a father be "of God" as they put their trust in a God who will give purpose to their pain. Today, I saw friends and family be "of God" as they rallied around these brave parents, giving and serving and loving and praying to keep a little boy's memory alive. Today, I saw Jesus in hundreds of faces, smiling through tears, with heads bowed and voices singing thanks and praise for the brief life of a baby angel.
You know whose voice I didn't hear Today? The voice that couldn't find a way in. The voice that was speechless in the presence "of God." The voice that turned and ran in fear from a Community of Christ.
Don't let the enemy in. Don't let him use your Yesterdays. Tell him that Today, you know that you are loved. Today, you will believe the Truth. Today, you will serve your Savior.
Yesterday is gone.
Today, your heart belongs to Jesus.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Fallen Down
Gray clouds tumble in.
Darkness settles deep within.
My soul begins a downward spin
Into valleys
Littered with broken dreams,
Battered hearts and silent screams.
Falling, falling, falling,
I keep on calling, calling, calling
Out Your name.
But I can't hear You
Enough to fear You
Until I'm Fallen Down.
I reach out
Beyond my pain and doubt
And Your Hand
Grasps.
It clasps
With strength I can't define.
Scars so deeply divine
Connect Your heart to mine.
Whispers to my soul
Fill every empty hole,
Say we never were apart,
But this Love would never start
In the hardness of my heart
Until I'm Fallen Down.
I fall into the Light
And feel my heart ignite
With a love so deep
I just can't keep
It to myself.
My soul is renewed
All because He pursued
Me, never leaving,
Always believing
That deep inside,
Once the old had died,
The new would arise
With opened eyes.
Knowing His face,
Bestowing His grace,
Falling like rain,
Washing away every stain,
Every pain
'Til I gain
Something I would never know
Until I'm Fallen Down.
Darkness settles deep within.
My soul begins a downward spin
Into valleys
Littered with broken dreams,
Battered hearts and silent screams.
Falling, falling, falling,
I keep on calling, calling, calling
Out Your name.
But I can't hear You
Enough to fear You
Until I'm Fallen Down.
I reach out
Beyond my pain and doubt
And Your Hand
Grasps.
It clasps
With strength I can't define.
Scars so deeply divine
Connect Your heart to mine.
Whispers to my soul
Fill every empty hole,
Say we never were apart,
But this Love would never start
In the hardness of my heart
Until I'm Fallen Down.
I fall into the Light
And feel my heart ignite
With a love so deep
I just can't keep
It to myself.
My soul is renewed
All because He pursued
Me, never leaving,
Always believing
That deep inside,
Once the old had died,
The new would arise
With opened eyes.
Knowing His face,
Bestowing His grace,
Falling like rain,
Washing away every stain,
Every pain
'Til I gain
Something I would never know
Until I'm Fallen Down.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Lights, Camera, Action!
Psalm 31:5 - "Into Your hands I commit my spirit..."
I walk onto the dark stage. It's a gray kind of quiet. An occasional cough interrupts the silence. The faces in the crowd are lost in the shadows, melting together into a hazy blur. I focus my eyes above the faceless flock. My heart twitches ever so slightly.
And then the lights go up! They are like a dozen tiny suns. The music starts and my lips quiver as I begin to sing. Thoughts race through my mind.
At the end of the song, it's 'for thee,' not 'to thee.'
'Cling' comes before 'sing.'
Need to be a few seconds quicker on the mike change.
I wonder which chocolate I will get in the box tonight.
I still screw up and sing 'to thee,' but I get the 'cling' first instead of the 'sing.' No big deal, unless the audience can read lips. I complete the mike change with just enough time to get on the stage right on cue. The chocolate I get is caramel-filled, so when I say my lines, I have caramel stuck to my two front teeth. Oh well. I imagine it's pretty "in-character" for Blanche to have a little candy in her teeth.
Acting wasn't always so smooth. The first time I contemplated auditioning for a play, I sat in my car for thirty minutes wondering if I should go inside. I spent most of that time arguing with God. That morning at church, when my pastor announced the auditions for Steel Magnolias, a little voice spoke to my heart.
do it i'll be right there
A BIG voice, much bigger and louder and more obnoxious than that small, still one, busted in.
"YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! YOU CAN'T ACT! YOU'LL MAKE A FOOL OF YOURSELF. THEY'LL ALL LAUGH AT YOU. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING???"
I realized that I'd spent years and years and years listening to that obnoxious devil tell me I'm not good enough, so I told him to shut up and went inside. Still, reading for the part, my heart was like a fish out of water, flopping around in my chest.
It's been almost a year since that first audition, and we wrapped up Grease a few weeks ago. Three plays later, and I now know what words like upstage and downstage and blocking mean. I've (somewhat) mastered a Southern Louisiana accent, can spell SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS while singing and dancing, and learned that when in doubt, do the chicken.
One of the things the director says over and over is "Stay in character!" When my heel caught in the hem of my dress while I was rama-lama-ding-donging, Courtney wanted to sputter a slew of not-so-very-Christian words and rip the darn thing out. But Blanche just gave a chocolate-y grin and kept dancing. Whether you flub a line or head downstage-left instead of upstage-right or doo-wop-da-dooby-doo when you're supposed to chang-chang-changity-chang-shoo-bop, you must commit to doing it in character. It's not just the words that come out of your mouth. Oh, Heavens no. It's what your hands are doing and how your body is turned and where your eyes are looking. It's where your feet go and how they get there and what they do once they arrive.
I walk out onto life's stage every day, playing the role of parent, child, friend, sibling, coworker, teacher... The list is endless.
I imagine the cast of characters in my life would look something like this:
COURTNEY: Mother of three. Strict disciplinarian with high standards for behavior. Loving, but with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: The ex-wife. Tries to act tough, and avoids any show of emotion. Fair, but with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: A good friend. Has an off-beat sense of humor and can be full of mischief. Wears her heart on her sleeve. Somewhat naive, with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: A loner who never asks for help. Prefers to do things herself, even though she is easily frustrated. High personal standards, with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: The perfectionist. Will perservere, often to the detriment of her mental stability. Hard-headed, with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: A teacher with creative flair. Particularly dotes on children with behavioral issues. Kind, but firm, with an air of impatience.
Some roles are easier than others. We know the lines, where to look, and how to get where we need to be. Staying in character comes naturally. But other times, it takes practice. Like when you bring that baby home from the hospital and, in an instant, you're responsible for a tiny human who doesn't stop crying. Ever. Or when you start that new job and find yourself treading water in an office pool with new faces and old gossip.
It can be difficult rehearsing those new roles, especially when your co-stars never, ever stop crying.
My life's play has a revolving door, and I don't always understand God's stage directions.
(COURTNEY enters, stage right)
(COURTNEY exits, stage left)
But which Courtney stays and which Courtney goes? Where do you want me, God? Upstage? Downstage?? Backstage???
And then, all of sudden, the show's over. The lights go out. The applause ends (if there ever was any). It's time to take my name off the marquee.
Stepping off the stage is never an easy thing to do. I chose to close the curtain on being a wife. It was not easy to pull those letters down off the marquee. It meant leaving behind props that I'd become accustomed to: our home, dreams I had for our family, friendships we'd made as a couple. But I could no longer commit to playing that role. It was doing things to me that made me lose myself. I'd committed myself, not to my husband, but to a thing I couldn't control, and I gave everything I had in me trying to "fix" something I wasn't qualified to fix. Love died, and was replaced with anger and resentment. I became a hopeless, empty shell.
True committment is entrusting yourself to another for safekeeping. I cut my feet on the shards of broken promises that littered the stage. Love and trust trickled out slowly at first, and then faster and faster as the wounds got deeper. So trust in God? Give what was left of my heart, all my anger and resentment, to Christ? Can you imagine a person like me giving up everything to a Man she couldn't even see???
He loves the broken. He cherishes the empty. We are his favorites. What I failed to realize is that if I entrusted myself to Christ, He would take care of all the other roles I play. Even when my co-stars flubbed their lines or went downstage when they were supposed to go up, He would be there to make sure the play went on.
Taking my name off the marriage marquee was a huge step in my journey to commit myself to Christ. It took me a while to wrap my mind around that. I read the Bible, and it told me that God created the covenant of marriage and hates when it gets broken. So why did it feel like divorcing myself from that unhealthy committment was part of His plan?
Because God uses brokenness to achieve great things.
I wish I didn't have to make that decision. I wish those four ugly words never had to come out of my mouth: "I want a divorce." But they did. And after they did, God whispered in my ear that He still has great plans for me, has even bigger roles for me to play, and that He will use my divorce to make those roles come my way.
Already, God is using those four ugly words to create and enhance beautiful roles in my life: Mother, Stephen Minister, Friend, Daughter, Christian Education Coordinator, Athlete, Confirmation Guide, Writer, Actor...
God will do the same for you. Whether you are auditioning for a new role, or one is coming to an end, you can entrust yourself to Him for safekeeping. Your co-stars may let you down in this life, but He never will. He may ask you to do something scary, like take your name down off that safe marquee on Main Street and put it up in a strange town somewhere off the beaten path. But He will be right there with you, holding your hand as He guides you onto the stage.
Because there is one role you play that will never change. That is your role as a child of God. You don't have to rehearse any lines or practice any blocking. You just have to commit your spirit into His loving hands and He will take care of the rest.
Really, when you think about it, life is just one big audition.
What part in Heaven do you want?
I walk onto the dark stage. It's a gray kind of quiet. An occasional cough interrupts the silence. The faces in the crowd are lost in the shadows, melting together into a hazy blur. I focus my eyes above the faceless flock. My heart twitches ever so slightly.
And then the lights go up! They are like a dozen tiny suns. The music starts and my lips quiver as I begin to sing. Thoughts race through my mind.
At the end of the song, it's 'for thee,' not 'to thee.'
'Cling' comes before 'sing.'
Need to be a few seconds quicker on the mike change.
I wonder which chocolate I will get in the box tonight.
I still screw up and sing 'to thee,' but I get the 'cling' first instead of the 'sing.' No big deal, unless the audience can read lips. I complete the mike change with just enough time to get on the stage right on cue. The chocolate I get is caramel-filled, so when I say my lines, I have caramel stuck to my two front teeth. Oh well. I imagine it's pretty "in-character" for Blanche to have a little candy in her teeth.
Acting wasn't always so smooth. The first time I contemplated auditioning for a play, I sat in my car for thirty minutes wondering if I should go inside. I spent most of that time arguing with God. That morning at church, when my pastor announced the auditions for Steel Magnolias, a little voice spoke to my heart.
do it i'll be right there
A BIG voice, much bigger and louder and more obnoxious than that small, still one, busted in.
"YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! YOU CAN'T ACT! YOU'LL MAKE A FOOL OF YOURSELF. THEY'LL ALL LAUGH AT YOU. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING???"
I realized that I'd spent years and years and years listening to that obnoxious devil tell me I'm not good enough, so I told him to shut up and went inside. Still, reading for the part, my heart was like a fish out of water, flopping around in my chest.
It's been almost a year since that first audition, and we wrapped up Grease a few weeks ago. Three plays later, and I now know what words like upstage and downstage and blocking mean. I've (somewhat) mastered a Southern Louisiana accent, can spell SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS while singing and dancing, and learned that when in doubt, do the chicken.
One of the things the director says over and over is "Stay in character!" When my heel caught in the hem of my dress while I was rama-lama-ding-donging, Courtney wanted to sputter a slew of not-so-very-Christian words and rip the darn thing out. But Blanche just gave a chocolate-y grin and kept dancing. Whether you flub a line or head downstage-left instead of upstage-right or doo-wop-da-dooby-doo when you're supposed to chang-chang-changity-chang-shoo-bop, you must commit to doing it in character. It's not just the words that come out of your mouth. Oh, Heavens no. It's what your hands are doing and how your body is turned and where your eyes are looking. It's where your feet go and how they get there and what they do once they arrive.
I walk out onto life's stage every day, playing the role of parent, child, friend, sibling, coworker, teacher... The list is endless.
I imagine the cast of characters in my life would look something like this:
Courtney's Quasi Life: A Play in One Very Long Act
CAST OF CHARACTERS
COURTNEY: Mother of three. Strict disciplinarian with high standards for behavior. Loving, but with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: The ex-wife. Tries to act tough, and avoids any show of emotion. Fair, but with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: A good friend. Has an off-beat sense of humor and can be full of mischief. Wears her heart on her sleeve. Somewhat naive, with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: A loner who never asks for help. Prefers to do things herself, even though she is easily frustrated. High personal standards, with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: The perfectionist. Will perservere, often to the detriment of her mental stability. Hard-headed, with an air of impatience.
COURTNEY: A teacher with creative flair. Particularly dotes on children with behavioral issues. Kind, but firm, with an air of impatience.
Some roles are easier than others. We know the lines, where to look, and how to get where we need to be. Staying in character comes naturally. But other times, it takes practice. Like when you bring that baby home from the hospital and, in an instant, you're responsible for a tiny human who doesn't stop crying. Ever. Or when you start that new job and find yourself treading water in an office pool with new faces and old gossip.
It can be difficult rehearsing those new roles, especially when your co-stars never, ever stop crying.
My life's play has a revolving door, and I don't always understand God's stage directions.
(COURTNEY enters, stage right)
(COURTNEY exits, stage left)
But which Courtney stays and which Courtney goes? Where do you want me, God? Upstage? Downstage?? Backstage???
And then, all of sudden, the show's over. The lights go out. The applause ends (if there ever was any). It's time to take my name off the marquee.
Stepping off the stage is never an easy thing to do. I chose to close the curtain on being a wife. It was not easy to pull those letters down off the marquee. It meant leaving behind props that I'd become accustomed to: our home, dreams I had for our family, friendships we'd made as a couple. But I could no longer commit to playing that role. It was doing things to me that made me lose myself. I'd committed myself, not to my husband, but to a thing I couldn't control, and I gave everything I had in me trying to "fix" something I wasn't qualified to fix. Love died, and was replaced with anger and resentment. I became a hopeless, empty shell.
True committment is entrusting yourself to another for safekeeping. I cut my feet on the shards of broken promises that littered the stage. Love and trust trickled out slowly at first, and then faster and faster as the wounds got deeper. So trust in God? Give what was left of my heart, all my anger and resentment, to Christ? Can you imagine a person like me giving up everything to a Man she couldn't even see???
He loves the broken. He cherishes the empty. We are his favorites. What I failed to realize is that if I entrusted myself to Christ, He would take care of all the other roles I play. Even when my co-stars flubbed their lines or went downstage when they were supposed to go up, He would be there to make sure the play went on.
Taking my name off the marriage marquee was a huge step in my journey to commit myself to Christ. It took me a while to wrap my mind around that. I read the Bible, and it told me that God created the covenant of marriage and hates when it gets broken. So why did it feel like divorcing myself from that unhealthy committment was part of His plan?
Because God uses brokenness to achieve great things.
I wish I didn't have to make that decision. I wish those four ugly words never had to come out of my mouth: "I want a divorce." But they did. And after they did, God whispered in my ear that He still has great plans for me, has even bigger roles for me to play, and that He will use my divorce to make those roles come my way.
Already, God is using those four ugly words to create and enhance beautiful roles in my life: Mother, Stephen Minister, Friend, Daughter, Christian Education Coordinator, Athlete, Confirmation Guide, Writer, Actor...
God will do the same for you. Whether you are auditioning for a new role, or one is coming to an end, you can entrust yourself to Him for safekeeping. Your co-stars may let you down in this life, but He never will. He may ask you to do something scary, like take your name down off that safe marquee on Main Street and put it up in a strange town somewhere off the beaten path. But He will be right there with you, holding your hand as He guides you onto the stage.
Because there is one role you play that will never change. That is your role as a child of God. You don't have to rehearse any lines or practice any blocking. You just have to commit your spirit into His loving hands and He will take care of the rest.
Really, when you think about it, life is just one big audition.
What part in Heaven do you want?
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
DEspiteful
Joshua 1:9 - Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.
The clock ticks slowly for a seven-year-old. That old minute hand meanders around, chitchatting with old friends, while twenty-two anxious pairs of eyes will it to go faster go faster go faster.
That's how it was when I was in 2nd grade. We couldn't wait for 9:15. Most of us were still learning how to tell time, but Big-Hand-on-the-Three, Little-Hand-on-the-Nine was something we all learned the very first day. RECESS!
I loved school. Most kids will say their favorite thing about school is recess, but I loved freshly-sharpened pencils and pink erasers and clean spiral notebooks. I loved writing my name at the top of my paper and organizing my binders. School made sense to me. There were rules and a schedule and structure. I knew what to expect. I did my homework. I got good grades. I didn't misbehave. My pigtails were always neat, my shirt was tucked in, and my skirt always went right to my knees.
I didn't understand kids who didn't follow the rules. Frankly, they irritated me. Those rule-breakers poked and prodded at my structured, well-organized day until it was full of holes. I went home on the school bus feeling like I was missing something.
Ty was the worst. He was loud and obnoxious and unruly. He ran in the hallway and threw food in the cafeteria. He never raised his hand and I'm pretty sure his bottom didn't touch his chair the entire year. When 9:15 rolled around, he became a four-foot-two-inch dust devil in Bugle Boys and KangaROOs, turning the playground into pre-pubescent bedlam.
You see, Ty liked to lift up little girls' skirts. The teachers thought we were just playing chase, but really it was a much more perilous game. Ty was a Fox hunting the Geese. Whether you were wearing Care Bears or Rainbow Brite on your butt, if Ty caught up with you, every second grader knew it. Because even if they didn't see it, Ty made sure they heard about it.
It was a sunny April morning. I'd managed to steer clear of Ty all year. Some of his victims had gotten smart and started wearing shorts underneath their skirts and dresses. They hung upside-down from the monkey bars, flaunting their freedom. All the Cabbage Patch Kids were safely hidden behind a layer of cotton. I started to climb the ladder to the slide, thinking those girls were pretty clever for outfoxing the Fox, when I felt a whoosh of air on my backside. I didn't even have time to run away.
"Strawberry Shortcake! Strawberry Shortcake!"
The rule-follower in me was also somewhat of a tattletale. But I left her on the slide and took off after Ty. I think he was a little surprised that I was chasing him, because he didn't go very far. Determination, anger, and a gaggle of hostile little girls cheered me on.
Ty turned around and smirked. "Strawberry Shortcake! Strawberry Shortcake!"
I didn't say a word. I just did what any self-respecting little girl in Strawberry Shortcake undies would do.
I kicked him in the nuts.
That kick was so full of spite, it must have felt like an iron weight instead of a seven-year-old girl's size 2 foot. It wasn't just vindication for exposing my undies to the entire playground. It was months of anger and frustration for this rule-breaking, skirt-lifting, food-throwing boy. I kicked him so hard, he had to go to the nurse. And I got a nice long visit with the principal.
Ty learned a lesson that day. He never lifted the girls' skirts again.
I'd like to say I learned a valuable lesson, too. But I didn't. I was just seven, after all.
Even as I got older and the world began to make more sense, I went on to kick many more people right where it hurt the most.
Old friends, new friends, family, people I barely knew...
Somewhere along the line, I'd given them the power to hurt me. Some of them put dents in my structured, organized life. Others took jackhammers to it. Buried in the rubble, I felt like I'd lost control.
Say hello to Spite, Revenge's quiet cousin. Revenge is blatant and brazen and barefaced. But Spite is sneaky and sly. It tiptoes into your heart and sets up camp, jabbing its stakes deep into every corner. Then it goes to work. Quiet and relentless, it chips away slowly at your soul, and you don't even know it's there.
Fear gives birth to Spite. Fear of not measuring up. Fear of being alone. Fear of the unknown. Fear of losing control. We collect these moments of Fear and stack them up like gifts under a brittle, crumbling tree, and then we start writing Spite You cards. Spite feels powerful. It feels like force in the face of fear.
But what if we are giving part of ourselves away along with those Spite You cards? What if, instead of gaining power, we are really losing our soul?
Jesus had every reason to be spiteful. But I like to think that He was DEspiteful. He was born in a stinky stable, despite the fact that He was divine; people laughed at Him and doubted Him despite the fact that He'd performed countless miracles; He was tempted by the devil despite the fact that He created the world; He was beaten and mocked despite the fact that He came to save the very ones who spit on Him. At any time, He had the power to spite His tormentors. But when He was in the Garden of Gethsemane, He didn't say, "My Father, I will spite this human blight and save my divine behind." Despite all He'd suffered already, He said, "My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as You will." As He hung there with my sins and your sins and the sins of the whole world piling up on his weakening shoulders, He didn't say, "Spite them, Father, for they threatened Me and criticized Me and hurt Me and called Me names." He said, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Jesus gave His fear to His Father, and held onto His power to save our disgraceful necks.
People have hurt you. They've made you feel unworthy and unloved and weak. They've threatened and criticized, leaving you afraid and discouraged. They've exposed every fear in your heart and taunted you with them. "Not good enough! Not smart enough! Not rich enough!" You feel like you've lost huge chunks of yourself. You are confused. You are angry and scared and broken.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
You
are
enough.
You are worthy and loved and strong.
You are brave and you are inspiring and you are redeemed.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
You are not spiteful. Let me say that again. You are not spiteful. You didn't choose for your fears to be exposed and criticized and used against you, but you can certainly choose whether or not you give someone the power to turn you into something you're not. No one has the power to change the life that God has planned for you. But you give them the power to change how you live that life when you live in fear instead of in faith.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
The holes inside you may be making you weak, but Jesus is there to make you strong and courageous. He's calling you to do something BIG, and He knows it won't be easy. Don't turn your fear and your discouragement into spite for the ones who've hurt you, even if they've lifted your skirt and showed the world your Strawberry Shortcake underwear. Don't kick them where it hurts because you are scared and broken. It's your fear. It's your discouragement. Own them. Look them in the eye, and then lay them at the cross. Be DEspiteful. Be strong and smile, despite the fact that you're full of holes. Be courageous and follow the words He's whispering to your heart, despite the fact that you're scared to death.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
For the LORD your God will be with you.
Calming your fears.
Filling your holes.
Wherever
you
go.
The clock ticks slowly for a seven-year-old. That old minute hand meanders around, chitchatting with old friends, while twenty-two anxious pairs of eyes will it to go faster go faster go faster.
That's how it was when I was in 2nd grade. We couldn't wait for 9:15. Most of us were still learning how to tell time, but Big-Hand-on-the-Three, Little-Hand-on-the-Nine was something we all learned the very first day. RECESS!
I loved school. Most kids will say their favorite thing about school is recess, but I loved freshly-sharpened pencils and pink erasers and clean spiral notebooks. I loved writing my name at the top of my paper and organizing my binders. School made sense to me. There were rules and a schedule and structure. I knew what to expect. I did my homework. I got good grades. I didn't misbehave. My pigtails were always neat, my shirt was tucked in, and my skirt always went right to my knees.
I didn't understand kids who didn't follow the rules. Frankly, they irritated me. Those rule-breakers poked and prodded at my structured, well-organized day until it was full of holes. I went home on the school bus feeling like I was missing something.
Ty was the worst. He was loud and obnoxious and unruly. He ran in the hallway and threw food in the cafeteria. He never raised his hand and I'm pretty sure his bottom didn't touch his chair the entire year. When 9:15 rolled around, he became a four-foot-two-inch dust devil in Bugle Boys and KangaROOs, turning the playground into pre-pubescent bedlam.
You see, Ty liked to lift up little girls' skirts. The teachers thought we were just playing chase, but really it was a much more perilous game. Ty was a Fox hunting the Geese. Whether you were wearing Care Bears or Rainbow Brite on your butt, if Ty caught up with you, every second grader knew it. Because even if they didn't see it, Ty made sure they heard about it.
It was a sunny April morning. I'd managed to steer clear of Ty all year. Some of his victims had gotten smart and started wearing shorts underneath their skirts and dresses. They hung upside-down from the monkey bars, flaunting their freedom. All the Cabbage Patch Kids were safely hidden behind a layer of cotton. I started to climb the ladder to the slide, thinking those girls were pretty clever for outfoxing the Fox, when I felt a whoosh of air on my backside. I didn't even have time to run away.
"Strawberry Shortcake! Strawberry Shortcake!"
The rule-follower in me was also somewhat of a tattletale. But I left her on the slide and took off after Ty. I think he was a little surprised that I was chasing him, because he didn't go very far. Determination, anger, and a gaggle of hostile little girls cheered me on.
Ty turned around and smirked. "Strawberry Shortcake! Strawberry Shortcake!"
I didn't say a word. I just did what any self-respecting little girl in Strawberry Shortcake undies would do.
I kicked him in the nuts.
That kick was so full of spite, it must have felt like an iron weight instead of a seven-year-old girl's size 2 foot. It wasn't just vindication for exposing my undies to the entire playground. It was months of anger and frustration for this rule-breaking, skirt-lifting, food-throwing boy. I kicked him so hard, he had to go to the nurse. And I got a nice long visit with the principal.
Ty learned a lesson that day. He never lifted the girls' skirts again.
I'd like to say I learned a valuable lesson, too. But I didn't. I was just seven, after all.
Even as I got older and the world began to make more sense, I went on to kick many more people right where it hurt the most.
Old friends, new friends, family, people I barely knew...
Somewhere along the line, I'd given them the power to hurt me. Some of them put dents in my structured, organized life. Others took jackhammers to it. Buried in the rubble, I felt like I'd lost control.
Say hello to Spite, Revenge's quiet cousin. Revenge is blatant and brazen and barefaced. But Spite is sneaky and sly. It tiptoes into your heart and sets up camp, jabbing its stakes deep into every corner. Then it goes to work. Quiet and relentless, it chips away slowly at your soul, and you don't even know it's there.
Fear gives birth to Spite. Fear of not measuring up. Fear of being alone. Fear of the unknown. Fear of losing control. We collect these moments of Fear and stack them up like gifts under a brittle, crumbling tree, and then we start writing Spite You cards. Spite feels powerful. It feels like force in the face of fear.
But what if we are giving part of ourselves away along with those Spite You cards? What if, instead of gaining power, we are really losing our soul?
Jesus had every reason to be spiteful. But I like to think that He was DEspiteful. He was born in a stinky stable, despite the fact that He was divine; people laughed at Him and doubted Him despite the fact that He'd performed countless miracles; He was tempted by the devil despite the fact that He created the world; He was beaten and mocked despite the fact that He came to save the very ones who spit on Him. At any time, He had the power to spite His tormentors. But when He was in the Garden of Gethsemane, He didn't say, "My Father, I will spite this human blight and save my divine behind." Despite all He'd suffered already, He said, "My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as You will." As He hung there with my sins and your sins and the sins of the whole world piling up on his weakening shoulders, He didn't say, "Spite them, Father, for they threatened Me and criticized Me and hurt Me and called Me names." He said, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Jesus gave His fear to His Father, and held onto His power to save our disgraceful necks.
People have hurt you. They've made you feel unworthy and unloved and weak. They've threatened and criticized, leaving you afraid and discouraged. They've exposed every fear in your heart and taunted you with them. "Not good enough! Not smart enough! Not rich enough!" You feel like you've lost huge chunks of yourself. You are confused. You are angry and scared and broken.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
You
are
enough.
You are worthy and loved and strong.
You are brave and you are inspiring and you are redeemed.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
You are not spiteful. Let me say that again. You are not spiteful. You didn't choose for your fears to be exposed and criticized and used against you, but you can certainly choose whether or not you give someone the power to turn you into something you're not. No one has the power to change the life that God has planned for you. But you give them the power to change how you live that life when you live in fear instead of in faith.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
The holes inside you may be making you weak, but Jesus is there to make you strong and courageous. He's calling you to do something BIG, and He knows it won't be easy. Don't turn your fear and your discouragement into spite for the ones who've hurt you, even if they've lifted your skirt and showed the world your Strawberry Shortcake underwear. Don't kick them where it hurts because you are scared and broken. It's your fear. It's your discouragement. Own them. Look them in the eye, and then lay them at the cross. Be DEspiteful. Be strong and smile, despite the fact that you're full of holes. Be courageous and follow the words He's whispering to your heart, despite the fact that you're scared to death.
Yet not as I will, but as You will.
For the LORD your God will be with you.
Calming your fears.
Filling your holes.
Wherever
you
go.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Soul Song
Job 11:16-18 - You will forget your misery; it will be like water flowing away. Your life will be brighter than the noonday. Even darkness will be as bright as morning. Having hope will give you courage. You will be protected and will rest in safety.
Hi.
Yes, I'm talking to you.
I know you're hurting. I can feel your pain.
Sit back and let me tell you a story. Maybe you've heard this one before.
Once upon a time, there lived a lonely little girl whose only friend was the forest. Every day, she walked up and down the rocky paths, listening to the birds trill their chipper melodies and the insects drone on and on about work. The leaves rustled like a thousand muffled footsteps, and somehow the harmony in the woods helped her forget how lonely she was.
One day, she noticed a bright red spot in the path. It looked like a splotch of paint. The splotch hopped from one rock to another, fluttering its scarlet wings, and she realized it wasn't paint. It was a bird. All the birds that lived in the forest were gray and not very pretty. But this bird was different. It didn't blend in with the forest the way the other birds did. Watching the little red bird filled her heart with blue skies and sunbeams.
As her mother tucked her into bed that night, the little girl asked about the red bird.
"It's called a cardinal," her mother said. "Cardinals are very powerful birds. They can help you find your Soul Song."
"What's a Soul Song?" the girl asked.
"A Soul Song is a moment that speaks to your heart. It can be anything. A night when the stars dance for you. The sun washing away the darkness. A snuggly hug or a kiss goodnight. Whatever brings peace to your soul. That's a Soul Song. Now close your eyes and go to sleep, my little bird-watcher."
As she drifted into the Kingdom of Dreams, a red speck skipped alongside her.
The little girl went to the woods the next day and the next day and the next, and as she set out each morning, her heart was filled with blue skies and sunbeams. But each evening she trudged home with a heart whose light had burned out. The cardinal had disappeared.
Eventually, she stopped looking for him. She tried very hard to forget him. The forest's choir sang to her again, but the harmony was different. Something was missing.
And then one day, a breath of wind from crimson wings danced past her face. She chased it, but the cardinal was too fast. It disappeared into a bush freckled with ruby flowers, and got lost in the bejeweled vines.
From then on, the little girl brought a bird cage with her whenever she went to the woods. If she could catch the cardinal, she would have her very own Soul Song and her heart would always be filled with blue skies and sunbeams.
Many days past, and she got discouraged. Loneliness turned the skies gray and blotted out the sunlight. She missed the cardinal terribly.
And then she saw him, perched on a low branch. He stared at her with careful, ebony eyes. She sat down on a tree stump and began to cry.
When she looked up, an old man was sitting beside her. He had a scruffy white beard and bright blue eyes. His tan vest had lots of pockets. Binoculars hung around his neck. He was watching the cardinal, too.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
"I've been searching and searching for this cardinal. Now I found him, but I forgot to bring my bird cage so I could take him home with me!" she cried.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Because he has the most beautiful red feathers I've ever seen. And he fills my heart with sunshine!"
"I see. So you wanted to put him in a cage and take him home because you're lonely?"
The little girl nodded, hanging her head.
"Do you think the cardinal would like being in a cage?" the old man asked.
"Well..." The girl paused to think. "I would feed him and play with him and clean out his cage every day. It would be a very nice life!"
"But would he be happy?"
The little girl looked around at the the cardinal's endless home in the forest. She watched him hop from branch to branch and thought about the one tiny swing inside the bird cage.
"No," she whispered.
"Don't chase the cardinal," the man said. "Don't try to put him in a cage. If you take away his joy, the reasons he makes you happy will disappear, too."
The little girl thought for a moment. "You mean we'll get bored with each other?" she asked.
The old man chuckled and nodded. "Something like that." Then he stood up and walked away, whistling a tune that sounded a lot like the melody of the forest.
The girl sat there watching the cardinal as the light faded around her. He danced and frolicked in the tree, stopping every once in a while to look at her. When nothing but a blush of color was left in the day, she started for home. The cardinal hopped along the branches beside her as she walked. As the path curved, there was a flash of scarlet, and he was gone.
Darkness seeped in. The little girl stared out her window into the beginnings of night, wondering if she'd said goodbye to the cardinal for the last time. That night, the Kingdom of Dreams was bathed in crimson tears.
The next morning, fiery sunlight streamed into her room. It was so bright, she could see it even with her eyes closed. She squinted, and looked toward the window. A tiny shadow skipped around inside the brilliant light.
And her soul began to sing.
(Not) The End.
Epilogue
What is your Soul Song?
I wish I could write a thousand lines, filling in all your blanks. But I can't. I don't know why God tells us to do the things He does. Sometimes it seems to me like the things I hear from Him are things He would never say. But then I remember - I am not God. It's not up to me to interpret, just to let go and follow. One thing I do know is that holding on to something too tight destroys Destiny. It interferes with His Divine Decree for you. I imagine He doesn't like it one bit when we try to recreate His Design with our death grips. All those eons He spent weaving our Fates together in an infinite tapestry, and in the blink of an eye, we rip it to pieces. Destinies begin to unravel. Souls stop singing.
He will direct you out of this misery into golden sunshine where the cardinals dance in the trees. Place your hope and trust in Him, and He will give you the gift of courage for whatever He's calling your heart to do.
Expect hills. Expect people to be oblong. Expect monsters to come roaring out of your closet. But don't avoid the hills. Don't keep waiting for people to become round. Don't slam the door on the monsters. You've been doing that for way too long. It's time to make a change. In you.
While I have your attention, make sure you're listening for those three little words. They are the Soul Song's greatest hit. He's whispering them to your heart right now.
Can you hear Him?
Hi.
Yes, I'm talking to you.
I know you're hurting. I can feel your pain.
Sit back and let me tell you a story. Maybe you've heard this one before.
Once upon a time, there lived a lonely little girl whose only friend was the forest. Every day, she walked up and down the rocky paths, listening to the birds trill their chipper melodies and the insects drone on and on about work. The leaves rustled like a thousand muffled footsteps, and somehow the harmony in the woods helped her forget how lonely she was.
One day, she noticed a bright red spot in the path. It looked like a splotch of paint. The splotch hopped from one rock to another, fluttering its scarlet wings, and she realized it wasn't paint. It was a bird. All the birds that lived in the forest were gray and not very pretty. But this bird was different. It didn't blend in with the forest the way the other birds did. Watching the little red bird filled her heart with blue skies and sunbeams.
As her mother tucked her into bed that night, the little girl asked about the red bird.
"It's called a cardinal," her mother said. "Cardinals are very powerful birds. They can help you find your Soul Song."
"What's a Soul Song?" the girl asked.
"A Soul Song is a moment that speaks to your heart. It can be anything. A night when the stars dance for you. The sun washing away the darkness. A snuggly hug or a kiss goodnight. Whatever brings peace to your soul. That's a Soul Song. Now close your eyes and go to sleep, my little bird-watcher."
As she drifted into the Kingdom of Dreams, a red speck skipped alongside her.
The little girl went to the woods the next day and the next day and the next, and as she set out each morning, her heart was filled with blue skies and sunbeams. But each evening she trudged home with a heart whose light had burned out. The cardinal had disappeared.
Eventually, she stopped looking for him. She tried very hard to forget him. The forest's choir sang to her again, but the harmony was different. Something was missing.
And then one day, a breath of wind from crimson wings danced past her face. She chased it, but the cardinal was too fast. It disappeared into a bush freckled with ruby flowers, and got lost in the bejeweled vines.
From then on, the little girl brought a bird cage with her whenever she went to the woods. If she could catch the cardinal, she would have her very own Soul Song and her heart would always be filled with blue skies and sunbeams.
Many days past, and she got discouraged. Loneliness turned the skies gray and blotted out the sunlight. She missed the cardinal terribly.
And then she saw him, perched on a low branch. He stared at her with careful, ebony eyes. She sat down on a tree stump and began to cry.
When she looked up, an old man was sitting beside her. He had a scruffy white beard and bright blue eyes. His tan vest had lots of pockets. Binoculars hung around his neck. He was watching the cardinal, too.
"Why are you crying?" he asked.
"I've been searching and searching for this cardinal. Now I found him, but I forgot to bring my bird cage so I could take him home with me!" she cried.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Because he has the most beautiful red feathers I've ever seen. And he fills my heart with sunshine!"
"I see. So you wanted to put him in a cage and take him home because you're lonely?"
The little girl nodded, hanging her head.
"Do you think the cardinal would like being in a cage?" the old man asked.
"Well..." The girl paused to think. "I would feed him and play with him and clean out his cage every day. It would be a very nice life!"
"But would he be happy?"
The little girl looked around at the the cardinal's endless home in the forest. She watched him hop from branch to branch and thought about the one tiny swing inside the bird cage.
"No," she whispered.
"Don't chase the cardinal," the man said. "Don't try to put him in a cage. If you take away his joy, the reasons he makes you happy will disappear, too."
The little girl thought for a moment. "You mean we'll get bored with each other?" she asked.
The old man chuckled and nodded. "Something like that." Then he stood up and walked away, whistling a tune that sounded a lot like the melody of the forest.
The girl sat there watching the cardinal as the light faded around her. He danced and frolicked in the tree, stopping every once in a while to look at her. When nothing but a blush of color was left in the day, she started for home. The cardinal hopped along the branches beside her as she walked. As the path curved, there was a flash of scarlet, and he was gone.
Darkness seeped in. The little girl stared out her window into the beginnings of night, wondering if she'd said goodbye to the cardinal for the last time. That night, the Kingdom of Dreams was bathed in crimson tears.
The next morning, fiery sunlight streamed into her room. It was so bright, she could see it even with her eyes closed. She squinted, and looked toward the window. A tiny shadow skipped around inside the brilliant light.
And her soul began to sing.
(Not) The End.
Epilogue
What is your Soul Song?
I wish I could write a thousand lines, filling in all your blanks. But I can't. I don't know why God tells us to do the things He does. Sometimes it seems to me like the things I hear from Him are things He would never say. But then I remember - I am not God. It's not up to me to interpret, just to let go and follow. One thing I do know is that holding on to something too tight destroys Destiny. It interferes with His Divine Decree for you. I imagine He doesn't like it one bit when we try to recreate His Design with our death grips. All those eons He spent weaving our Fates together in an infinite tapestry, and in the blink of an eye, we rip it to pieces. Destinies begin to unravel. Souls stop singing.
He will direct you out of this misery into golden sunshine where the cardinals dance in the trees. Place your hope and trust in Him, and He will give you the gift of courage for whatever He's calling your heart to do.
Expect hills. Expect people to be oblong. Expect monsters to come roaring out of your closet. But don't avoid the hills. Don't keep waiting for people to become round. Don't slam the door on the monsters. You've been doing that for way too long. It's time to make a change. In you.
While I have your attention, make sure you're listening for those three little words. They are the Soul Song's greatest hit. He's whispering them to your heart right now.
Can you hear Him?
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Monsters in the Closet
Proverbs 17:17 - A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in a time of need.
Laundry is my constant enemy. Just when I feel like I've conquered it, someone spills a drink and it multiplies like evil beasts in a cheesy 1980's horror flick. It's the worst kind of monster. Patient. Relentless. Disguised in frilly skirts and Dora panties.
To escape my garment gremlins, I frequently clean out drawers. To make it in my house, you better get worn more than once, not require ironing, have an adjustable waistband, and be stain-resistant. Otherwise, it's adios. Better luck next time.
My son and I cleaned out his drawers last week. They'd gotten so full, he couldn't shut them without the laundry monster sticking out its taunting tongue. I designated a Keep pile, a Donate pile, and a Not Sure pile. He got to work, spreading out every shirt and unfolding every pair of shorts. After a few seconds of thought, he set each one in the Keep pile. The only thing he was Not Sure about was whether or not to Donate his things to strangers.
It's not that the boy has no compassion. In fact, it's one of his many gifts. The thing is, he extends his bountiful grace to his belongings. Because that two-sizes-too-small Transformers t-shirt will get its feelings hurt if he gives it away. I tried. I explained that needy little boys would be thrilled to have that t-shirt. He looked at me skeptically. He was not thrilled. His response: "I can save it for my kids."
I asked him why he didn't want to give away any of his clothes. With a wisdom I didn't know an eight-year-old could possess, he said, "Mommy, you know I don't like change."
I get that. Boy, do I ever. Letting go is difficult, even if it's just a t-shirt. Sometimes it's the memories that seasoned old shirt holds
(what happens in lady's apparel, stays in lady's apparel)
and sometimes it's less sentimental
(I'll wear it again when I lose weight...get it altered...it goes vintage...).
Either way, we shove it at the back of the closet and forget about it until the laundry monster starts sticking out its textile tongue. Then we take it out, give it a few seconds thought...and shove it into a plastic box under the bed.
Like I said, letting go is hard.
My emotions don't always fit just right, either. They are often too tight or too loose or too bright or too bland or too brazen or too boring. Whatever they are, wearing them in public makes me feel too vulnerable, so I put them on shelf or cram them in a drawer and pretend they don't exist. Every once in while, I pull them out and look at them with
(anger, remorse, longing, bitterness, nostalgia, affection)
the same old eyes, but I never examine them for value, never see if they are past their sell-by date. They get put right back where I don't have to look at them.
The trouble is, emotions don't like to be left alone. Funny things can happen in the dark. Anger ferments into Resentment. Fear and Worry breed like spores in a petri dish. Guilt feeds on Joy. Love dies.
I've always cherished my friends, but only recently I realized that God has put people in my life to encourage me to take out those emotions and examine them. On Sunday afternoon, my pastor's 18-year-old daughter surprised me by saying, "When I saw you at church this morning, I thought, 'I want to be just like Courtney when I get older!'" My first reaction was to duck-and-cover. If ever God was going to strike me down, it had to be that moment. You heard me say it was the pastor's daughter, right??? I nervously replied with something about how she would never want to be like me. She looked a little perplexed, and I quickly turned away. Propriety gnawed at my gut, so I did the right thing, turned back, and thanked her. But the moment had passed. The compliment had been swallowed up like a mirage in a thirsty desert.
Gratitude has a permanent spot on a shelf way back in the corner of my closet. I don't take compliments well. They make me uncomfortable. Every time I am blessed with a compliment, the devil whispers in my ear that it's all a lie. And I believe him.
The enemy doesn't want me confronting any of my emotions. He wants my Anger to ferment. He longs for my Fear and Worry to breed. He steals my Joy and spoon feeds it to my Guilty Conscience. He murders my Love with his poison-tipped whispers.
But when I call on Jesus, He responds with simple, yet impenetrable words: Get behind me, Satan! And though He is the only Friend I will ever need, He loves me so much that He gives me even more: people with arms to hold me and shoulders to cry on and tongues to remind me of His Truth.
Ever since Anna's beautiful compliment, I've made an effort to think about the divine friends God has blessed me with, and how they remind me that the real ME isn't stuffed in a corner somewhere...
...my friend who never gets tired of my whining and consistently reminds me that God has a plan.
...my friend who has been to hell and back, and could still see the worth in this sinful, messy woman.
...my friend who leaves me in awe of her neverending loyalty.
...my friend who knows me inside and out, and isn't afraid to open every can of worms hiding in my closet.
...my friend who hung in there when I was crazy and doubtful and unfaithful and afraid; who never, ever gave up on me; who saw me ugly and snotty and blubbering, and still thought I was beautiful.
How convenient it is to keep festering emotions hidden on a shelf! I totally get it. It's easier on the old ego to post the picket fence as your status update than it is to expose your beautiful mess of a life. The irony is, God "friended" you with those folks so you wouldn't have to hold on to those whispered lies. Take down your Anger and your Joy and your Fear and your Gratitude, and share the real YOU with your friends! Jesus promises that a friend is always loyal, even when faced with your cluttered closets and dirty drawers.
Sunday afternoon, God sent an angel to open my eyes. I've been pulling emotions out of dark corners ever since. Last night, I found my Joy, smoothed out the wrinkles, and went on a date with one handsome boy and two exquisite little girls.
Funny thing about Joy...
It never goes out of style.
Laundry is my constant enemy. Just when I feel like I've conquered it, someone spills a drink and it multiplies like evil beasts in a cheesy 1980's horror flick. It's the worst kind of monster. Patient. Relentless. Disguised in frilly skirts and Dora panties.
To escape my garment gremlins, I frequently clean out drawers. To make it in my house, you better get worn more than once, not require ironing, have an adjustable waistband, and be stain-resistant. Otherwise, it's adios. Better luck next time.
My son and I cleaned out his drawers last week. They'd gotten so full, he couldn't shut them without the laundry monster sticking out its taunting tongue. I designated a Keep pile, a Donate pile, and a Not Sure pile. He got to work, spreading out every shirt and unfolding every pair of shorts. After a few seconds of thought, he set each one in the Keep pile. The only thing he was Not Sure about was whether or not to Donate his things to strangers.
It's not that the boy has no compassion. In fact, it's one of his many gifts. The thing is, he extends his bountiful grace to his belongings. Because that two-sizes-too-small Transformers t-shirt will get its feelings hurt if he gives it away. I tried. I explained that needy little boys would be thrilled to have that t-shirt. He looked at me skeptically. He was not thrilled. His response: "I can save it for my kids."
I asked him why he didn't want to give away any of his clothes. With a wisdom I didn't know an eight-year-old could possess, he said, "Mommy, you know I don't like change."
I get that. Boy, do I ever. Letting go is difficult, even if it's just a t-shirt. Sometimes it's the memories that seasoned old shirt holds
(what happens in lady's apparel, stays in lady's apparel)
and sometimes it's less sentimental
(I'll wear it again when I lose weight...get it altered...it goes vintage...).
Either way, we shove it at the back of the closet and forget about it until the laundry monster starts sticking out its textile tongue. Then we take it out, give it a few seconds thought...and shove it into a plastic box under the bed.
Like I said, letting go is hard.
My emotions don't always fit just right, either. They are often too tight or too loose or too bright or too bland or too brazen or too boring. Whatever they are, wearing them in public makes me feel too vulnerable, so I put them on shelf or cram them in a drawer and pretend they don't exist. Every once in while, I pull them out and look at them with
(anger, remorse, longing, bitterness, nostalgia, affection)
the same old eyes, but I never examine them for value, never see if they are past their sell-by date. They get put right back where I don't have to look at them.
The trouble is, emotions don't like to be left alone. Funny things can happen in the dark. Anger ferments into Resentment. Fear and Worry breed like spores in a petri dish. Guilt feeds on Joy. Love dies.
I've always cherished my friends, but only recently I realized that God has put people in my life to encourage me to take out those emotions and examine them. On Sunday afternoon, my pastor's 18-year-old daughter surprised me by saying, "When I saw you at church this morning, I thought, 'I want to be just like Courtney when I get older!'" My first reaction was to duck-and-cover. If ever God was going to strike me down, it had to be that moment. You heard me say it was the pastor's daughter, right??? I nervously replied with something about how she would never want to be like me. She looked a little perplexed, and I quickly turned away. Propriety gnawed at my gut, so I did the right thing, turned back, and thanked her. But the moment had passed. The compliment had been swallowed up like a mirage in a thirsty desert.
Gratitude has a permanent spot on a shelf way back in the corner of my closet. I don't take compliments well. They make me uncomfortable. Every time I am blessed with a compliment, the devil whispers in my ear that it's all a lie. And I believe him.
The enemy doesn't want me confronting any of my emotions. He wants my Anger to ferment. He longs for my Fear and Worry to breed. He steals my Joy and spoon feeds it to my Guilty Conscience. He murders my Love with his poison-tipped whispers.
But when I call on Jesus, He responds with simple, yet impenetrable words: Get behind me, Satan! And though He is the only Friend I will ever need, He loves me so much that He gives me even more: people with arms to hold me and shoulders to cry on and tongues to remind me of His Truth.
Ever since Anna's beautiful compliment, I've made an effort to think about the divine friends God has blessed me with, and how they remind me that the real ME isn't stuffed in a corner somewhere...
...my friend who never gets tired of my whining and consistently reminds me that God has a plan.
...my friend who has been to hell and back, and could still see the worth in this sinful, messy woman.
...my friend who leaves me in awe of her neverending loyalty.
...my friend who knows me inside and out, and isn't afraid to open every can of worms hiding in my closet.
...my friend who hung in there when I was crazy and doubtful and unfaithful and afraid; who never, ever gave up on me; who saw me ugly and snotty and blubbering, and still thought I was beautiful.
How convenient it is to keep festering emotions hidden on a shelf! I totally get it. It's easier on the old ego to post the picket fence as your status update than it is to expose your beautiful mess of a life. The irony is, God "friended" you with those folks so you wouldn't have to hold on to those whispered lies. Take down your Anger and your Joy and your Fear and your Gratitude, and share the real YOU with your friends! Jesus promises that a friend is always loyal, even when faced with your cluttered closets and dirty drawers.
Sunday afternoon, God sent an angel to open my eyes. I've been pulling emotions out of dark corners ever since. Last night, I found my Joy, smoothed out the wrinkles, and went on a date with one handsome boy and two exquisite little girls.
Funny thing about Joy...
It never goes out of style.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Head for the Hills
John 8: 31-32 - If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.
I had a dream.
I had a dream of the Fourth of July.
I had a dream of celebrations surrounded by white picket fences. Crisp apple pie and pitchers of lemonade set on red checkered tablecloths. Hamburgers sizzling on the grill, homemade vanilla ice cream in the icebox, and watermelon juice trickling down a child's chin.
I had a dream of fireworks so bright, I could see them when I closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes, and remembered that my kids are with their dad today. No apple pies in my future. And if I want ice cream, I'll have to settle for Blue Bell. I will watch my fireworks on TV. If I'm awake. And if Storage Hunters is a rerun.
Pity party, table for one, please.
This morning, instead of packing up the car with coolers and casseroles and cakes decorated like American flags, I loaded my bike and set out. I planned on an easy ride so I could spend my energy wallowing in my broken dreams.
As I rolled up on the intersection, I glanced to my left. I'd never gone left. To the right was flat, smooth pavement. Easy. Painless. Exactly what my sore psyche needed. To the left, the road curved into a hill. An obnoxious bully that would push me and tease me and make me feel like I'm not good enough. I hate hills. I'd always avoided the left because of that hill.
Today, God had different plans. Today, I went left.
Not only was there a hill. There were lots of hills. I could see them in the distance, lurking, looming. They taunted me like a gang of steroid-shooting, pimple-popping meatheads. Groaning, I argued with myself. Turn back and go the safe and simple route! Plow forward and face the meatheads! Turn back! Face the meatheads! Back! Meatheads!
I didn't turn back. Slowly, steadily, I took on each hill. Some weren't as intimidating as they seemed from a distance. We got to know each other and then we parted ways with a friendly smile.
But others attacked me. I felt trapped. I couldn't just stop. Getting started again would be impossible. I couldn't turn around. If I did, I'd just be facing the backside of the meatheads, and sometimes they were even uglier from behind.
So instead of letting the hill stuff me in a locker, I looked past it to the other side. I focused on the sweet freedom of the downhill, wind blasting past me like a live thing while the landscape liquefied into a blurry canvas of yellows and greens and browns.
Forty-five miles later, I pedaled to my car on legs that felt like jelly donuts, and I had one thought in my head.
"I'll never do that again!"
The hills in life can be just as daunting. We see them up ahead, and worry settles in our hearts. Questions hammer our thoughts.
Can I make it up that hill?
What if I fail?
What if I fall?
Is there time to turn back?
What if the hill defeats me?
What will become of me then?
What is your hill today?
Can I give you a bit of encouragement as you face the meatheads?
God gives you the freedom to choose your path in life. But the path of healing and growth and deep relationship with Him will seldom be the easiest or the smoothest. God doesn't promise that His path will be without hills. In fact, His Word tells us that taking the easy way out can leave you crushed and broken and lost in the dark alleys of Rock Bottom. Population: You.
But He does promise that Jesus will be alongside you as you navigate the hills. The meatheads can't push you around because Jesus' muscles don't give out. The heat doesn't bother Him. He doesn't get thirsty or tired. His back doesn't ache and His skin doesn't burn and your incessant complaining just makes Him smile.
Listen to Jesus whispering to you in the rush of the wind and the beating of your heart. He speaks the Truth, and His Truth is all you have to hang on to. That Truth is that He loves you. He would never leave you to take on the meatheads by yourself. The hills may leave you feeling beaten, but by His grace, Jesus heals - bruised muscles and broken hearts. And then He makes you stronger.
Turn to Him. Take Him with you when you go on a ride. Let Jesus be your GPS, and when a hill looms in your future, give Him your worries. He wants them! He doesn't want you dragging them along as you climb that hill. And trust that even if the hill leaves you exhausted and out of breath, He will breathe life back into you on the other side.
I still don't like the meatheads. But they don't scare me anymore.
Because I know that sweet freedom is just a hill away.
I had a dream.
I had a dream of the Fourth of July.
I had a dream of celebrations surrounded by white picket fences. Crisp apple pie and pitchers of lemonade set on red checkered tablecloths. Hamburgers sizzling on the grill, homemade vanilla ice cream in the icebox, and watermelon juice trickling down a child's chin.
I had a dream of fireworks so bright, I could see them when I closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes, and remembered that my kids are with their dad today. No apple pies in my future. And if I want ice cream, I'll have to settle for Blue Bell. I will watch my fireworks on TV. If I'm awake. And if Storage Hunters is a rerun.
Pity party, table for one, please.
This morning, instead of packing up the car with coolers and casseroles and cakes decorated like American flags, I loaded my bike and set out. I planned on an easy ride so I could spend my energy wallowing in my broken dreams.
As I rolled up on the intersection, I glanced to my left. I'd never gone left. To the right was flat, smooth pavement. Easy. Painless. Exactly what my sore psyche needed. To the left, the road curved into a hill. An obnoxious bully that would push me and tease me and make me feel like I'm not good enough. I hate hills. I'd always avoided the left because of that hill.
Today, God had different plans. Today, I went left.
Not only was there a hill. There were lots of hills. I could see them in the distance, lurking, looming. They taunted me like a gang of steroid-shooting, pimple-popping meatheads. Groaning, I argued with myself. Turn back and go the safe and simple route! Plow forward and face the meatheads! Turn back! Face the meatheads! Back! Meatheads!
I didn't turn back. Slowly, steadily, I took on each hill. Some weren't as intimidating as they seemed from a distance. We got to know each other and then we parted ways with a friendly smile.
But others attacked me. I felt trapped. I couldn't just stop. Getting started again would be impossible. I couldn't turn around. If I did, I'd just be facing the backside of the meatheads, and sometimes they were even uglier from behind.
So instead of letting the hill stuff me in a locker, I looked past it to the other side. I focused on the sweet freedom of the downhill, wind blasting past me like a live thing while the landscape liquefied into a blurry canvas of yellows and greens and browns.
Forty-five miles later, I pedaled to my car on legs that felt like jelly donuts, and I had one thought in my head.
"I'll never do that again!"
The hills in life can be just as daunting. We see them up ahead, and worry settles in our hearts. Questions hammer our thoughts.
Can I make it up that hill?
What if I fail?
What if I fall?
Is there time to turn back?
What if the hill defeats me?
What will become of me then?
What is your hill today?
Can I give you a bit of encouragement as you face the meatheads?
God gives you the freedom to choose your path in life. But the path of healing and growth and deep relationship with Him will seldom be the easiest or the smoothest. God doesn't promise that His path will be without hills. In fact, His Word tells us that taking the easy way out can leave you crushed and broken and lost in the dark alleys of Rock Bottom. Population: You.
But He does promise that Jesus will be alongside you as you navigate the hills. The meatheads can't push you around because Jesus' muscles don't give out. The heat doesn't bother Him. He doesn't get thirsty or tired. His back doesn't ache and His skin doesn't burn and your incessant complaining just makes Him smile.
Listen to Jesus whispering to you in the rush of the wind and the beating of your heart. He speaks the Truth, and His Truth is all you have to hang on to. That Truth is that He loves you. He would never leave you to take on the meatheads by yourself. The hills may leave you feeling beaten, but by His grace, Jesus heals - bruised muscles and broken hearts. And then He makes you stronger.
Turn to Him. Take Him with you when you go on a ride. Let Jesus be your GPS, and when a hill looms in your future, give Him your worries. He wants them! He doesn't want you dragging them along as you climb that hill. And trust that even if the hill leaves you exhausted and out of breath, He will breathe life back into you on the other side.
I still don't like the meatheads. But they don't scare me anymore.
Because I know that sweet freedom is just a hill away.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
H.E.B. Feet
John 13:14-16 - If I then, the Lord and the Teacher, washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I gave you an example that you also should do as I did to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a slave is not greater than his master, nor is one who is sent greater than the one who sent him.
When I was a little girl, I don't think I spent a single summer in shoes. Before Old Navy and the $1 flip-flop blowouts, kids ran around the neighborhood barefoot. I sprinted across streets so hot, my feet sizzled like frying bacon. I dug my toes into cool, plush grass and pretended I was walking in the clouds. I danced in my driveway to the music of the katydids.
I don't know if H.E.B. had enacted the "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" policy, or if 1982 was too early for the antibacterial movement, but I remember lots of barefoot kids at the grocery store. The young ones sat in the front of the cart, their dirty, blackened feet dangling there like dead fish. The older kids wore their black feet like badges of honor. The filthier the feet, the cooler the kid. Each layer of dirt was a memento of freeze tag and hide 'n seek and fort-building and digging holes to China. Walking barefoot around H.E.B. added an entire layer that was like the gold medal of grime. I was so jealous of those kids and their H.E.B. feet. My mom never let me go barefoot to the store; my dirty feet were concealed in a pair of pink Jellies that gave me the world's worst blisters, made my feet sweat, and turned the filth to a tar-like paste. Those kids probably didn't have to take a bath every night like I did. I hated baths. It it felt like I was washing all the fun away.
Thirty years later, I still dread bath time. My knees and back ache from leaning over the tub to scrub filthy little feet. I'm hoarse from explaining half a dozen times that it is impossible for your eyes to burn when there is no soap in your hair! Waterlogged Barbies bob around the tub like bleach-blonde buoys. And you could jet ski on the bathroom floor.
The other day, I got tired of my kids smelling like chlorine and decided (sigh) it was time for a real bath. The girls piled in the tub with strict instructions to wash what they could reach. When I returned to duty, I was surprised to find my oldest daughter washing her little sister's feet. As she rubbed the soap between her sister's toes, she explained the finer points of foot washing. She was very thorough.
Jesus was a first-rate foot-washer, too. It's a good thing, because His disciples had some crazy H.E.B. feet. They were faithless, fickle, dishonest, untrusting, two-faced, corrupt, and dirty. When Jesus got down on His knees to wash their feet, they were surprised. At first, Peter refused. Seems to me he should have expected the unexpected from Jesus. After all, He'd healed a parapalegic, cured a leper, resurrected the dead, walked on water, and calmed the sea. But Peter doubts. What servant allows His Master to wash his feet? Jesus gives him an ultimatum
(I wash your feet or you're outta the Top Twelve),
and Peter the Passionate Prophet begs Him for the works. A head-to-toe cleansing, and don't forget to get behind the ears.
How often does Jesus try to cleanse us of our humanity? He wants to remove our filth so that we can be His hands and feet in a battered, broken world. Sometimes we let Him, but like Peter, it doesn't take long before we are running barefoot down Life's Highway to places where sorrow and doubt live, where fear and hate breed. A recent road trip took me through these places - dying towns, where lifeless homes leaned on each other like battle-scarred veterans. Vacant store windows followed me with their cracked stares. Tangles of yellowed, brittle weeds chased the whisper of life that I'd brought into a dying thing, determined to suffocate it. I stopped at a diner, and saw what the world can do to a soul. Sterile smiles and empty eyes. Faceless ghosts. Forgotten lives. I walked away and thought, "Thank God that's not me."
But they are me! I've been empty, drained like water through a colander. But God has blessed me with people to fill my holes. I've felt so forgotten I might as well be a blur huddled in an abandoned corner of Nowhere In Particular. But by His mercy, I've come into focus. I've been a vacant soul. But He fills me with His selfless love every time He gets down on His knees and washes my filthy H.E.B feet.
And what do I do with my freshly-washed feet? I don't give a genuine smile to the faceless. I don't reach out to the forgotten. I don't pray for those empty eyes. I am a stubborn child who races back into the street barefoot. I am a doubtful disciple who refuses a bath. Sometimes it seems easier to put on a pair of Jellies and hide my crud instead of giving it over to the only One who can wash it away.
Each day is a journey on the tightrope. I wake up ready to walk steady in His light. But sooner or later, I stumble. I go to bed every night with H.E.B. feet. I could say, "What's the point, Jesus?" I could go ahead and put on a fancy pair of shoes (thank you, God, for ridding the world of Jellies) and keep on trucking. But I don't. Instead, I put my dirty feet in Jesus' basin and allow His loving hands to wash away the world.
Then I wake up in the morning and try again. And isn't that the point?
Let Jesus wash your feet today. Let Him fill your holes and bring you back into focus. Let His grace and mercy drench you. Let Him fill your soul.
And then spread the Word. With a smile. With an outstretched hand. With a prayer.
Because it feels so good to be clean.
When I was a little girl, I don't think I spent a single summer in shoes. Before Old Navy and the $1 flip-flop blowouts, kids ran around the neighborhood barefoot. I sprinted across streets so hot, my feet sizzled like frying bacon. I dug my toes into cool, plush grass and pretended I was walking in the clouds. I danced in my driveway to the music of the katydids.
I don't know if H.E.B. had enacted the "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" policy, or if 1982 was too early for the antibacterial movement, but I remember lots of barefoot kids at the grocery store. The young ones sat in the front of the cart, their dirty, blackened feet dangling there like dead fish. The older kids wore their black feet like badges of honor. The filthier the feet, the cooler the kid. Each layer of dirt was a memento of freeze tag and hide 'n seek and fort-building and digging holes to China. Walking barefoot around H.E.B. added an entire layer that was like the gold medal of grime. I was so jealous of those kids and their H.E.B. feet. My mom never let me go barefoot to the store; my dirty feet were concealed in a pair of pink Jellies that gave me the world's worst blisters, made my feet sweat, and turned the filth to a tar-like paste. Those kids probably didn't have to take a bath every night like I did. I hated baths. It it felt like I was washing all the fun away.
Thirty years later, I still dread bath time. My knees and back ache from leaning over the tub to scrub filthy little feet. I'm hoarse from explaining half a dozen times that it is impossible for your eyes to burn when there is no soap in your hair! Waterlogged Barbies bob around the tub like bleach-blonde buoys. And you could jet ski on the bathroom floor.
The other day, I got tired of my kids smelling like chlorine and decided (sigh) it was time for a real bath. The girls piled in the tub with strict instructions to wash what they could reach. When I returned to duty, I was surprised to find my oldest daughter washing her little sister's feet. As she rubbed the soap between her sister's toes, she explained the finer points of foot washing. She was very thorough.
Jesus was a first-rate foot-washer, too. It's a good thing, because His disciples had some crazy H.E.B. feet. They were faithless, fickle, dishonest, untrusting, two-faced, corrupt, and dirty. When Jesus got down on His knees to wash their feet, they were surprised. At first, Peter refused. Seems to me he should have expected the unexpected from Jesus. After all, He'd healed a parapalegic, cured a leper, resurrected the dead, walked on water, and calmed the sea. But Peter doubts. What servant allows His Master to wash his feet? Jesus gives him an ultimatum
(I wash your feet or you're outta the Top Twelve),
and Peter the Passionate Prophet begs Him for the works. A head-to-toe cleansing, and don't forget to get behind the ears.
How often does Jesus try to cleanse us of our humanity? He wants to remove our filth so that we can be His hands and feet in a battered, broken world. Sometimes we let Him, but like Peter, it doesn't take long before we are running barefoot down Life's Highway to places where sorrow and doubt live, where fear and hate breed. A recent road trip took me through these places - dying towns, where lifeless homes leaned on each other like battle-scarred veterans. Vacant store windows followed me with their cracked stares. Tangles of yellowed, brittle weeds chased the whisper of life that I'd brought into a dying thing, determined to suffocate it. I stopped at a diner, and saw what the world can do to a soul. Sterile smiles and empty eyes. Faceless ghosts. Forgotten lives. I walked away and thought, "Thank God that's not me."
But they are me! I've been empty, drained like water through a colander. But God has blessed me with people to fill my holes. I've felt so forgotten I might as well be a blur huddled in an abandoned corner of Nowhere In Particular. But by His mercy, I've come into focus. I've been a vacant soul. But He fills me with His selfless love every time He gets down on His knees and washes my filthy H.E.B feet.
And what do I do with my freshly-washed feet? I don't give a genuine smile to the faceless. I don't reach out to the forgotten. I don't pray for those empty eyes. I am a stubborn child who races back into the street barefoot. I am a doubtful disciple who refuses a bath. Sometimes it seems easier to put on a pair of Jellies and hide my crud instead of giving it over to the only One who can wash it away.
Each day is a journey on the tightrope. I wake up ready to walk steady in His light. But sooner or later, I stumble. I go to bed every night with H.E.B. feet. I could say, "What's the point, Jesus?" I could go ahead and put on a fancy pair of shoes (thank you, God, for ridding the world of Jellies) and keep on trucking. But I don't. Instead, I put my dirty feet in Jesus' basin and allow His loving hands to wash away the world.
Then I wake up in the morning and try again. And isn't that the point?
Let Jesus wash your feet today. Let Him fill your holes and bring you back into focus. Let His grace and mercy drench you. Let Him fill your soul.
And then spread the Word. With a smile. With an outstretched hand. With a prayer.
Because it feels so good to be clean.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
The Oblong Bracelet
Philippians 1:6 - "For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus."
I love the smell of bookstores. It's the smell of a million different worlds, each waiting eagerly for the next lucky traveler to journey into its story. The pages call to me like old friends. Come on over. We're just getting to the good part!
It was my first time in a Christian bookstore, and I admit, I felt awkward. Several of my most important relationships were falling apart, and it was like I was walking around with the word "Sinner" stamped on my forehead. The Faithful Christian always scoffed at the religion section in Barnes & Noble,
(that's Bible-beater territory, can I get an amen?)
but here she was, stepping right into the lion's den. I don't know exactly what I was afraid of. I certainly wasn't going to meet Jesus Christ in the Life and Faith aisle. Or was I? I decided it wasn't worth the risk and made a beeline for the counter where the knick-knacks and trinkets were on display.
It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. The bracelet was made of black rubber and had a bunch of colored symbols on it. I barely looked at it. I just shoved my money at the cashier, refused a bag, and escaped his pious frown. (He must've seen my forehead.)
I sat in my car for a moment staring at the small package. This was BIG. I was going to wear something on a daily basis that proclaimed my faith in Jesus Christ. What if someone asked me about it? What should I say? What if I said the wrong thing? Would people think I belonged on some compound in a Little House on the Prairie dress? While the Faithful Christian never denied her Savior, public displays of faith belonged in the church, thank you very much. And can I get an amen to that?
I took a deep breath and ripped open the cellophane. The bracelet was wrapped around a folded piece of rectangular cardstock. I put the bracelet on and opened the card to read about the symbols. It didn't take long before I noticed that something was wrong.
The bracelet didn't sit on my wrist properly. It looked awkward, like a shirt that's been buttoned incorrectly or a pair of crooked glasses. I took it off and looked at it. It wasn't round. It had been wrapped around the rectangular card for so long that it was oblong.
What to do? I really liked it and I was sure that once I got around to reading that darn rectangular card, the symbols would be very meaningful. It was just what I was looking for...if I were flat. Should I exchange it for another? I remembered the cashier's frown. Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly pious; maybe he just thought I was acting a bit odd. If not, returning a rubber bracelet because it wasn't round would probably do the trick.
I decided to keep it. Surely, with time and a little effort, I could work out the kinks and make the oblong bracelet round like it was supposed to be.
For five days, I pushed and pressed and pulled and stretched the oblong bracelet. And every time, it went right back to being oblong. Clearly, I was going to have to be a little more creative with my stubborn little friend. On the sixth night, I was reading my Bible, and noticed its weight in my hands. Problem solved. The Word of God vs. a stupid, wimpy little bracelet. By morning, I'd surely have a perfectly round bracelet. I pressed the oblong ends of the bracelet flat and laid my Bible on top of it.
The next morning, I looked at my Bible and smiled. "Thank you, God," I whispered, and reached for it. The bracelet popped up from underneath it and landed in my lap.
Yep, you guessed it. Still oblong.
Well, well, well, my crafty friend. You have proven to be a formidable foe. Let's see how you handle Plan B.
(Picture Plan B in slow motion with a cool victory soundtrack playing in the background. I'm thinking Rocky.)
I walk to my laundry room, look at the iron, and smirk. I pull it down off the shelf and plug it in. I grab a towel and snap it open. I set up the ironing board, laying the oblong bracelet on it with the bent edges pushed flat. The towel goes over the bracelet, and then, slowly, I lower the blazing iron. I wait. And wait. And wait.
Shouldn't have been so naughty, silly bracelet.
Cut soundtrack.
And cut to me, sitting in my recliner, staring at my hot, somewhat melted, oblong bracelet.
Then it hit me.
I do this with people! I push and press and pull and stretch them, trying to make them into who I think they should be. I pile expectations on top of them so that they will behave the way I think they should. I try to iron out all their imperfections so that they will live up to what I believe is their potential.
Dear God, who am I? And why do I do this?
Deep down, I know the answer.
Because if I can fix you and you and you and you and you, then my life will be perfect. Because really, when it comes down to it, it's your faults that make my life imperfect. Because if I can change you, then I can go right on being me. Because I don't want to change. Because I, unlike you, am already perfect.
Hey there, Big Guy. I know you're doing the best you can, and many thanks for all your efforts, but you're not exactly cuttin' the mustard. Move over. I'll take it from here.
Guess what? Like the bracelet, all those oblong people never changed. Turns out, I'm not God! My efforts to make people round only put a strain on my relationships. And frankly, they made me a little crazy. Okay, a LOT crazy. And really, it was just a bunch of excuses to keep from looking at my own imperfections.
People I love are oblong. I had to accept that they are going to wear clothes that I don't like and spell words wrong and ride the brake and say hurtful things to me and make choices that I don't agree with. I had to stop focusing on them, and take a long, difficult look at myself.
Then, I had to accept that I am oblong. My hair will never look exactly like I want. I will get pimples. I will never run a 7-minute mile. I will say things to my friends, family, children, and coworkers that I will regret. My prayers will never sound as eloquent as my pastor's. God booted me off His throne (pretty forcefully, I might add) and put me and my imperfections at foot of the Cross, right next to yours.
Then He got down on one knee, put His arms around me, and told me to honor my journey. He said it was stitched in the stars before time began and He designed it based on His infinite, extravagant, and unique love for me. He told me to stop being so hard on myself and that He didn't send His only Son to die for me so that I could judge myself harsher than He ever could. He told me to hand over my imperfections and let Him guide me in removing only the defects that draw me away from His loving embrace. He said that we are all His beloved children, created by Him, and that in itself makes us perfect enough in His eyes. Oh, and He told me that one day He will call us home and all our imperfections will just fade away.
Until that day, I'm okay with being oblong.
I love the smell of bookstores. It's the smell of a million different worlds, each waiting eagerly for the next lucky traveler to journey into its story. The pages call to me like old friends. Come on over. We're just getting to the good part!
It was my first time in a Christian bookstore, and I admit, I felt awkward. Several of my most important relationships were falling apart, and it was like I was walking around with the word "Sinner" stamped on my forehead. The Faithful Christian always scoffed at the religion section in Barnes & Noble,
(that's Bible-beater territory, can I get an amen?)
but here she was, stepping right into the lion's den. I don't know exactly what I was afraid of. I certainly wasn't going to meet Jesus Christ in the Life and Faith aisle. Or was I? I decided it wasn't worth the risk and made a beeline for the counter where the knick-knacks and trinkets were on display.
It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. The bracelet was made of black rubber and had a bunch of colored symbols on it. I barely looked at it. I just shoved my money at the cashier, refused a bag, and escaped his pious frown. (He must've seen my forehead.)
I sat in my car for a moment staring at the small package. This was BIG. I was going to wear something on a daily basis that proclaimed my faith in Jesus Christ. What if someone asked me about it? What should I say? What if I said the wrong thing? Would people think I belonged on some compound in a Little House on the Prairie dress? While the Faithful Christian never denied her Savior, public displays of faith belonged in the church, thank you very much. And can I get an amen to that?
I took a deep breath and ripped open the cellophane. The bracelet was wrapped around a folded piece of rectangular cardstock. I put the bracelet on and opened the card to read about the symbols. It didn't take long before I noticed that something was wrong.
The bracelet didn't sit on my wrist properly. It looked awkward, like a shirt that's been buttoned incorrectly or a pair of crooked glasses. I took it off and looked at it. It wasn't round. It had been wrapped around the rectangular card for so long that it was oblong.
What to do? I really liked it and I was sure that once I got around to reading that darn rectangular card, the symbols would be very meaningful. It was just what I was looking for...if I were flat. Should I exchange it for another? I remembered the cashier's frown. Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly pious; maybe he just thought I was acting a bit odd. If not, returning a rubber bracelet because it wasn't round would probably do the trick.
I decided to keep it. Surely, with time and a little effort, I could work out the kinks and make the oblong bracelet round like it was supposed to be.
For five days, I pushed and pressed and pulled and stretched the oblong bracelet. And every time, it went right back to being oblong. Clearly, I was going to have to be a little more creative with my stubborn little friend. On the sixth night, I was reading my Bible, and noticed its weight in my hands. Problem solved. The Word of God vs. a stupid, wimpy little bracelet. By morning, I'd surely have a perfectly round bracelet. I pressed the oblong ends of the bracelet flat and laid my Bible on top of it.
The next morning, I looked at my Bible and smiled. "Thank you, God," I whispered, and reached for it. The bracelet popped up from underneath it and landed in my lap.
Yep, you guessed it. Still oblong.
Well, well, well, my crafty friend. You have proven to be a formidable foe. Let's see how you handle Plan B.
(Picture Plan B in slow motion with a cool victory soundtrack playing in the background. I'm thinking Rocky.)
I walk to my laundry room, look at the iron, and smirk. I pull it down off the shelf and plug it in. I grab a towel and snap it open. I set up the ironing board, laying the oblong bracelet on it with the bent edges pushed flat. The towel goes over the bracelet, and then, slowly, I lower the blazing iron. I wait. And wait. And wait.
Shouldn't have been so naughty, silly bracelet.
Cut soundtrack.
And cut to me, sitting in my recliner, staring at my hot, somewhat melted, oblong bracelet.
Then it hit me.
I do this with people! I push and press and pull and stretch them, trying to make them into who I think they should be. I pile expectations on top of them so that they will behave the way I think they should. I try to iron out all their imperfections so that they will live up to what I believe is their potential.
Dear God, who am I? And why do I do this?
Deep down, I know the answer.
Because if I can fix you and you and you and you and you, then my life will be perfect. Because really, when it comes down to it, it's your faults that make my life imperfect. Because if I can change you, then I can go right on being me. Because I don't want to change. Because I, unlike you, am already perfect.
Hey there, Big Guy. I know you're doing the best you can, and many thanks for all your efforts, but you're not exactly cuttin' the mustard. Move over. I'll take it from here.
Guess what? Like the bracelet, all those oblong people never changed. Turns out, I'm not God! My efforts to make people round only put a strain on my relationships. And frankly, they made me a little crazy. Okay, a LOT crazy. And really, it was just a bunch of excuses to keep from looking at my own imperfections.
People I love are oblong. I had to accept that they are going to wear clothes that I don't like and spell words wrong and ride the brake and say hurtful things to me and make choices that I don't agree with. I had to stop focusing on them, and take a long, difficult look at myself.
Then, I had to accept that I am oblong. My hair will never look exactly like I want. I will get pimples. I will never run a 7-minute mile. I will say things to my friends, family, children, and coworkers that I will regret. My prayers will never sound as eloquent as my pastor's. God booted me off His throne (pretty forcefully, I might add) and put me and my imperfections at foot of the Cross, right next to yours.
Then He got down on one knee, put His arms around me, and told me to honor my journey. He said it was stitched in the stars before time began and He designed it based on His infinite, extravagant, and unique love for me. He told me to stop being so hard on myself and that He didn't send His only Son to die for me so that I could judge myself harsher than He ever could. He told me to hand over my imperfections and let Him guide me in removing only the defects that draw me away from His loving embrace. He said that we are all His beloved children, created by Him, and that in itself makes us perfect enough in His eyes. Oh, and He told me that one day He will call us home and all our imperfections will just fade away.
Until that day, I'm okay with being oblong.
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