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.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Count Your Chickens
1 John 2:15-17 - Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, love for the Father is not in them. For everything in the world - the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life - comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever.
My dad is a self-proclaimed redneck. His idea of evening attire is starched Wranglers and a shirt that comes on a hanger. He often gets food stuck in his Kenny Rogers mustache, and explains in a booming voice that he's "saving it for later." He's got dirt under his nails, wears socks with his flip flops, and uses a cougar pelt to stay warm on cold winter nights.
He's also the best chef I've ever met. He can create furniture that would make Ethan Allen drool. He constructs entire buildings with his bare hands. And he's one of the wisest people I know. I don't know if it's something particular to rednecks, or if it's just dads in general, but my dad loves to speak in cliches. On Father's Day, I was thinking of all the ism's my dad has bestowed upon me. I'm not sure this is what God meant when He called parents to impress His commandments on their children. But then again, God probably doesn't speak Redneck.
"Lose the expectations. If you never have 'em, you'll never be disappointed."
"Don't be buyin' nuthin' when you ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it outta."
"You can't control people no more'n you can control the weather."
"Don't count your chickens 'fore they're hatched."
Hatched, unhatched, fried, baked, or barbecued, I've always been an excellent chicken counter. I could tell you which chickens were IN, which were OUT, and whose coop was the coolest. Not only could I count my own chickens, I was quite proficient at sizing up your chickens and comparing them to mine. If my henhouse didn't measure up, no problem. I'd just go buy more chickens. And you could bet the farm they'd be better than yours.
My dad never had a cliche for why I did this. If you were to ask him, he'd probably blame it on my two X chromosomes. But it turns out my chicken-counting craze was based more on my feelings of unhappiness and inadequacy than a fetish for fowl.
This little voice in my head whispered things like:
"You're not pretty enough." (You need a new outfit. And don't forget the shoes.)
"You're not thin enough." (After you join a gym, make sure you raid the athletic department of every store within a 10-mile radius.)
"Your car isn't suitable for a family." (Run to the closest dealership and blow $40k for a DVD player and a third row of seats.)
"Your house isn't on the right side of town." (Add another $35k in mortgage payments for 500 extra square feet and Location, Location, Location!)
Have you ever felt this way? Have you ever thought, "If only I had that ______________, I would be happy." Or how about, "If I get that _____________, I'll finally measure up." Let me tell you...it ain't gonna happen. I was so busy counting and comparing chickens, I totally overlooked the fact that everything in my henhouse was covered in chicken poop! All of it, right down to the $25 tube of designer lip gloss that I just couldn't live without, would eventually be used up, broken down, out of style, stained, old, wrinkled, cracked, or smelly. Can I tell you something? That _____________ will never make you happy. It will never make you worthy of anything more than the split second it would take to light a match and send your henhouse up in smoke. Take it from a girl who's seen the ashes on the bottom of God's boot heel. One minute I was counting chickens; the next I was running from the flames.
God's greatest desire is a relationship with YOU. He doesn't give two Hallelujahs about your Mercedes or your half-million-dollar home or your Jimmy Choo pumps. Jimmy Choo couldn't pick you out of a crowd, but Jesus Christ knows every hair on your head and He whispered your name as He took His last breath. He will do anything to make you understand that He is all you need. If a trip to Rock Bottom is what it takes, He's got your bags packed, your ticket stamped, and your itinerary photocopied. I don't recommend a road trip before you start looking for a new henhouse. But if you find yourself at Rock Bottom, or even just on a dark, bumpy road, don't worry. He'll meet you wherever you are - all you've got to do is call His name.
Once you leave Rock Bottom, the chickens change. They are no longer sparkly or silky or shiny. They are the "I love you's" from your children at the exact moment you've become certain that you're the worst mom ever. They are birdsongs that catch your attention when you can't stop worrying about the bills. They are friends who know when you need a good hug or a good laugh. They are God taking all your filth and turning it into fortune.
By His Grace, I can see that my worth is not what I hold in my hands, but in the Hands that hold my heart. My life is so full of blessings! And He wants me to count those chickens every single day.
So go ahead...count your chickens. Just make sure you're in the right henhouse.
My dad is a self-proclaimed redneck. His idea of evening attire is starched Wranglers and a shirt that comes on a hanger. He often gets food stuck in his Kenny Rogers mustache, and explains in a booming voice that he's "saving it for later." He's got dirt under his nails, wears socks with his flip flops, and uses a cougar pelt to stay warm on cold winter nights.
He's also the best chef I've ever met. He can create furniture that would make Ethan Allen drool. He constructs entire buildings with his bare hands. And he's one of the wisest people I know. I don't know if it's something particular to rednecks, or if it's just dads in general, but my dad loves to speak in cliches. On Father's Day, I was thinking of all the ism's my dad has bestowed upon me. I'm not sure this is what God meant when He called parents to impress His commandments on their children. But then again, God probably doesn't speak Redneck.
"Lose the expectations. If you never have 'em, you'll never be disappointed."
"Don't be buyin' nuthin' when you ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it outta."
"You can't control people no more'n you can control the weather."
"Don't count your chickens 'fore they're hatched."
Hatched, unhatched, fried, baked, or barbecued, I've always been an excellent chicken counter. I could tell you which chickens were IN, which were OUT, and whose coop was the coolest. Not only could I count my own chickens, I was quite proficient at sizing up your chickens and comparing them to mine. If my henhouse didn't measure up, no problem. I'd just go buy more chickens. And you could bet the farm they'd be better than yours.
My dad never had a cliche for why I did this. If you were to ask him, he'd probably blame it on my two X chromosomes. But it turns out my chicken-counting craze was based more on my feelings of unhappiness and inadequacy than a fetish for fowl.
This little voice in my head whispered things like:
"You're not pretty enough." (You need a new outfit. And don't forget the shoes.)
"You're not thin enough." (After you join a gym, make sure you raid the athletic department of every store within a 10-mile radius.)
"Your car isn't suitable for a family." (Run to the closest dealership and blow $40k for a DVD player and a third row of seats.)
"Your house isn't on the right side of town." (Add another $35k in mortgage payments for 500 extra square feet and Location, Location, Location!)
Have you ever felt this way? Have you ever thought, "If only I had that ______________, I would be happy." Or how about, "If I get that _____________, I'll finally measure up." Let me tell you...it ain't gonna happen. I was so busy counting and comparing chickens, I totally overlooked the fact that everything in my henhouse was covered in chicken poop! All of it, right down to the $25 tube of designer lip gloss that I just couldn't live without, would eventually be used up, broken down, out of style, stained, old, wrinkled, cracked, or smelly. Can I tell you something? That _____________ will never make you happy. It will never make you worthy of anything more than the split second it would take to light a match and send your henhouse up in smoke. Take it from a girl who's seen the ashes on the bottom of God's boot heel. One minute I was counting chickens; the next I was running from the flames.
God's greatest desire is a relationship with YOU. He doesn't give two Hallelujahs about your Mercedes or your half-million-dollar home or your Jimmy Choo pumps. Jimmy Choo couldn't pick you out of a crowd, but Jesus Christ knows every hair on your head and He whispered your name as He took His last breath. He will do anything to make you understand that He is all you need. If a trip to Rock Bottom is what it takes, He's got your bags packed, your ticket stamped, and your itinerary photocopied. I don't recommend a road trip before you start looking for a new henhouse. But if you find yourself at Rock Bottom, or even just on a dark, bumpy road, don't worry. He'll meet you wherever you are - all you've got to do is call His name.
Once you leave Rock Bottom, the chickens change. They are no longer sparkly or silky or shiny. They are the "I love you's" from your children at the exact moment you've become certain that you're the worst mom ever. They are birdsongs that catch your attention when you can't stop worrying about the bills. They are friends who know when you need a good hug or a good laugh. They are God taking all your filth and turning it into fortune.
By His Grace, I can see that my worth is not what I hold in my hands, but in the Hands that hold my heart. My life is so full of blessings! And He wants me to count those chickens every single day.
So go ahead...count your chickens. Just make sure you're in the right henhouse.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
In the beginning...
My fingers hover over the keys. I begin to type. Four letters in, and I stop and sigh. Delete, delete, delete, delete.
The advice of English teachers everywhere beats a clear rhythm in my head:
Just write. Just write. Just write.
But taunting questions weave their way through those two simple, yet formidable, words. They strut down the rocky path to a modest cottage where the writer in me lives. Ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign, they pound on her front door and shout, "Why are you starting a blog? What do you have to say? And who's really gonna care???"
I look up. "Okay, God. This was Your BIG IDEA. A little help here." I close my eyes, and I see Jesus. Thanks be to God, a Savior! Or at least I think it's Him. He's in a robe and sandals. He even has a staff. But other than that, He is my 7th grade English teacher, circa 1987 - a young, wiry man, dark as a moonless night, with long fingers and teeth that remind me of Chiclets gum when he smiles. He looks at me from behind my eyelids, pulls a sheet of notebook paper from his robe, and waves it in my face, saying, "Begin at The Beginning!" I wonder if Moses ever got writer's block.
(insert booming God-voice)
In. The. Beginning...
Just kidding. I'll spare you the slideshow.
All you really need to know is that I spent thirty-six years running. Running from myself. Running from the Truth. Running from God. Give me credit for putting on a good show. I had it all. Lights. Costumes. Fancy make-up. The stage was all set for the one-woman show I'd created called The Faithful Christian. Turns out I'm a pretty good actress. But I suck at running. One day, God finally got fed up with me and decided to put His foot down. My world rocked. It shook so violently that pieces of my life were upended, bits of it were shattered, and I was crushed, almost beyond recognition.
But God so loved me that He gave His only Son to pick up the salvageable pieces and begin to heal me. We started to talk. Really talk. Not the "Now I lay me down to sleep" mumbo-jumbo that soothed the Faithful Christian's guilty conscience. But real conversations. It was like we were two friends, yukking it up over coffee and a bagel. Okay, so He was yukking and I was whining. But either way, we were talking. I couldn't figure it out at first. Was I really hearing His Voice? Or was it my eVil subConcious, the mE who was still halfway trapped under God's boot heel, making one final plea?
A Voice told me I needed answers from something tangible. But the VoIceS were getting so garbled that I couldn't tell if it was me, God, or (Lord help us all) my mother. I asked Him to lead me to An Answer. And then I did something I never do. I listened. It didn't take long.
"John," He answered.
"What chapter?" I whispered.
"Fifteen."
I grabbed my Bible and flipped through the flimsy pages. My hands were shaking with excitement and...fear? What was He about to reveal to me? I began reading, my eyes skimming anxiously over the words for The Answer. When I read verse 5, I knew I'd found it.
Huh. Hmm. Really? Really, God??? What kind of answer is that? Where's the clear-cut explanation of why this is all happening to me? Where do I have to go to find that? I couldn't help but think how nice it would be if the Bible included The Book of Courtney. The answers would lie somewhere around chapter 36, verse 1,352,908. I fantasized on that until I realized how ugly it would be to see my sins according to God, in black and white, without the gray of my excuses and interpretations.
So... John, Chapter 15, huh?
It's taken me a while to figure out why God led me in that direction. A long while. I had to stop searching for answers in the same old grimy places. When I did that, all I ever found were leftovers from someone else's circumstances that I would pick up, put in my pocket, and call my own. God was calling me to search beyond the wreckage of life's dumpsters where the answers reek of death. He was calling me to find Real Answers in the security of living life holding on to Christ's scarred hands.
So, here we are...at the end of the beginning, and I believe I finally have an answer. I started this blog to be a voice from the Vine, to share the Good News through my own Experience, Strength, and Hope. That sounds pretty bold coming from a girl who, in one way or another, has broken every one of God's Top Ten.
But maybe He's cool with that.
The advice of English teachers everywhere beats a clear rhythm in my head:
Just write. Just write. Just write.
But taunting questions weave their way through those two simple, yet formidable, words. They strut down the rocky path to a modest cottage where the writer in me lives. Ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign, they pound on her front door and shout, "Why are you starting a blog? What do you have to say? And who's really gonna care???"
I look up. "Okay, God. This was Your BIG IDEA. A little help here." I close my eyes, and I see Jesus. Thanks be to God, a Savior! Or at least I think it's Him. He's in a robe and sandals. He even has a staff. But other than that, He is my 7th grade English teacher, circa 1987 - a young, wiry man, dark as a moonless night, with long fingers and teeth that remind me of Chiclets gum when he smiles. He looks at me from behind my eyelids, pulls a sheet of notebook paper from his robe, and waves it in my face, saying, "Begin at The Beginning!" I wonder if Moses ever got writer's block.
(insert booming God-voice)
In. The. Beginning...
Just kidding. I'll spare you the slideshow.
All you really need to know is that I spent thirty-six years running. Running from myself. Running from the Truth. Running from God. Give me credit for putting on a good show. I had it all. Lights. Costumes. Fancy make-up. The stage was all set for the one-woman show I'd created called The Faithful Christian. Turns out I'm a pretty good actress. But I suck at running. One day, God finally got fed up with me and decided to put His foot down. My world rocked. It shook so violently that pieces of my life were upended, bits of it were shattered, and I was crushed, almost beyond recognition.
But God so loved me that He gave His only Son to pick up the salvageable pieces and begin to heal me. We started to talk. Really talk. Not the "Now I lay me down to sleep" mumbo-jumbo that soothed the Faithful Christian's guilty conscience. But real conversations. It was like we were two friends, yukking it up over coffee and a bagel. Okay, so He was yukking and I was whining. But either way, we were talking. I couldn't figure it out at first. Was I really hearing His Voice? Or was it my eVil subConcious, the mE who was still halfway trapped under God's boot heel, making one final plea?
A Voice told me I needed answers from something tangible. But the VoIceS were getting so garbled that I couldn't tell if it was me, God, or (Lord help us all) my mother. I asked Him to lead me to An Answer. And then I did something I never do. I listened. It didn't take long.
"John," He answered.
"What chapter?" I whispered.
"Fifteen."
I grabbed my Bible and flipped through the flimsy pages. My hands were shaking with excitement and...fear? What was He about to reveal to me? I began reading, my eyes skimming anxiously over the words for The Answer. When I read verse 5, I knew I'd found it.
Huh. Hmm. Really? Really, God??? What kind of answer is that? Where's the clear-cut explanation of why this is all happening to me? Where do I have to go to find that? I couldn't help but think how nice it would be if the Bible included The Book of Courtney. The answers would lie somewhere around chapter 36, verse 1,352,908. I fantasized on that until I realized how ugly it would be to see my sins according to God, in black and white, without the gray of my excuses and interpretations.
So... John, Chapter 15, huh?
It's taken me a while to figure out why God led me in that direction. A long while. I had to stop searching for answers in the same old grimy places. When I did that, all I ever found were leftovers from someone else's circumstances that I would pick up, put in my pocket, and call my own. God was calling me to search beyond the wreckage of life's dumpsters where the answers reek of death. He was calling me to find Real Answers in the security of living life holding on to Christ's scarred hands.
So, here we are...at the end of the beginning, and I believe I finally have an answer. I started this blog to be a voice from the Vine, to share the Good News through my own Experience, Strength, and Hope. That sounds pretty bold coming from a girl who, in one way or another, has broken every one of God's Top Ten.
But maybe He's cool with that.
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