God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.
The Serenity Prayer was inscribed in gilded letters on a plate that hung in my grandmother's kitchen when I was a little girl. I never put too much thought into it. It was just gaudy old-lady deco (sorry, Grandma) that kinda made me laugh. The part about "wisdom"...well, that just seemed silly. I mean, who can't tell the difference between things they can and cannot change?
God can be such a character sometimes.
In the last two years, I've recited that prayer more times than I can count. It's a part of the preamble to every Al-Anon meeting I attend. But admittedly, I tend to leave those words in the rooms of Al-Anon. I don't keep them on a ragged slip of paper in my pocket. They aren't cleverly displayed on the wall so that I have to glance at them every time I'm in my favorite room in the house (maybe Grandma was on to something). They just aren't on the tip of my tongue these days.
It happened again last night. A simple conversation became a simple disagreement, which turned into me balling my fists...getting tied up in knots...desperately trying to reason...explain...defend...
(dear God, please just make him understand)
The tears that I loathe (those ever-present byproducts of anger, fear, confusion, frustration) flooded my face. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw things. He had to see how illogical, irresponsible, and unreasonable he was being.
My fingers flew across the tiny keys on my phone, texting with such fervor that I kept having to fix my spelling. Even Auto-Correct couldn't read my chaos-inflicted mind. What I've spent the last 2 1/2 years learning and relearning and learning again...was gone. My serenity was (poof) gone.
I wanted to change him...his thoughts, his words, his reasoning. Why? Because they were mean. And they hurt. And though they weren't true, and made little sense, the devil seized them and pounded them into my heart over and over and over again.
I went to bed last night in a daze. My body was in knots. My heart was in shambles. My brain was spinning. And my soul was cloaked in darkness. I knew I didn't want to feel the way I was feeling, but the devil had me so lost in the shadows of anxiety/doubt/shame/fear/worry, I couldn't see the light shining right in front of me.
I lay in my bed, finding it hard to breathe, and suddenly I knew what to do...
God, please take the darkness from my life. Replace it with Your light. Change the words in my heart from "selfish" and "unworthy," to "loved" and "redeemed." Remind me how much You cherish me; let me see Your smiling face instead of the faces that look at me with hate. Shower me in Your grace, mercy, and love so that the devil can't get into my heart...in Jesus' name, I pray...
I repeated that prayer over and over, and I felt it. The words that had stabbed at my heart melted away. It wasn't that I forgot them; it was like they had never existed. All I felt was God's love, filling the darkness in my heart, reassuring me that I didn't need to justify myself to anyone. And suddenly, I knew...
The words that were intended to destroy me weren't about me at all. They had nothing to do with me. In fact, they were none of my business. I had no control over those hateful words, but I had the power to change my perspective, and that power came from God.
And in Him is my serenity. My peace.
I yearn for peace. I'm not talking about sunsets-on-the-beach peace. I dream of the kind of peace that is deeper. It's a peace within my soul, so solid, so mighty, that anxiety/shame/doubt/fear/worry can't worm their way into my heart. For a long time, I had no idea what that kind of peace looked like. Peace was a Stranger, a Man I'd met from time to time, but Someone I really didn't have time for...Someone I might talk to if I was stuck in traffic or when the bills began mounting up. But He wasn't Someone I could trust. After all, my life pretty much sucked.
That's all changed, including the sucky-life nonsense. But truthfully, sometimes (more often than I'd like to admit) I forget where to find my Peace. Why, you ask?
I am addicted to chaos.
I am addicted to fixing others.
I am addicted to worry.
I am addicted to giving in.
I am addicted to fear.
I am addicted to expectations.
I am addicted to being right.
I am addicted to the belief that I am in control.
For me, the idea of power is like a frosty, cold beer to an alcoholic. If it seems within my reach, I want to grab hold of it with both hands and drink it in big gulps. I want to feel it flowing into me, relaxing my overwrought nerves, bringing me that peace I so desire. Power is a remedy. Power is a drug. Power is a solution.
Power is an illusion. All it takes is an argument with an alcoholic to make that painfully clear. When these moments arise, I know God is giving this power-hungry girl a choice. Try to "fix" it myself, or turn it over to Him. Trust my own abilities to "handle" the alcoholic (because that's always worked out famously), or trust Him.
I am not God. Not so long ago, I was really good at pretending I was, so forgive me if I sometimes relapse. But God has this funny way of reclaiming his power. And praise Him, He is always the "God of my understanding." That gives me the freedom to have an ever-evolving relationship with Him. What I understand about Him today may not be my understanding tomorrow. I don't have to be perfect in my life or my relationship with Him. I can try to take control. My prayers don't have to be perfect. I can make mistakes. I can forget to call on Him. I can take one step forward, and two steps back. I speak of my addictions in the present tense because they still exist. But I am learning to deal with my defects and live a beautiful life, not in spite of them, but because of them. Mine is a program of "progress, not perfection."
God, thank You for your gift of serenity. And even though I don't always get it, thank You for you're oh-so-witty sense of humor. You knew who I was going to be back when I was laughing at that plate in Grandma's kitchen, didn't You? Please help me to keep Your name forever on the tip of my tongue. If possible, I'd prefer a rustic sign. Perhaps a DIY created from old pallets??? A touch of burlap wouldn't hurt. Oh, and chevrons! I LOVE chevrons. But really, God, I just want You to be my go-to Guy. Cool?
Cool.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Angels and Treadmills
Genesis 18:1-2 The Lord appeared to Abraham near the great trees of Mamre while he was sitting at the entrance to his tent in the heat of the day. Abraham looked up and saw three men standing nearby. When he saw them, he hurried from the entrance of his tent to meet them and bowed low to the ground.
I think I spoke with an angel today.
I know I must write this now, while my memory is fresh. Soon, it will begin to fade, bleached by time and circumstance, until all that's left is a moment in time, just a single stitch on the tapestry of my life. The details will be lost in my mind, only to be found somewhere in that space between sleep and wakening.
Already, the edges are beginning to blur. I better hurry...
I stepped off the treadmill at the gym today, and in front of me was a man. He sat hunched in a wheelchair. His body seemed to curl in on itself. His knees looked welded together and almost touched his chest, while his arms and hands stuck out at odd angles. I'd noticed him out of his wheelchair earlier, doing physical therapy on a treadmill nearby, struggling to take each step, as if his mind and his body couldn't agree on where things were supposed to go.
The man was looking up at me. His lips were moving, so I took out my ear buds to hear what he was saying.
"Can you get my glasses for me?" His speech was slow and slurred, as if each word took more effort than his tongue could muster.
"Of course," I replied. The glasses had fallen onto the treadmill. I picked them up and handed them to him. He grasped them with gnarled, uncoordinated fingers and settled them onto his face.
"Thank you," he said.
And here's where the details begin to blur. I can't remember how the conversation began. Did I say something more? Did he ask me a question? Did we introduce ourselves? I can't remember. I know his name was Joseph, and he called me Courtney many times. But when did I learn his name, and he mine? I simply don't know.
What I do know is he began to tell me a story. It began with a dream he had when he was 16 years old. Halfway into the dream, I knew this moment was something special, that I would want to remember everything about this man for as long as possible. I couldn't do that looking down on him, so at some point, I sat down, right on the treadmill where his glasses had fallen. As he spoke, these are the things I noticed.
His eyes were brown and soulful.
The skin on his shoulders was creamy white, as if it had never seen the sun.
His hair fell in soft, short waves around his face. I imagined fingers, once strong and sure, flicking the hair from his face.
He talked with his hands. The movements were awkward and jerky, but somehow they gave his story power.
His dream went something like this...
Sixteen-year-old Joseph was in church - in his words, the house of our Lord, Jesus Christ. I remember those words distinctly. He enunciated them with his broken tongue, making sure I understood. He was a typical teenager at the time. His body and mind had not yet been destroyed by "the accident." In the dream, he wondered why he was in church - there was no wedding, no quinceanera, no baptism. The church was empty. He continued to look around, wondering why he was there all alone. And then he looked down and saw the wheelchair. He was in it.
And his dream was over. He didn't think anything of it. Just a dream, he told himself when he was 16.
Two years later, at age 18, Joseph was at a party with a friend. He and his friend left the party to go smoke a joint. This part was a little hard to understand, but it seems that while they were walking down the street, a 15-year-old kid lost control of a car he wasn't supposed to be driving, and hit Joseph.
His story was over, and neither of us spoke for a moment.
And then he popped the question.
"Do you think God was warning me in my dream?"
I wasn't sure how to respond - to his story, to his question, to any of it! We were at the gym, after all. Questions at the gym are more along the lines of "What are you listening to?" or "Do you know where the weight room is?" Everything was so surreal. I could no longer hear the whir of the treadmills at work around me. Weights stopped their incessant clinking and clanking. Voices faded. It was as if time stood still, and the rest of the world faded into nothingness.
I thought for a moment and said, "God speaks to us in different ways, even in our dreams. But maybe God wasn't warning you. Maybe He was preparing you for His plans for your life."
He nodded.
"Just for a stupid joint," he said.
He sighed.
At the time, I think I knew I was in the presence of something greater than myself, and I was nervous. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to get it right. I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing.
"I think God has a plan for you, and I think He has a plan for me," I said. "Our only job is to trust in His plan and follow where He leads us."
Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what I said.
The gym came back alive, and we made small talk for a few more minutes. Again, the details are hazy. I know he is now 40 and lives with his mother. He knows that I will be 38 in a week or so, and that I have 3 kids. And then he said it was nice talking to me, we shook hands, and went our separate ways.
And immediately, my mind began throwing questions at me.
Did I really meet an angel?
I'm sure I did.
Did I say the right things?
Umm...I'm pretty sure I did.
Could I have said more?
Probably.
Why would God choose to put an angel in my path today?
I have no idea.
Or maybe I do.
Perhaps He knows I'm faltering, and that I need the reassurance.
Perhaps I was right when I said God speaks to us in different ways. Last night, as I drifted into my own dreamland, I prayed for reassurance for my weakening heart. I prayed for guidance and I prayed for God to speak to me clearly, so I wouldn't misunderstand. I prayed for Him to remind me of the times He's spoken to me and given my heart clear directions, because, Lord God, it's so darn easy to forget.
Perhaps God answered my prayers today.
Just perhaps...
I think I spoke with an angel today.
I know I must write this now, while my memory is fresh. Soon, it will begin to fade, bleached by time and circumstance, until all that's left is a moment in time, just a single stitch on the tapestry of my life. The details will be lost in my mind, only to be found somewhere in that space between sleep and wakening.
Already, the edges are beginning to blur. I better hurry...
I stepped off the treadmill at the gym today, and in front of me was a man. He sat hunched in a wheelchair. His body seemed to curl in on itself. His knees looked welded together and almost touched his chest, while his arms and hands stuck out at odd angles. I'd noticed him out of his wheelchair earlier, doing physical therapy on a treadmill nearby, struggling to take each step, as if his mind and his body couldn't agree on where things were supposed to go.
The man was looking up at me. His lips were moving, so I took out my ear buds to hear what he was saying.
"Can you get my glasses for me?" His speech was slow and slurred, as if each word took more effort than his tongue could muster.
"Of course," I replied. The glasses had fallen onto the treadmill. I picked them up and handed them to him. He grasped them with gnarled, uncoordinated fingers and settled them onto his face.
"Thank you," he said.
And here's where the details begin to blur. I can't remember how the conversation began. Did I say something more? Did he ask me a question? Did we introduce ourselves? I can't remember. I know his name was Joseph, and he called me Courtney many times. But when did I learn his name, and he mine? I simply don't know.
What I do know is he began to tell me a story. It began with a dream he had when he was 16 years old. Halfway into the dream, I knew this moment was something special, that I would want to remember everything about this man for as long as possible. I couldn't do that looking down on him, so at some point, I sat down, right on the treadmill where his glasses had fallen. As he spoke, these are the things I noticed.
His eyes were brown and soulful.
The skin on his shoulders was creamy white, as if it had never seen the sun.
His hair fell in soft, short waves around his face. I imagined fingers, once strong and sure, flicking the hair from his face.
He talked with his hands. The movements were awkward and jerky, but somehow they gave his story power.
His dream went something like this...
Sixteen-year-old Joseph was in church - in his words, the house of our Lord, Jesus Christ. I remember those words distinctly. He enunciated them with his broken tongue, making sure I understood. He was a typical teenager at the time. His body and mind had not yet been destroyed by "the accident." In the dream, he wondered why he was in church - there was no wedding, no quinceanera, no baptism. The church was empty. He continued to look around, wondering why he was there all alone. And then he looked down and saw the wheelchair. He was in it.
And his dream was over. He didn't think anything of it. Just a dream, he told himself when he was 16.
Two years later, at age 18, Joseph was at a party with a friend. He and his friend left the party to go smoke a joint. This part was a little hard to understand, but it seems that while they were walking down the street, a 15-year-old kid lost control of a car he wasn't supposed to be driving, and hit Joseph.
His story was over, and neither of us spoke for a moment.
And then he popped the question.
"Do you think God was warning me in my dream?"
I wasn't sure how to respond - to his story, to his question, to any of it! We were at the gym, after all. Questions at the gym are more along the lines of "What are you listening to?" or "Do you know where the weight room is?" Everything was so surreal. I could no longer hear the whir of the treadmills at work around me. Weights stopped their incessant clinking and clanking. Voices faded. It was as if time stood still, and the rest of the world faded into nothingness.
I thought for a moment and said, "God speaks to us in different ways, even in our dreams. But maybe God wasn't warning you. Maybe He was preparing you for His plans for your life."
He nodded.
"Just for a stupid joint," he said.
He sighed.
At the time, I think I knew I was in the presence of something greater than myself, and I was nervous. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to get it right. I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing.
"I think God has a plan for you, and I think He has a plan for me," I said. "Our only job is to trust in His plan and follow where He leads us."
Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what I said.
The gym came back alive, and we made small talk for a few more minutes. Again, the details are hazy. I know he is now 40 and lives with his mother. He knows that I will be 38 in a week or so, and that I have 3 kids. And then he said it was nice talking to me, we shook hands, and went our separate ways.
And immediately, my mind began throwing questions at me.
Did I really meet an angel?
I'm sure I did.
Did I say the right things?
Umm...I'm pretty sure I did.
Could I have said more?
Probably.
Why would God choose to put an angel in my path today?
I have no idea.
Or maybe I do.
Perhaps He knows I'm faltering, and that I need the reassurance.
Perhaps I was right when I said God speaks to us in different ways. Last night, as I drifted into my own dreamland, I prayed for reassurance for my weakening heart. I prayed for guidance and I prayed for God to speak to me clearly, so I wouldn't misunderstand. I prayed for Him to remind me of the times He's spoken to me and given my heart clear directions, because, Lord God, it's so darn easy to forget.
Perhaps God answered my prayers today.
Just perhaps...
Sunday, February 3, 2013
(Not so) Great Expectations
Psalm 62:5 My soul, wait in silence for God only, For my hope is from Him.
For the record, I'm a Pinterest enthusiast. I love all the ideas and inspiration I find there. But I also believe that the enemy can use Pinterest to make pinners feel inadequate. So I go into every session with a careful heart, knowing that 90% of what I pin looks good in theory, but the chances of it every winding up in my house, in my oven, in my classroom, or in my closet is slim to none.
That said, there is a particular category with which I am especially careful. I've never been a real fan of quotes. I've always felt that if you feel something that strongly, find your own words to voice it instead of using someone else's. It just doesn't seem as genuine if you have to borrow. That's not to say that I'm not inspired by the words of others, and yes, I have a board on Pinterest for "Encouragement." But I am very selective with those pins because I know they have the ability to confuse my fragile heart into feeling emotions that don't belong to me. I've noticed one quote in particular blazing its way around Pinterest lately. It goes something like this:
"Sometimes we expect more from others because we would be willing to do that much for them."
I used to agree with that wholeheartedly. As a wife and a mother and a daughter and a friend, I had expectations. Treat me fairly. Don't take advantage of me. Don't judge me. Use kind words. Respect me. Act your age. Be responsible. Share. Don't hurt me. Tell the truth. Own your mistakes and learn from them. Do what you say you'll do.
Sounds reasonable, right? Who doesn't deserve to be treated that way? My expectations started out as little pebbles on my path. Someone would let me down, and I'd pick up a pebble. At first, it was no big deal. The pebbles weren't heavy, so I'd just slip them into my pocket. Time passed, and the pebbles became rocks. My pockets began to sag with all that extra weight. I felt heavy. I couldn't move forward. Resentment filled my heart, suffocating compassion and love and understanding until those feelings eventually died. I continued living, but it was an ugly life. Anger and resentment consumed me. I banged around my life every day until I fell into bed, exhausted and infuriated, only to wake up and do it all over again.
I guess God got tired of all my banging around because He stepped in and showed me a different way to live. I've learned a new quote that I like even better.
"Expectations are just premeditated resentments."
How many rocks do you have in your pockets today? Can I give you a little bit of tough love?
Why do you believe that anyone has the responsibility to meet your expectations? Who are you to dictate how a person should live when the One and Only has given them the gracious gift of free will? Why are you letting their journey fill you with resentment and anger instead of enjoying your own journey?
Now, don't get upset with me! I asked myself the same questions, and then I looked at my list of expectations with new eyes. First, I asked myself how many of them I failed to meet? I wanted grace, but I wasn't willing to give it. Then I realized that we are all on different paths specifically chosen for us by a God who loves us. Suppose my expectations don't fit with God's plans? Should I expect God to give in to me and my expectations? Well, paint me gold and call me a cow! I'd created this idolized version of myself that expected God (yes, GOD) to submit to me and my desires!
Finally, I wondered...what if God had expectations of me? Imagine that! What if He expected me not to sin, to temper my sailor's mouth, to not yell at the idiot who cuts me off in traffic? And when I went ahead and did those things anyway, what if God resented me? What if He got angry and banged around in Heaven and picked up resentments to store in his pockets? Imagine spending eternity in Heaven with a God like that. Because I fail him every day. Miserably.
Thank You, God, for sending your Son to bear the burden of my failures. Thank You for loving me unconditionally, without expectations. Please grant me the ability to love like You do.
What if we could love like Christ? What if we could be denied and betrayed and beaten and broken, and yet still be gracious? What if it all started with emptying our heavy pockets of expectations and just respecting and accepting people the way they are?
People are going to let you down.
Someone will hurt you some day.
You will feel taken advantage of at some point.
You won't get the credit you deserve.
People won't share with you.
You will be lied to.
People will judge you.
You will be disrespected.
Life will not be fair to you.
Accept that. Respect that. And then let it go.
I know what you're thinking, because I thought it, too. But accepting people as they are does not mean you have to be a doormat. Remember, you have a path to follow, as well. God will show you the way, but it's up to you take the next right step.
Whatever you do, do not pick up those rocks. Just let them be. Empty your pockets and give the ones you have to Jesus.
Maybe He will use them to teach the baby angels how to skip rocks in Heaven.
For the record, I'm a Pinterest enthusiast. I love all the ideas and inspiration I find there. But I also believe that the enemy can use Pinterest to make pinners feel inadequate. So I go into every session with a careful heart, knowing that 90% of what I pin looks good in theory, but the chances of it every winding up in my house, in my oven, in my classroom, or in my closet is slim to none.
That said, there is a particular category with which I am especially careful. I've never been a real fan of quotes. I've always felt that if you feel something that strongly, find your own words to voice it instead of using someone else's. It just doesn't seem as genuine if you have to borrow. That's not to say that I'm not inspired by the words of others, and yes, I have a board on Pinterest for "Encouragement." But I am very selective with those pins because I know they have the ability to confuse my fragile heart into feeling emotions that don't belong to me. I've noticed one quote in particular blazing its way around Pinterest lately. It goes something like this:
"Sometimes we expect more from others because we would be willing to do that much for them."
I used to agree with that wholeheartedly. As a wife and a mother and a daughter and a friend, I had expectations. Treat me fairly. Don't take advantage of me. Don't judge me. Use kind words. Respect me. Act your age. Be responsible. Share. Don't hurt me. Tell the truth. Own your mistakes and learn from them. Do what you say you'll do.
Sounds reasonable, right? Who doesn't deserve to be treated that way? My expectations started out as little pebbles on my path. Someone would let me down, and I'd pick up a pebble. At first, it was no big deal. The pebbles weren't heavy, so I'd just slip them into my pocket. Time passed, and the pebbles became rocks. My pockets began to sag with all that extra weight. I felt heavy. I couldn't move forward. Resentment filled my heart, suffocating compassion and love and understanding until those feelings eventually died. I continued living, but it was an ugly life. Anger and resentment consumed me. I banged around my life every day until I fell into bed, exhausted and infuriated, only to wake up and do it all over again.
I guess God got tired of all my banging around because He stepped in and showed me a different way to live. I've learned a new quote that I like even better.
"Expectations are just premeditated resentments."
How many rocks do you have in your pockets today? Can I give you a little bit of tough love?
Why do you believe that anyone has the responsibility to meet your expectations? Who are you to dictate how a person should live when the One and Only has given them the gracious gift of free will? Why are you letting their journey fill you with resentment and anger instead of enjoying your own journey?
Now, don't get upset with me! I asked myself the same questions, and then I looked at my list of expectations with new eyes. First, I asked myself how many of them I failed to meet? I wanted grace, but I wasn't willing to give it. Then I realized that we are all on different paths specifically chosen for us by a God who loves us. Suppose my expectations don't fit with God's plans? Should I expect God to give in to me and my expectations? Well, paint me gold and call me a cow! I'd created this idolized version of myself that expected God (yes, GOD) to submit to me and my desires!
Finally, I wondered...what if God had expectations of me? Imagine that! What if He expected me not to sin, to temper my sailor's mouth, to not yell at the idiot who cuts me off in traffic? And when I went ahead and did those things anyway, what if God resented me? What if He got angry and banged around in Heaven and picked up resentments to store in his pockets? Imagine spending eternity in Heaven with a God like that. Because I fail him every day. Miserably.
Thank You, God, for sending your Son to bear the burden of my failures. Thank You for loving me unconditionally, without expectations. Please grant me the ability to love like You do.
What if we could love like Christ? What if we could be denied and betrayed and beaten and broken, and yet still be gracious? What if it all started with emptying our heavy pockets of expectations and just respecting and accepting people the way they are?
People are going to let you down.
Someone will hurt you some day.
You will feel taken advantage of at some point.
You won't get the credit you deserve.
People won't share with you.
You will be lied to.
People will judge you.
You will be disrespected.
Life will not be fair to you.
Accept that. Respect that. And then let it go.
I know what you're thinking, because I thought it, too. But accepting people as they are does not mean you have to be a doormat. Remember, you have a path to follow, as well. God will show you the way, but it's up to you take the next right step.
Whatever you do, do not pick up those rocks. Just let them be. Empty your pockets and give the ones you have to Jesus.
Maybe He will use them to teach the baby angels how to skip rocks in Heaven.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Death of a People-Pleaser
Psalm 139:13-14 "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made..."
Have I got good news for you! All you busy dads, you on-the-go mommas - look no further. If you need a favor, I'm your gal! All you have to do is ask. If you're feeling a bit wary because you don't know me that well, never fear. I come with references (the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent).
- Jane will tell you that I lent her my car for a hair appointment, and when she returned it with a huge gash in the fender and zero explanation, I didn't bat an eye.
- John will tell you that I took him to the airport at four o'clock in the morning on my day off.
- Sue can vouch for the fact that I went to the grocery store to get her son cupcakes to celebrate his birthday at school. Even though it was 8 o'clock at night. And the store was completely out of my way.
- Mary will probably deny it (but if she turns red, you'll know she's fibbing) when you ask her if I bought her an enema kit at the store, and then returned it for another one when she told me I'd gotten the wrong one. Okay, never mind. Maybe you don't check up on that one.
- Joe will explain how I drove ninety miles on a gas tank full of fumes because he needed a ride home for Thanksgiving.
- Betty will (gratefully) tell you how I went to those riveting work meetings for her because she couldn't.
Feel better now? I hope so. Like I said, all you have to do is ask.
Make no mistake. I'm not Mother Teresa. There's nothing saint-like about it. It's just that I can't ever seem to say no.
People-pleasing has always been a way of life for me. It started when I was young. I gave up my favorite toys and always let my friends go first (even when it was my turn). I always volunteered to be "It" when no one else (myself included) wanted to do it. In high school, I surrendered love interests in accordance with the unwritten law that I had not "called him first." I abandoned important relationships when they made others unhappy. I stayed in destructive relationships because to leave them would make others unhappy. I allowed my mind, body, and soul to be beaten down and broken, all in the name of keeping the peace.
Self-sacrifice looks good on paper, but don't be deceived. It's actually the devil in disguise.
The more I sacrificed myself for others, the less of ME there was. All God's hard work, the eternity that He spent knowing me and planning for me, was forgotten. I became ripe for the devil to tempt me into believing I was Unworthy. Unloved. Unacceptable. Unknown.
It also opened me up to resentment. This is one of the devil's favorite emotions, because it leads good people down ugly, dark roads where the enemy lurks. Watching. Waiting.
For me, people-pleasing has deep roots in abuse, addiction, and alcoholism. In a world filled with chaos, inconsistencies, and unmet expectations, I felt powerless. The people-pleaser in me grasped the one thing that was actually in my control - my choices. If my choices could make someone else happy, then I could control the chaos. And then I would finally find peace. Or at least that's what the devil kept telling me. He told me to give up the things that made me happy. He told me that it was okay (necessary, even) that my happiness was dependent on the happiness of others.
And so I began to lose. And I lost. And I lost. And I lost. For years, I lost. Myself. My relationships. My sanity. I spent so much time making other people happy that I had no idea what made me happy. If I did find something I liked, I felt guilty for enjoying it, especially when it took away from the happiness of the people I was most trying to please. I gave and gave and gave until I was empty inside. My heart hardened. My soul was battered and bruised.
And the devil danced. He cheered. He wrote my name in his little black book with a BIG, black, permanent marker.
Stupid devil.
I'm in Someone Else's book, too. And so are you. Below each of our names is a long list of the gifts, talents, and interests that He knit together in the tapestries of our hearts.
But first I have to tell you a secret. That person that you're always trying to please? You never will. His peace of mind is not your responsibility. Her happiness doesn't rest on your shoulders. In fact, it's none of your business. Happiness and peace is a part of their relationship with themselves and with God. It's their responsibility to get to work making things right, not yours. Not yours.
And guess what? The same goes for you!
What makes you happy? Get with God and figure it out! You are fearfully and wonderfully made by a God who knows you best. He gave you unique talents and gifts, and He knows full well how you are supposed to be using them. Don't sacrifice your gifts trying to please the un-pleasable! Be yourself! If you don't know who that is, get busy! Try new things. Don't be scared! You've got an unshakeable God right by your side, and he is for you!
It works! I promise - it really does work. Two years ago, I didn't know who I was. I didn't know what I liked to do. I didn't recognize that I had talents. Making a list of my "favorites" for Meet the Teacher was painful! The only hobbies I could think of were reading and writing. And I wasn't even sure I should include them. I'd always put off writing because I believed the people who made me feel like I wasn't good enough. And if I spent an afternoon reading a book, guilt swallowed me whole.
Want to see my updated hobby list?
1. I love running...except when I'm doing it. Then it kinda sucks.
2. Theater is in my soul. I may never make it to Broadway, but that little stage in my church's Family Life Center is good enough...for now.
3. I am obsessed with photography. I decided I wanted a camera for Christmas, and wound up with a business. A busy business.
4. Writing...ah, my passion. I love this blog. I love writing short stories and poetry. I love how God knits my words together like only He can. I hope that one day He knits them into a book. Or two. Or ten.
5. I enjoy cycling. Turns out you really don't forget how to ride a bike. Even if you're clumsy. And super-uncoordinated.
6. I get lost in reading. I am overwhelmed with the journey, and sometimes (a lot of times), I don't want to come home. When I read a good book, I make new friends, and they always take a little piece of my heart with them when their story is over.
Look at that! I've tripled my list! I'm still a people-pleaser at heart, but God has graciously given me the ability to see when I'm giving too much of myself. When I'm abandoning His gifts, He produces blessings like bikes and cameras. When I'm not using the talents He's given me, He puts people in my life who request very nicely that I blog more. When I'm worn out and feeling a lot lazy, He places it on my heart to get this body (His body) out into the world (His world), and enjoy them both.
God knows you, too. He's speaking to your heart right now, telling you how fearfully and wonderfully He made you. Are you listening?
Find your gifts. Make a hobby list and include things you've always wanted to do, even if you're not doing them. You don't have to be the best. God didn't make you to be perfect.
He made you to be YOU.
Friday, January 4, 2013
More
Ephesians 3:20-21 - "Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever! Amen."
In the hustle and bustle of the season, I'd put off shopping for everyday items. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those little necessities that never seem to be around when you need them. And I needed them. I needed them badly enough to load up three kids for a quick trip to the grocery store.
I like to think of these trips as a Four Stage Process. Stage 1 - Cats in a Bathtub.
I'm totally serious. When I say the words "grocery store" to my kids, they growl. Their hair stands up on their heads. They claw at me. They hiss. It's not pretty.
Stage 2 is Anguished Acceptance. This is a tricky stage. It had me fooled for a lot of years. I saw the agonizing looks (I like to call them "Wet Cat Syndrome") and fell hook, line, and sinker. But now I know better. Don't let them see weakness. And steel myself for Stage 3.
Stage 3 - Kill Mom with Questions.
"Can I get Buddy Bucks?" (Infernal "kid cash" for a machine that earns points to buy cheap crap that winds up on the floorboard of my car.)
"Can I have two quarters for the machine?" (Infernal "kid trap" that vends cheap crap, which winds up on the floorboard of my car.)
"Can I have gum/candy/soda?" (Infernal "kid crack" that's unhealthy, sticky and/or NOT spill-proof, and the trash winds up on the floorboard of my car.)
The problem with Stage 3 is that it lasts as long as we are in the store. However, the mere existence of this stage inevitably prolongs the trip, turning a half-hour jaunt into an hour-long undertaking. Once we leave the store, we move quickly into Stage 4 - Is that a Squirrel? This stage is all about distraction. It doesn't take much - a push or poke from a sibling is usually enough. The questions are quickly forgotten and life goes on.
So back to my story. We were headed to the store for one or two necessities. We had barely pulled into the parking lot when my youngest daughter took me completely by surprise and moved into Stage 3* before we'd even exited the vehicle. You may have noticed the asterisk. That's because this is a rare deviation from typical Stage 3 behavior. Many factors go into that asterisk. Like, for example, it was a week after Mr. Ho-Ho-Ho left a veritable toy store under the tree. And the fact that she'd had a birthday just four days after Christmas. Also, consider the Audacity Factor.
What is the Audacity Factor, you ask? Perhaps telling you her question would best explain it. Deep breath. And...
"After this, can we go to Target for some more toys?"
I was floored. Speechless. The car was silent (a Christmas miracle!) as we all took in her question. I like to think my older two children were in shock, too, but I've come to accept that they were just waiting. Waiting for my reaction. Waiting to see if we really could go to Target.
After I regained consciousness, it took all I had not to give her the Less-Fortunate Lecture. You know the one I'm talking about. It always starts out with, "There are children in _______________ (fill in the blank with the first third-world country that comes to mind) who don't get anything for Christmas..." But I didn't give that lecture. Well, not the whole thing, anyway. But my voice certainly had the how-dare-you tone (a symptom of the Audacity Factor).
How dare you want more after all you got for Christmas? How dare you want more when you got so much just four days later on your birthday? How dare you think what you've already gotten is not enough? How dare you want more???
I huffed and sighed and stomped into the store to get my few completely necessary items. Stage 3* put a damper on the usual Stage 3 antics. Or perhaps it was my Mean Mama face that kept the questions at bay. At any rate, I was able to shop in some semblance of peace. I noticed things that I usually missed. Like the sale on body lotion. What girl can't use an extra one of those in her bathroom cabinet? And the body wash was Buy One, Get One Free. Forget that I already had a full bottle at home, plus a 6-pack of my favorite bar soap. Did you hear me say it was Buy One, Get One Free??? And then there was the back-scrubber I'd been meaning to get for months. And mouthwash that guaranteed to whiten my teeth in just 7 days. And another body wash that was on sale and smelled simply heavenly. They all went in my cart.
And the irony was lost on me until I woke up this morning with one word in my head.
More.
But not the evil More that wants more toys, more lotion, and more body wash. This More came from God. You see, I'd been thinking about a New Year's resolution. Typically, I'm not much of a "resolution" kinda gal. They always seem like such a waste of guilt. I've got far more important things to feel guilty for than not keeping a resolution. But this year, I felt it - a need to resolve myself in Him. I suppose it's more of a calling than a resolution. God is calling me to More.
I sat down and made a list of all the More I need in my life:
This resolution, if that's what you want to call it, comes with a bonus, a Buy One, Get One Free, if you will. The more I focus on the More, the less time I will have to focus on the Not Enough.
And who doesn't need that in their shopping cart?
Would you like to join me in my resolution...ahem, I mean, my calling? Are you ready?
Go ahead! Fill your cart with More. Stack it so high that you can't see the path in front of you. Put away your purse. Don't worry about what card you're gonna put it on. Cause this More doesn't cost a thing. The price for your More has already been paid. It cost more than you can fathom...
...but for you, it's free.
In the hustle and bustle of the season, I'd put off shopping for everyday items. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those little necessities that never seem to be around when you need them. And I needed them. I needed them badly enough to load up three kids for a quick trip to the grocery store.
I like to think of these trips as a Four Stage Process. Stage 1 - Cats in a Bathtub.
I'm totally serious. When I say the words "grocery store" to my kids, they growl. Their hair stands up on their heads. They claw at me. They hiss. It's not pretty.
Stage 2 is Anguished Acceptance. This is a tricky stage. It had me fooled for a lot of years. I saw the agonizing looks (I like to call them "Wet Cat Syndrome") and fell hook, line, and sinker. But now I know better. Don't let them see weakness. And steel myself for Stage 3.
Stage 3 - Kill Mom with Questions.
"Can I get Buddy Bucks?" (Infernal "kid cash" for a machine that earns points to buy cheap crap that winds up on the floorboard of my car.)
"Can I have two quarters for the machine?" (Infernal "kid trap" that vends cheap crap, which winds up on the floorboard of my car.)
"Can I have gum/candy/soda?" (Infernal "kid crack" that's unhealthy, sticky and/or NOT spill-proof, and the trash winds up on the floorboard of my car.)
The problem with Stage 3 is that it lasts as long as we are in the store. However, the mere existence of this stage inevitably prolongs the trip, turning a half-hour jaunt into an hour-long undertaking. Once we leave the store, we move quickly into Stage 4 - Is that a Squirrel? This stage is all about distraction. It doesn't take much - a push or poke from a sibling is usually enough. The questions are quickly forgotten and life goes on.
So back to my story. We were headed to the store for one or two necessities. We had barely pulled into the parking lot when my youngest daughter took me completely by surprise and moved into Stage 3* before we'd even exited the vehicle. You may have noticed the asterisk. That's because this is a rare deviation from typical Stage 3 behavior. Many factors go into that asterisk. Like, for example, it was a week after Mr. Ho-Ho-Ho left a veritable toy store under the tree. And the fact that she'd had a birthday just four days after Christmas. Also, consider the Audacity Factor.
What is the Audacity Factor, you ask? Perhaps telling you her question would best explain it. Deep breath. And...
"After this, can we go to Target for some more toys?"
I was floored. Speechless. The car was silent (a Christmas miracle!) as we all took in her question. I like to think my older two children were in shock, too, but I've come to accept that they were just waiting. Waiting for my reaction. Waiting to see if we really could go to Target.
After I regained consciousness, it took all I had not to give her the Less-Fortunate Lecture. You know the one I'm talking about. It always starts out with, "There are children in _______________ (fill in the blank with the first third-world country that comes to mind) who don't get anything for Christmas..." But I didn't give that lecture. Well, not the whole thing, anyway. But my voice certainly had the how-dare-you tone (a symptom of the Audacity Factor).
How dare you want more after all you got for Christmas? How dare you want more when you got so much just four days later on your birthday? How dare you think what you've already gotten is not enough? How dare you want more???
I huffed and sighed and stomped into the store to get my few completely necessary items. Stage 3* put a damper on the usual Stage 3 antics. Or perhaps it was my Mean Mama face that kept the questions at bay. At any rate, I was able to shop in some semblance of peace. I noticed things that I usually missed. Like the sale on body lotion. What girl can't use an extra one of those in her bathroom cabinet? And the body wash was Buy One, Get One Free. Forget that I already had a full bottle at home, plus a 6-pack of my favorite bar soap. Did you hear me say it was Buy One, Get One Free??? And then there was the back-scrubber I'd been meaning to get for months. And mouthwash that guaranteed to whiten my teeth in just 7 days. And another body wash that was on sale and smelled simply heavenly. They all went in my cart.
And the irony was lost on me until I woke up this morning with one word in my head.
More.
But not the evil More that wants more toys, more lotion, and more body wash. This More came from God. You see, I'd been thinking about a New Year's resolution. Typically, I'm not much of a "resolution" kinda gal. They always seem like such a waste of guilt. I've got far more important things to feel guilty for than not keeping a resolution. But this year, I felt it - a need to resolve myself in Him. I suppose it's more of a calling than a resolution. God is calling me to More.
I sat down and made a list of all the More I need in my life:
- More loving. Let go of my anger and unforgiveness and mistrust. Just Love.
- More giving. Give more of my time and my talents. Blog more. Stop putting it off.
- More serving. Do more for others. Use the things with which I've been blessed to serve others. That new camera I got for Christmas? Use it to be His hands and feet. Show the world His grace and mercy through a wide-angle lens.
- More compassion. See others like God sees me - past the mistakes and failures.
- More prayers. Build that relationship. Make Him the Man in my life.
- More trust. Give Him my whole heart (yes, even the parts that I've been trying to keep hidden) and let Him get to work chipping away at those stubborn, hardened edges.
- More letting go. Seek only to change what is in my power to change - myself.
- More honor. Respect the journeys of those that I love, even if it hurts.
- More reading. Get into his Word. Let it guide me and renew me and strengthen me.
- More deep breaths. God never said this life would be easy. Take it one day at a time. Hold His hand the entire way.
This resolution, if that's what you want to call it, comes with a bonus, a Buy One, Get One Free, if you will. The more I focus on the More, the less time I will have to focus on the Not Enough.
And who doesn't need that in their shopping cart?
Would you like to join me in my resolution...ahem, I mean, my calling? Are you ready?
Go ahead! Fill your cart with More. Stack it so high that you can't see the path in front of you. Put away your purse. Don't worry about what card you're gonna put it on. Cause this More doesn't cost a thing. The price for your More has already been paid. It cost more than you can fathom...
...but for you, it's free.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The One in the Wooden Chair
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.
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 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?
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