7:45am. "Why the heck am I awake?" I thought grumpily. Mary Helen was asleep at the foot of the bed, but I had no more capacity for sleep. At 2:30 in the morning I had finally called it quits and turned off the light. And now, five hours later I was up and running again.
The alarm at the bedside wouldn't go off for a little more than an hour.
There was no reason for me to be awake. It was Saturday. Right? Yeah, it was. But something called me out of my restful reverie to stare, somewhat contemptibly, at the leaves outside reflecting the light of the sun in the east.
Resigned that I would get no more sleep, I shoved my arms through the sleeves of my bathrobe and tiptoed downstairs to get a drink. No one was up. Returning upstairs equally silently, I closed my bedroom door and sat down to my computer. To write. Maybe that's why I was awake? Was it that I had too much on my mind which needed saying? Mary Helen had mentioned to me the evening before that writer-types are constantly writing.
So I sat down and typed out a blog of what I was thinking so early on a weekend morning. Devotions was one thing on my heart. Probably because I hadn't set apart a time to do them in the early hours of the day for a long while. Bible reading, devotionals, I did them whenever I had the time to squeeze them in. But as this intermittent pattern continued, my desire to pray became a back burner issue, something I did at night and sometimes at work.
And lo and behold, leave it to Spurgeon to hit the nail on the head.
"Blessed be God, which hath not turned away my prayer." -Psalm 66:20
"In looking back upon the character of our prayers, if we do it honestly, we shall be filled with wonder that God has ever answered them. There may be some who think their prayers are worthy of acceptance - as the Pharisee did; but the true Christian, in a more enlightened retrospect, weeps over his prayers, and if he could retrace his steps he would desire to pray more earnestly. Remember, Christian, how cold thy prayers have been. When in thy closet thou shouldst have wrestled as Jacob did; but instead therof, thy petitions have been faint and few - far removed from the humble, believing, persevering faith, which cries, 'I will not let Thee go except Thou bless me.' Yet, wonderful to say, God has heard these cold prayers of thine and not only heard, but answered them. Reflect also, how unfrequent have been thy prayers, unless thou hast been in trouble, and then thou hast gone often to the mercy seat; but when deliverace has come, where has been thy constant supplication? Yet, notwithstanding thou hast ceased to pray as once though didst, God has not ceased to bless. When thou hast neglected the mercy seat, God has not deserted it, but the bright light of the Shekinah has always been visible between the wings of the cherubim. Oh! It is marvelous, that the Lord should regard those intermittent spasms of importunity which come and go with our necessities. What a God is He thus to hear the prayers of those who come to Him when they have pressing wants, but neglect Him when they have received a mercy; who approach Him when they are forced to come, but who almost forget to address Him when mercies are pentiful and sorrows are few. Let His gracious kindness in hearing such prayers touch our hearts, so that we may henceforth be found 'Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit.'"
My prayers were definitely becoming fewer, infrequent, and .... cold. Spiritual battle is continually waging in the heavenly places and here on earth its effects are visible. A heightened awareness, an intensity to fight or do... 'something' has been on my mind, but the the heavy weight of sleep takes its toll and makes prayer into a ritual, not a conversation. What has happened to me in such a short time? A month ago I was on fire, thirsty for every ounce of knowledge which fell to me, and now, 30 days later, a hot ember smolders. But EVEN WHEN our prayers are infrequent, when they are few, when they lack the warmth of gratitude and fellowship, God blesses us.
One of Spurgeon's passages struck me as I read it early that morning, "I will not let Thee go except Thou bless me." Sometimes we may feel like this, when we cry out to God and say, I believe, bless me, please! This point was further engraved on my heart when I decided to catch up on my Bible reading.
"And behold, a Canaanite woman from that region came out and was crying, "Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David; my daughter is severely oppressed by a demon." But he did not answer her a word. And his disciples came and begged him saying, "Send her away, for she is crying out after us." He answered, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." But she came and knelt before him, saying, "Lord, help me." And he answered, "It is not right to take the children't bread and throw it to the dogs." She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." Then Jesus answered her, "O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire." And her daughter was healed instantly." -Matthew 15:22-28
At first reading this passage, I wondered at what I saw to be cruelty in Jesus. How could he reject her plea, when he performed all those miracles for the Jews? The disciples were fed up with her crying behind them and turned to Jesus frustratedly and implored him to make her go away. When he told them he was only sent to the house of Israel, the woman got down on her knees and begged him to please heal her child. She believed in his authority, in his power. This heathen Canaanite had enough faith to follow Christ, begging and crying that he would say the word and heal her child, because she believed he could. And in answer to her understanding of his purpose, he declared her faith to be great, and instantly cured her daughter, banishing the demon from within her. "I will not let Thee go except Thou bless me."
And upon closing the Bible, the alarm clock sounded.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Take me?
Just looking at photos of other countries, of places I've yet to lay eyes on, fills me with a burning sense of longing. It's all so beautiful, so foreign, and in many places, so tempting. What would it be like, to stand in front of the Louvre, or to stare at Michelangelo's work until your neck got sore? Or to traverse into the middle of nowhere and find a series of oblong rocks on end at Stonehenge, or take a trip down to a local Irish pub, or to cross Europe to reach Italy, and sail on a gondola through Venice? Or to see the thistles of Scotland, standing starkly in the rocky terrain, or the wonders of Vienna? These and so many places have held a fascination for me for so many years, but at times I wonder if I'll ever see them.
God has blessed me with many amazing outings though, including (but not restricted to) Alaska, Victoria, Canada, Seattle, Europe, and places like the Sears Tower in Chicago, the St. Louis Arch, the homes of James K. Polk, Hellen Keller, Andrew Jackson, Ripavilla, and so much more. Still I wish for more, to travel, to see the world. Though I wouldn't like to see it alone, no matter how beautiful it is.
Mexico is the next step of the journey, another stone being set in place. Am I scared, someone asked me. Truthfully, yes. The prospect of being split up into teams worries me. The fact that I don't have a testimony prepared makes me sweat. And the other fact: I can't say "no" and put off giving my testimony. Am I scared? More than any other trip I've ever been on.
The Lord is faithful to answer when I call. But when my "schedule" gets in the way, or I'm "overwhelmed," I tend to forget Him. I need to set apart a daily devotions time again, somehow I let that slip a few months back and I want it back. I'm spiritually parched and remember the reassurance, guidance, and peace God gifted me with when I read His word and talked to Him frequently.
Prayer is probably a good thing to have down before I go on a missions trip :)
God has blessed me with many amazing outings though, including (but not restricted to) Alaska, Victoria, Canada, Seattle, Europe, and places like the Sears Tower in Chicago, the St. Louis Arch, the homes of James K. Polk, Hellen Keller, Andrew Jackson, Ripavilla, and so much more. Still I wish for more, to travel, to see the world. Though I wouldn't like to see it alone, no matter how beautiful it is.
Mexico is the next step of the journey, another stone being set in place. Am I scared, someone asked me. Truthfully, yes. The prospect of being split up into teams worries me. The fact that I don't have a testimony prepared makes me sweat. And the other fact: I can't say "no" and put off giving my testimony. Am I scared? More than any other trip I've ever been on.
The Lord is faithful to answer when I call. But when my "schedule" gets in the way, or I'm "overwhelmed," I tend to forget Him. I need to set apart a daily devotions time again, somehow I let that slip a few months back and I want it back. I'm spiritually parched and remember the reassurance, guidance, and peace God gifted me with when I read His word and talked to Him frequently.
Prayer is probably a good thing to have down before I go on a missions trip :)
Monday, May 19, 2008
Night's Musings
Life and schedules and engagements keep people on their toes, but it also distracts some of us from what we really love to do: art. My art is in my writing, a sort of visualization of one's heart. A way to express this was in the flow of rhyme. Work, studies, parties, days spent with friends, etc. ate up my time and left me none to be creative. Once I finally get a break from the day's activities, I flip off the light and go to sleep, only to wake up again six hours later.
There are those rare moments though, when time stops, when nothing else may demand my time like an impatient child, when I may indulge myself in one of the most fun - if not in correct iambic pentameter or even pertinent in most cases - forms of art I've discovered. Well, besides pointellism *grin*.
Fingers moving lightly
Tracing patterns in the tapestry
Find a threadbare hole,
All color and fabric time stole.
Sun streams down to make pastel
All fabric to the tassel.
Moving heavy draperies aside,
It breaks a heart once fill'd with pride.
For beneath decades of dust and varnish,
Lived a memory that too will tarnish.
Ivory keys edged with ugly grout,
Once jumped at the prod of fingers stout.
But now it sighs without a sound
While the bench before becomes unbound,
And as constant as the light of day
It continues to fade away.
I can make rhymes anytime, anytime I can make a rhyme. It stirs my soul like when pokers jab a heap of coal. No, it's not perfect, not meant for any writer's sect, but it's my favorite method of expression by far, even if it is below par.
All right, I'll stop now. The actual, kinda-sorta thoughtful rhyme scheme though was the product of a somewhat foreign inspiration. I had a dream of a piano and a teacher who hadn't played in years. Her pupils were grown and had moved away, and she was bedridden, but one day she rolled her wheelchair downstairs and surveyed all that had once been beautiful. The only good stories are those which involve an emotional reaction, something wistful, something lost, or something never achieved. Even in death, there is a mournful beauty.
Just for the heck of it, have you ever done... oh, what do you call it?... where you pick a word out of your head, and then write down everything that connects to it?
Like this... butterfly, star, Bo, Jamima Puddleduck, VCR, wine glasses, shaving, beards, boyfriends, Dave + Mary Helen, blonde jokes, Ethridge, gravel, kittens, tornadoes, raincoats, crying, hidden room, safe, passport, Europe, car, no car, underwear, etc.
Now, you're probably thinking, "How do you make those connections?!?" And I'll explain. I picked the world butterfly from a song I was listening to, then a star because I always used to draw butterflies with stars, then Bo is a little boy I know in FL, which reminded me of growing up in FL, and I used to watch Beatrix Potter's "Jemima Puddleduck," and around that time I tried to "clean" the VCR and killed it. That story was in one of our Christmas newsletters along with the two stories of my brother when he stacked the wine glasses from my parents' wedding and when he decided he wanted to try shaving his legs. Well when I think of shaving, I think of beards, which reminds me of Dave, who is Mary Helen's boyfriend, who just shaved his facial hair. Mary Helen is a blonde, hence the blonde jokes reference, and I've always had blonde best friends, one of them who used to live just down my road in Ethridge. On Sugarland Road, they finally laid gravel. One of my friends owned kittens. Then the memory of being awakened in the middle of the night to dress in raincoats and boots to march out in the blinding rain to take shelter from the tornadoes. I cried the entire time. There was a hidden room in our garage (which was separate from our house) where we stored Y2K food and hunkered down in bad weather. In this hidden room was large grey safe, which was the reason for it's being a hidden room. In this safe now is my passport to freedom, which I had issued for my trip to Europe in 2005, and on this trip my grandparents promised me their car when I came of age to have a license. However, I apparently didn't have pleasing conduct on the ten day trip, and lost the car. Since then, my grandma has been terse with me and the last visit she came up from AL, she brought all the children trinkets from their latest trip to Australia. All except me. I was the child who received the underwear which didn't fit her.
Europe. That was an interesting experience. I can look back on it now and discern the good from the bad, but while I was aboard the River Symphony, I had the time of my life. On my tour from Switzerland to France to Germany to the Netherlands, I experienced a taste of many different cultures, and foods, and had the most amazing Swiss chocolate that nothing I've had since can ever compare. It was late November, snow burdened the branches of the pines in the Black Forest and thin ice sprawled in web-like fashion over the chilled ponds and dormant fountains. The smell of the Christmas Markets with its roasted chestnuts, and booth tenders who hawked their wares in a different tongue than my own. Because of this barrier, I was felt embarressed and ended up buying a pair of garnet earrings for 13 euros. To this day I still wear them. The poor shopkeeper, I only walked in, and he spoke in German to me, but I explained I was English. When his parter asked him if he knew my language, he chuckled a little nervously and said, "Oh, a little."
Or that time when my new-found friend Sarah and I walked into the sleazy internet cafe in Speyer, Germany and paid for our time while the youth over at the counter smoked and drank. "Are you American?" we heard in a thick accent. "Do what?" Sarah inquired, but the response was only a ripple of giggles. Needless to say, we finished up as soon as possible. I'd say that if Sarah and I weren't under circumstances where the average age of passengers aboard was 73, we probably wouldn't have gotten together at all. She was four years my senior, but we hit it off a lot better than I would've with the woman complaining of rheumatism at my grandparents' breakfast table. That was the first strike against me: asking if I could sit with Sarah and her mom at a few meals.
Then ... there was Zwicki. Paul Zwicki, age 35, lived in Chicago as a postmaster, and still lived with his parents. He followed me everywhere. He declared I piqued his interest that one so young could grasp anything of Presbyterianism/Luthernism. Truth be told, I'm not sure I knew that much, just what I'd heard at dinnertime conversations and what I'd learned in history. Anyway, he figured out who my grandparents were and decided to be a frequent guest at my dinner table. For this reason, I asked to be excused to sit with Sarah. Another strike against me: not wanting to sit with my grandma and her new friends, including Paul.
There was this one couple however, whom I will never forget, Red and his wife Rosemarie. I don't remember what Red's real name was, but he was hysterical. He had white hair, and loved telling stories and cracking jokes. One night, the Christmas dinner, he reached for the bread basket without asking and spilled his red wine all over Rosemarie. In his haste to retrieve a napkin for her, he knocked over a water glass on her too. "Red, this suit is dry clean only!" Then the infamous dispute over the pronunciation of Basil, Switzerland. "It's Bay-zil, I tell you!" "Red, he already said over the intercom that it was Bah-zil, not Basil like the seasoning." "Well he got it wrong!"
Somehow word got around that I'd written a River Symphony rendition of Jingle Bells, and the hotel manager, Wolfgang was his name, demanded that I sing it in the lounge that night. I staunchly refused, but everyone else guilted me into it. So that night, I met with the musicians and prepared myself to sing - and try not to puke - in front of about 175 people. My heart was in my throat as the keyboard began and my voice came out in a rush of adrenaline. That is, until I glanced up between verses at all the people. The second verse got off to a rough start as the nausea swept over me and my voice failed. But at an encouraging smile from Sarah's mom, I proceeded to the end. When I had finished I felt dizzy and red. That is when Gunther, our Belgian tour guide, said, "Here, this always cheers a soul, drink up!" And he handed me a shot glass with some undeterminable white liquid. I later found it was whiskey. "All right, little lady, only virgin drinks the rest of the night, but it's all on me." I loved him. Never did hear the story of his Spanish lover though... Oh, and Gunther was the one who paraded around the ship in a makeshift Lorelei mermaid costume when the ship rounded the Lorelei rock; that fabled rock from which it is said the sirens sang to the sailors and lured them to their deaths upon the rocky coastline.
And how could anyone forget Kathy. The most obnoxious north easterner I have ever met, who limped everywhere she went, with a cane which had bells attached to the bottom. Funny thing is, I think she forgot which leg was "lame" and occasionally saw her switch from left to right limp. That one night she got drunk though... dancing with a younger man, hoisting that irritating cane and stabbing the air above her head in a vigorous manner, no limp evident at all. "Whichever of you girls can get that bell off her cane, I'll give you five bucks!" Sarah's mom was cool too.
Far too many places and people to remember, and wearisome to recount, so I'll close this before I make it longer :)
There are those rare moments though, when time stops, when nothing else may demand my time like an impatient child, when I may indulge myself in one of the most fun - if not in correct iambic pentameter or even pertinent in most cases - forms of art I've discovered. Well, besides pointellism *grin*.
Fingers moving lightly
Tracing patterns in the tapestry
Find a threadbare hole,
All color and fabric time stole.
Sun streams down to make pastel
All fabric to the tassel.
Moving heavy draperies aside,
It breaks a heart once fill'd with pride.
For beneath decades of dust and varnish,
Lived a memory that too will tarnish.
Ivory keys edged with ugly grout,
Once jumped at the prod of fingers stout.
But now it sighs without a sound
While the bench before becomes unbound,
And as constant as the light of day
It continues to fade away.
I can make rhymes anytime, anytime I can make a rhyme. It stirs my soul like when pokers jab a heap of coal. No, it's not perfect, not meant for any writer's sect, but it's my favorite method of expression by far, even if it is below par.
All right, I'll stop now. The actual, kinda-sorta thoughtful rhyme scheme though was the product of a somewhat foreign inspiration. I had a dream of a piano and a teacher who hadn't played in years. Her pupils were grown and had moved away, and she was bedridden, but one day she rolled her wheelchair downstairs and surveyed all that had once been beautiful. The only good stories are those which involve an emotional reaction, something wistful, something lost, or something never achieved. Even in death, there is a mournful beauty.
Just for the heck of it, have you ever done... oh, what do you call it?... where you pick a word out of your head, and then write down everything that connects to it?
Like this... butterfly, star, Bo, Jamima Puddleduck, VCR, wine glasses, shaving, beards, boyfriends, Dave + Mary Helen, blonde jokes, Ethridge, gravel, kittens, tornadoes, raincoats, crying, hidden room, safe, passport, Europe, car, no car, underwear, etc.
Now, you're probably thinking, "How do you make those connections?!?" And I'll explain. I picked the world butterfly from a song I was listening to, then a star because I always used to draw butterflies with stars, then Bo is a little boy I know in FL, which reminded me of growing up in FL, and I used to watch Beatrix Potter's "Jemima Puddleduck," and around that time I tried to "clean" the VCR and killed it. That story was in one of our Christmas newsletters along with the two stories of my brother when he stacked the wine glasses from my parents' wedding and when he decided he wanted to try shaving his legs. Well when I think of shaving, I think of beards, which reminds me of Dave, who is Mary Helen's boyfriend, who just shaved his facial hair. Mary Helen is a blonde, hence the blonde jokes reference, and I've always had blonde best friends, one of them who used to live just down my road in Ethridge. On Sugarland Road, they finally laid gravel. One of my friends owned kittens. Then the memory of being awakened in the middle of the night to dress in raincoats and boots to march out in the blinding rain to take shelter from the tornadoes. I cried the entire time. There was a hidden room in our garage (which was separate from our house) where we stored Y2K food and hunkered down in bad weather. In this hidden room was large grey safe, which was the reason for it's being a hidden room. In this safe now is my passport to freedom, which I had issued for my trip to Europe in 2005, and on this trip my grandparents promised me their car when I came of age to have a license. However, I apparently didn't have pleasing conduct on the ten day trip, and lost the car. Since then, my grandma has been terse with me and the last visit she came up from AL, she brought all the children trinkets from their latest trip to Australia. All except me. I was the child who received the underwear which didn't fit her.
Europe. That was an interesting experience. I can look back on it now and discern the good from the bad, but while I was aboard the River Symphony, I had the time of my life. On my tour from Switzerland to France to Germany to the Netherlands, I experienced a taste of many different cultures, and foods, and had the most amazing Swiss chocolate that nothing I've had since can ever compare. It was late November, snow burdened the branches of the pines in the Black Forest and thin ice sprawled in web-like fashion over the chilled ponds and dormant fountains. The smell of the Christmas Markets with its roasted chestnuts, and booth tenders who hawked their wares in a different tongue than my own. Because of this barrier, I was felt embarressed and ended up buying a pair of garnet earrings for 13 euros. To this day I still wear them. The poor shopkeeper, I only walked in, and he spoke in German to me, but I explained I was English. When his parter asked him if he knew my language, he chuckled a little nervously and said, "Oh, a little."
Or that time when my new-found friend Sarah and I walked into the sleazy internet cafe in Speyer, Germany and paid for our time while the youth over at the counter smoked and drank. "Are you American?" we heard in a thick accent. "Do what?" Sarah inquired, but the response was only a ripple of giggles. Needless to say, we finished up as soon as possible. I'd say that if Sarah and I weren't under circumstances where the average age of passengers aboard was 73, we probably wouldn't have gotten together at all. She was four years my senior, but we hit it off a lot better than I would've with the woman complaining of rheumatism at my grandparents' breakfast table. That was the first strike against me: asking if I could sit with Sarah and her mom at a few meals.
Then ... there was Zwicki. Paul Zwicki, age 35, lived in Chicago as a postmaster, and still lived with his parents. He followed me everywhere. He declared I piqued his interest that one so young could grasp anything of Presbyterianism/Luthernism. Truth be told, I'm not sure I knew that much, just what I'd heard at dinnertime conversations and what I'd learned in history. Anyway, he figured out who my grandparents were and decided to be a frequent guest at my dinner table. For this reason, I asked to be excused to sit with Sarah. Another strike against me: not wanting to sit with my grandma and her new friends, including Paul.
There was this one couple however, whom I will never forget, Red and his wife Rosemarie. I don't remember what Red's real name was, but he was hysterical. He had white hair, and loved telling stories and cracking jokes. One night, the Christmas dinner, he reached for the bread basket without asking and spilled his red wine all over Rosemarie. In his haste to retrieve a napkin for her, he knocked over a water glass on her too. "Red, this suit is dry clean only!" Then the infamous dispute over the pronunciation of Basil, Switzerland. "It's Bay-zil, I tell you!" "Red, he already said over the intercom that it was Bah-zil, not Basil like the seasoning." "Well he got it wrong!"
Somehow word got around that I'd written a River Symphony rendition of Jingle Bells, and the hotel manager, Wolfgang was his name, demanded that I sing it in the lounge that night. I staunchly refused, but everyone else guilted me into it. So that night, I met with the musicians and prepared myself to sing - and try not to puke - in front of about 175 people. My heart was in my throat as the keyboard began and my voice came out in a rush of adrenaline. That is, until I glanced up between verses at all the people. The second verse got off to a rough start as the nausea swept over me and my voice failed. But at an encouraging smile from Sarah's mom, I proceeded to the end. When I had finished I felt dizzy and red. That is when Gunther, our Belgian tour guide, said, "Here, this always cheers a soul, drink up!" And he handed me a shot glass with some undeterminable white liquid. I later found it was whiskey. "All right, little lady, only virgin drinks the rest of the night, but it's all on me." I loved him. Never did hear the story of his Spanish lover though... Oh, and Gunther was the one who paraded around the ship in a makeshift Lorelei mermaid costume when the ship rounded the Lorelei rock; that fabled rock from which it is said the sirens sang to the sailors and lured them to their deaths upon the rocky coastline.
And how could anyone forget Kathy. The most obnoxious north easterner I have ever met, who limped everywhere she went, with a cane which had bells attached to the bottom. Funny thing is, I think she forgot which leg was "lame" and occasionally saw her switch from left to right limp. That one night she got drunk though... dancing with a younger man, hoisting that irritating cane and stabbing the air above her head in a vigorous manner, no limp evident at all. "Whichever of you girls can get that bell off her cane, I'll give you five bucks!" Sarah's mom was cool too.
Far too many places and people to remember, and wearisome to recount, so I'll close this before I make it longer :)
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Waterfall
It didn't matter that the rest of the day had been decent. All I thought about at the moment was how much I wanted to sink into that leather couch and disappear. Didn't help that I had avoided Bible Study on Thursday nights for several weeks and thus was being forced to attend. Awkwardness settled around me like an itchy wool sweater, making me squirm where I sat. "Why, Lord? Why'd I have to come tonight?" That query reverberated in my head as I watched the lips of those around me as they spoke in turn.
"Why are you running?"
It hit me like a dam being released. I couldn't come up with an answer, at least, none worth the time of day. Excuses, "Well, I could be doing other things, instead of sitting here," or "I'm not running, I just don't feel comfortable here," etc. It bothered me. Was I running? Why hadn't I realized it? Why WAS I avoiding church functions?
The evening passed this way with my finally coming home and retreating to my bedroom with a cupcake I'd taken from the kitchen. Lazily I pressed the power button on my laptop urging it to awaken. Listlessly removing the other disc in the drawer, I replaced it with something that I could turn up loud.
The decibels resounded off the walls, and nothing bothered me in my personal coccoon. Until mom knocked on the door and told me to "turn down the insanity." Grudgingly I turned the volume knob and crossed my arms over my chest much like a three year old throwing a tantrum. Something didn't fit. I didn't feel right, nothing seemed to be going the way I wanted.
In the silence following my storm of music and irritable behavior, my ears caught the sound of something tapping the window. Like many fingers clicking against the glass.
In a moment I was on my feet and pulling laundry baskets and an empty suitcase away from the door to the deck. Grasping the handle I turned the lock and opened the door to a short gust of wind. The rain had started.
Walking a few steps forward and pulling the door closed behind me, I stuck my hands out over the railing to catch a what I could of the heavenly waterfall. For that's what it was. Torrents began pouring, and I did something I normally wouldn't; I walked into it. Palms opened upward, eyes closed, letting the rain soak my face, my hair, my shirt. A wall crumbled in my mind and my own tears mixed with the falling rain.
"Lord, I've been running from You, I haven't had the desire to read more about You, I can't pick up the lifeline. I can't choose what's right... I need You. Please forgive me for ever forgetting, please forgive me for running."
In that moment, a rush swept through me and my limbs shook violently. But I stayed, drenching my body in the cool, forgiving waterfall of God's grace. For it is only His grace which would allow me to ever return to Him, after so many times I shrugged Him off. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. Even the rain.
"Why are you running?"
It hit me like a dam being released. I couldn't come up with an answer, at least, none worth the time of day. Excuses, "Well, I could be doing other things, instead of sitting here," or "I'm not running, I just don't feel comfortable here," etc. It bothered me. Was I running? Why hadn't I realized it? Why WAS I avoiding church functions?
The evening passed this way with my finally coming home and retreating to my bedroom with a cupcake I'd taken from the kitchen. Lazily I pressed the power button on my laptop urging it to awaken. Listlessly removing the other disc in the drawer, I replaced it with something that I could turn up loud.
The decibels resounded off the walls, and nothing bothered me in my personal coccoon. Until mom knocked on the door and told me to "turn down the insanity." Grudgingly I turned the volume knob and crossed my arms over my chest much like a three year old throwing a tantrum. Something didn't fit. I didn't feel right, nothing seemed to be going the way I wanted.
In the silence following my storm of music and irritable behavior, my ears caught the sound of something tapping the window. Like many fingers clicking against the glass.
In a moment I was on my feet and pulling laundry baskets and an empty suitcase away from the door to the deck. Grasping the handle I turned the lock and opened the door to a short gust of wind. The rain had started.
Walking a few steps forward and pulling the door closed behind me, I stuck my hands out over the railing to catch a what I could of the heavenly waterfall. For that's what it was. Torrents began pouring, and I did something I normally wouldn't; I walked into it. Palms opened upward, eyes closed, letting the rain soak my face, my hair, my shirt. A wall crumbled in my mind and my own tears mixed with the falling rain.
"Lord, I've been running from You, I haven't had the desire to read more about You, I can't pick up the lifeline. I can't choose what's right... I need You. Please forgive me for ever forgetting, please forgive me for running."
In that moment, a rush swept through me and my limbs shook violently. But I stayed, drenching my body in the cool, forgiving waterfall of God's grace. For it is only His grace which would allow me to ever return to Him, after so many times I shrugged Him off. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. Even the rain.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
For I am only human after all...
Oscar Wilde once said that the purpose of art was to conceal the artist. After painting Dorian Gray's portrait, Basil Hallward refused to put it in a gallery because he felt it had, "too much of [himself] in it." Artists fear critics, fear those who might expose them for who they are, or what they were thinking. For some reason I want to say the woman was Elinor Roosevelt, anyway, some woman who could write, and though she'd published numerous poems during her life, none were so moving, so open, as those found in her journal after her death.
How often is it that we don't say things the way we normally would, things we believe in, things we put in writing in our journals which we close and never let anyone see, how often do we shy away from letting other people see into our souls? We fear criticism, that someone would be offended, or possibly even that we would be seen as vulnerable.
Vulnerability is such an ugly word - a word conveying a sense of exposure. Unprotected. A little girl whispers a secret to her best friend in the whole world, and the next day the whole school is whispering behind her, looking and pointing. To put oneself into art is the same, in a way. Letting others get into your head, to grab a hold of the piece of your soul and twist it maliciously, taunting you with the words you'd spoken. Once it's out there, you can't take it back.
Wise is the man who learns from his own failings, but wiser still is the one who learns from the failures of others. I'd heard those words before, perhaps a slightly different paraphrase, but it strikes a chord. Personally, you can talk yourself blue in the face, but I usually won't heed the advice until I try it for myself. And no, I'm not talking about drugs. Silly things, like, always point the knife away from you: didn't and got a huge slice on my thumb. Or, "don't go to the park alone with him." Yeah, messed up there too. Lost my first kiss because I didn't guard myself by heeding parental advice. How about this one, "I don't want you to have alcoholic beverages before you're 21." Now, thankfully, God created me as a lightweight, so drinking is kinda not an option because I don't like the feeling of not being able to control myself. But I had to figure that out on my own as well.
Ever since I figured out I was going to Mexico, Satan's been hard at work trying to get to me. He keeps distracting me with the things of this world, trying to sever the lifeline I have to Christ. And where have I been during this? I'm holding the receiver, not listening, but looking the other way while the devil's minions are silently at work trying to cut the cord. I'm not fighting, but that same feeling of guiltiness washes over me when I think of how I've ignored the One who allowed himself to be whipped, just so I could know who He is, just so I could know how it is to bask in the ocean of love He has for me. I know He came to save me from myself and all the temptations offered in the world, and yet I find it so difficult to return to the call, to pick up that receiver and say, "Yes, Lord? I'm back again, what were You saying?"
How often is it that we don't say things the way we normally would, things we believe in, things we put in writing in our journals which we close and never let anyone see, how often do we shy away from letting other people see into our souls? We fear criticism, that someone would be offended, or possibly even that we would be seen as vulnerable.
Vulnerability is such an ugly word - a word conveying a sense of exposure. Unprotected. A little girl whispers a secret to her best friend in the whole world, and the next day the whole school is whispering behind her, looking and pointing. To put oneself into art is the same, in a way. Letting others get into your head, to grab a hold of the piece of your soul and twist it maliciously, taunting you with the words you'd spoken. Once it's out there, you can't take it back.
Wise is the man who learns from his own failings, but wiser still is the one who learns from the failures of others. I'd heard those words before, perhaps a slightly different paraphrase, but it strikes a chord. Personally, you can talk yourself blue in the face, but I usually won't heed the advice until I try it for myself. And no, I'm not talking about drugs. Silly things, like, always point the knife away from you: didn't and got a huge slice on my thumb. Or, "don't go to the park alone with him." Yeah, messed up there too. Lost my first kiss because I didn't guard myself by heeding parental advice. How about this one, "I don't want you to have alcoholic beverages before you're 21." Now, thankfully, God created me as a lightweight, so drinking is kinda not an option because I don't like the feeling of not being able to control myself. But I had to figure that out on my own as well.
Ever since I figured out I was going to Mexico, Satan's been hard at work trying to get to me. He keeps distracting me with the things of this world, trying to sever the lifeline I have to Christ. And where have I been during this? I'm holding the receiver, not listening, but looking the other way while the devil's minions are silently at work trying to cut the cord. I'm not fighting, but that same feeling of guiltiness washes over me when I think of how I've ignored the One who allowed himself to be whipped, just so I could know who He is, just so I could know how it is to bask in the ocean of love He has for me. I know He came to save me from myself and all the temptations offered in the world, and yet I find it so difficult to return to the call, to pick up that receiver and say, "Yes, Lord? I'm back again, what were You saying?"
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Deja Vu
Some things in life you just don't understand. For me, it was what some would call deja vu, or hallucinatory behavior... perhaps a combination of both. Now I'm not crazy, not in the sense of soundness of mind. But I believe in a big God, who has many ways of speaking to His children, and this is one way He reaches me.
With that said, God's been repeating a lot of information to me...
1) God rewards what is done in secret (prayer, giving, etc.). He doesn't like it when people make a show of their "goodness" for others to see how "good" they are.
2)Commit your way to the Lord and He will see that your plans are established. Funny how I stumble upon this verse (Psalm 37:5-6) and then I hear it all over...
3)A wise man hears the words of God (reading qualifies) and puts them into practice.
4)The Great Commission. Need I explain more? :)
5)Do not worry about what you will wear or what you will eat, etc. It's crazy how many times this phrase can reappear in the span of two weeks. Probably about five different incidents, at LEAST.
6)Even sinners love those who love them.
7)Be perfect even as my Father in heaven is perfect. Completely separate events, mind you, different people, who don't even know each other. But because they were both God's children, He used them to speak to me. Trying to imitate Christ is the hardest, most impossible task to ever undertake.
8)Road to heaven is narrow, but broad is the path to destruction. Pretty self-explanatory.
This is the second piece of paper now, and I just thought this was pretty cool -
Q. What are the benefits which in this life do accompany or flow from justification, adoption, and sanctification?
A. [...]assurance of God's love, peace of conscience, joy in the Holy Ghost, increase of grace and perseverance threin to the end.
and...
The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with Him in order that we may also be glorified with Him.
Which reminds me of a verse I wrote on the wall in my closet a year ago or so (among others): For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. -Romans 8:18.
The connection for me was that both of this things state that there will be, and should be, suffering, if we intend to partake in the glory of heaven.
Suffering? What's all this suffering talk, God is the Big Man upstairs, He wouldn't let us get hurt!
Heh. Kind of sad how many times I've heard that. But God does expect us to get hurt, to be persecuted, for HIS NAME'S SAKE. We will be hated because HE was hated. We will be mocked, as HE was mocked. People around us will despise the name of Christ, sneer at Christians... but it is to be expected. "Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you." -Matthew 5:11-12
Personally, being hated doesn't sound very appealing. By nature I love to please people, not make enemies of them. But for what I believe, this is the cost. And why believe if all we're to expect is suffering? The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory that is to be revealed to us! Even if we were like those thrown naked, burned, and starved into the ring at the coliseum among the wild beasts of the field, there is no comparison to what awaits us when we pass through the gates of heaven and see God and he welcomes us saying, "Well done."
But get this: not only are we required to endure persecution, but pray for those who inflict it. This is as humanly impossible as being perfect! And the answer is the same - pray that God would bestow love to us so that we may in turn show love to those who hurt us.
And check this out, I was only just flipping through pages of my Bible and found the Golden Rule. Which also mentions the way to God being narrow. I love this!
Almost done, don't worry, but I wanted to brush on another topic... one which I've been having issues with lately.
Superficiality. Is that even a word? It is now... Okay, so the older I get, the looks I receive become weirder and more incredulous when I tell someone, "I've never dated." Then they ask, "WHY??!" and it almost feels like they're wondering if I have a major personality flaw, or maybe I have bad breath or some genetic disease which would render me undesirable. (When I'm having a bad day, I may respond with one of the aforementioned possibilities.) But here's how it goes - the physical aspect of guys really bothers me. Those who are attractive are so often times jerks, too full of themselves and confident they can score whatever they want. I've been told that boys in particular have confidence problems when it comes to relationship issues, but I have to wonder sometimes.
On the other side of the spectrum, those who are socially awkward tend to be the more naive and don't understand that I like men to actually be clued into what's going on in the world. (I knew this one guy who liked me and he didn't even know you were supposed to wear green on St. Patty's Day. Lame.)
Back to superficial though, I will not admit to liking a guy if I think every other girl wants him. All they're looking at is the outside. Newsflash: he's going to get old and wrinkly. If he doesn't have a godly, Christian outlook on life, plus a good personality, it doesn't matter how "gorgeous" he is, I won't even consider him. However, I also have this thing where, if I do see the right personality, but it's trapped within an attractive figure, I'm not going to say anything because I don't want it to look like I like him for the same reason everyone else does. Superficial. That's all, just wanted to get that out there, because it's becoming fermented sitting in my brain.
With that said, God's been repeating a lot of information to me...
1) God rewards what is done in secret (prayer, giving, etc.). He doesn't like it when people make a show of their "goodness" for others to see how "good" they are.
2)Commit your way to the Lord and He will see that your plans are established. Funny how I stumble upon this verse (Psalm 37:5-6) and then I hear it all over...
3)A wise man hears the words of God (reading qualifies) and puts them into practice.
4)The Great Commission. Need I explain more? :)
5)Do not worry about what you will wear or what you will eat, etc. It's crazy how many times this phrase can reappear in the span of two weeks. Probably about five different incidents, at LEAST.
6)Even sinners love those who love them.
7)Be perfect even as my Father in heaven is perfect. Completely separate events, mind you, different people, who don't even know each other. But because they were both God's children, He used them to speak to me. Trying to imitate Christ is the hardest, most impossible task to ever undertake.
8)Road to heaven is narrow, but broad is the path to destruction. Pretty self-explanatory.
This is the second piece of paper now, and I just thought this was pretty cool -
Q. What are the benefits which in this life do accompany or flow from justification, adoption, and sanctification?
A. [...]assurance of God's love, peace of conscience, joy in the Holy Ghost, increase of grace and perseverance threin to the end.
and...
The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with Him in order that we may also be glorified with Him.
Which reminds me of a verse I wrote on the wall in my closet a year ago or so (among others): For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. -Romans 8:18.
The connection for me was that both of this things state that there will be, and should be, suffering, if we intend to partake in the glory of heaven.
Suffering? What's all this suffering talk, God is the Big Man upstairs, He wouldn't let us get hurt!
Heh. Kind of sad how many times I've heard that. But God does expect us to get hurt, to be persecuted, for HIS NAME'S SAKE. We will be hated because HE was hated. We will be mocked, as HE was mocked. People around us will despise the name of Christ, sneer at Christians... but it is to be expected. "Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you." -Matthew 5:11-12
Personally, being hated doesn't sound very appealing. By nature I love to please people, not make enemies of them. But for what I believe, this is the cost. And why believe if all we're to expect is suffering? The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory that is to be revealed to us! Even if we were like those thrown naked, burned, and starved into the ring at the coliseum among the wild beasts of the field, there is no comparison to what awaits us when we pass through the gates of heaven and see God and he welcomes us saying, "Well done."
But get this: not only are we required to endure persecution, but pray for those who inflict it. This is as humanly impossible as being perfect! And the answer is the same - pray that God would bestow love to us so that we may in turn show love to those who hurt us.
And check this out, I was only just flipping through pages of my Bible and found the Golden Rule. Which also mentions the way to God being narrow. I love this!
Almost done, don't worry, but I wanted to brush on another topic... one which I've been having issues with lately.
Superficiality. Is that even a word? It is now... Okay, so the older I get, the looks I receive become weirder and more incredulous when I tell someone, "I've never dated." Then they ask, "WHY??!" and it almost feels like they're wondering if I have a major personality flaw, or maybe I have bad breath or some genetic disease which would render me undesirable. (When I'm having a bad day, I may respond with one of the aforementioned possibilities.) But here's how it goes - the physical aspect of guys really bothers me. Those who are attractive are so often times jerks, too full of themselves and confident they can score whatever they want. I've been told that boys in particular have confidence problems when it comes to relationship issues, but I have to wonder sometimes.
On the other side of the spectrum, those who are socially awkward tend to be the more naive and don't understand that I like men to actually be clued into what's going on in the world. (I knew this one guy who liked me and he didn't even know you were supposed to wear green on St. Patty's Day. Lame.)
Back to superficial though, I will not admit to liking a guy if I think every other girl wants him. All they're looking at is the outside. Newsflash: he's going to get old and wrinkly. If he doesn't have a godly, Christian outlook on life, plus a good personality, it doesn't matter how "gorgeous" he is, I won't even consider him. However, I also have this thing where, if I do see the right personality, but it's trapped within an attractive figure, I'm not going to say anything because I don't want it to look like I like him for the same reason everyone else does. Superficial. That's all, just wanted to get that out there, because it's becoming fermented sitting in my brain.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Close my eyes
Bla-dink. Oh look, I got an email. Let's see, spam, mom, facebook... Miss Brenda?
Curious, I clicked on the header and proceeded to explore the contents of the unexpected message.
"Lesley, this is pretty self-explanatory. Mrs. B"
What did I do now? Not turn in a test? Wait.. there's an attachment. From Caleb? What the heck?
My curiosity turned to suspicion. Suspicion to blushing. From blushing to nausea.
In what could be called tender words, Caleb explained to me how much he'd been looking forward to the end of the school year, then it hit him he'd probably never see me again. That he'd, "miss [my] sighs, facial expressions, witty humor," etc.
Honestly, I'd never felt more exposed, more sickened... except for that time that dude decided to kiss me... that was gross.
Needless to say, I didn't reply. Quickly as I could, I clicked the red x in the top right corner of my window and buried myself, fetal position, in my bedcovers. True, I'd feared it all year that something like this would happen, but never really expected it to I guess.
He was too sheltered, too clean. Too... something. Not to say I go for the bad boy, but someone with a little more spunk PLEASE. And perhaps I'm too mean. Or perhaps just particular about everything. Overly sweet and ugh, he brought me CHOCOLATES. If I don't give you the go ahead, don't push it. I will end up pushing you away. Really fast.
All right, now that's over with...
Curious, I clicked on the header and proceeded to explore the contents of the unexpected message.
"Lesley, this is pretty self-explanatory. Mrs. B"
What did I do now? Not turn in a test? Wait.. there's an attachment. From Caleb? What the heck?
My curiosity turned to suspicion. Suspicion to blushing. From blushing to nausea.
In what could be called tender words, Caleb explained to me how much he'd been looking forward to the end of the school year, then it hit him he'd probably never see me again. That he'd, "miss [my] sighs, facial expressions, witty humor," etc.
Honestly, I'd never felt more exposed, more sickened... except for that time that dude decided to kiss me... that was gross.
Needless to say, I didn't reply. Quickly as I could, I clicked the red x in the top right corner of my window and buried myself, fetal position, in my bedcovers. True, I'd feared it all year that something like this would happen, but never really expected it to I guess.
He was too sheltered, too clean. Too... something. Not to say I go for the bad boy, but someone with a little more spunk PLEASE. And perhaps I'm too mean. Or perhaps just particular about everything. Overly sweet and ugh, he brought me CHOCOLATES. If I don't give you the go ahead, don't push it. I will end up pushing you away. Really fast.
All right, now that's over with...
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