Wherein my writing reflects who I want to be more than who I actually am.
I am lying on my stomach on a quilt, with Wiley Coyote chasing Roadrunner in the background, while I cough and contemplate the value of a meek and quiet spirit. The irony is not lost on me, for it is that part of me that wants to drop an anvil on someone with which I struggle. The part of me that wants to cling to it’s right to be offended.
(I have also just killed a beetle that was guilty of nothing more than being a beetle. And looking like the type of beetle that might crawl into my nose while I sleep.)
This lesson is a hard one for me. I often wonder if I will ever be able to retain it without having to get out my notes and study every time a test comes up.
Often, instead of opening my mouth with wisdom a la Proverbs 31, I open my mouth with witticism. And my tongue is possessed of the law of criticism rather than of kindness.
I begin to realize that a meek and quiet spirit is formed through the choices I make. Habits of speaking wisely and kindly are developed through constantly choosing to do so. I cannot always choose how I feel about something. Wronged, unjustly accused, overlooked, undervalued, hurt, disrespected. But I can choose what I do with those feelings, how I react to the other person or to the situation, and what I say to others about it.
Choosing to be witty often fans the flames of offense, for it invites others to take part in my emotional tantrum. Wisdom lends a point of view that infuses clarity and quietness to a situation or a heart that is boiling like water for chocolate. Wisdom seeks to sooth and make peace.
Choosing to criticize, which essentially amounts to looking for faults to latch onto in others so that my own part in a misunderstanding can be excused, only strengthens my negative outlook. Now, not only am I disquieting my spirit, I am introducing strife and tension into the relationship. Choosing kindness, which has some wonderful synonyms (compassion, gentleness, grace, patience, understanding, accommodation, service, generosity, relief, succor, hospitality), produces wonderful results. Kindness (meekness) has compassion and forgives. Kindness seeks to heal and relieve suffering rather than adding to it.
Someday, I hope to be like Amy Carmichael’s cup of sweet water that cannot spill even one drop of bitter water, however sharply jolted.
For tonight, I am just glad to have escaped the coyote’s fate- caught and uncomfortable in a snare of my own making, trying to chew off my own foot to get away. Even if it took some will power.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Pink Dresses and God's Redemption
A while back, I read a book that certain of my friends were raving about and that others were ready to burn as blasphemy. Much of it bothered me and I do not recommend it at all. In fact, I don't recommend reading controversial pieces of writing out of curiosity as a general rule unless you are steadfastly fixed in your faith and sure of your theology.
However, one conversation between the main character and "God" arrested my attention.
During the sequence of events, the main character says to God, "I just can't iimagine any outcome that would justify this." God replies to him "We are not justifying it; we are rdeeming it."
Now, I know that this is something that I write about a lot, but I cannot help it! You do not know he cost of the oil in my alabaster box!
When I was a little girl, I got a pink dress that I loved. It was my favorite dress. Somehow, it got a hole in it and I thought that it was ruined forever. I remember crying my eyes out over that hole. But my father went and bought a little patch shaped like a pink and white lamb and ironed it on over the hole. I thought it made my dress even more beautiful that it was before.
God has given you your life, beautiful and perfect. But because we live in a fallen world, things happen to damage or to "ruin" our lives, either by choices we make or the actions of others. God doesn't hurt you or plan for things to hurt you (just as my father didn't tear my dress or plan for it to happen). But when tears happen, he works the damage into part of the final, beautiful design.
That hole was not part of the plan for my dress. It should not have happened and, in a sense, was not justifiable. But it was redeemable and became the thing I loved most about the dress. In fact, the fixing of the dress became one of my favorite memories. I like to tell people about it.
Satan can't ruin your life. Any tear he makes, any pain he causes, any mistake that you make will become part of the good design for your life if you will let Jesus Christ have it. The pain or the mistake may not be justifiable or even understandable, but it's redeemable. It can be bought back and made beautiful. "Look what my father did for me!" you will say.
I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten. Joel 2:25
However, one conversation between the main character and "God" arrested my attention.
During the sequence of events, the main character says to God, "I just can't iimagine any outcome that would justify this." God replies to him "We are not justifying it; we are rdeeming it."
Now, I know that this is something that I write about a lot, but I cannot help it! You do not know he cost of the oil in my alabaster box!
When I was a little girl, I got a pink dress that I loved. It was my favorite dress. Somehow, it got a hole in it and I thought that it was ruined forever. I remember crying my eyes out over that hole. But my father went and bought a little patch shaped like a pink and white lamb and ironed it on over the hole. I thought it made my dress even more beautiful that it was before.
God has given you your life, beautiful and perfect. But because we live in a fallen world, things happen to damage or to "ruin" our lives, either by choices we make or the actions of others. God doesn't hurt you or plan for things to hurt you (just as my father didn't tear my dress or plan for it to happen). But when tears happen, he works the damage into part of the final, beautiful design.
That hole was not part of the plan for my dress. It should not have happened and, in a sense, was not justifiable. But it was redeemable and became the thing I loved most about the dress. In fact, the fixing of the dress became one of my favorite memories. I like to tell people about it.
Satan can't ruin your life. Any tear he makes, any pain he causes, any mistake that you make will become part of the good design for your life if you will let Jesus Christ have it. The pain or the mistake may not be justifiable or even understandable, but it's redeemable. It can be bought back and made beautiful. "Look what my father did for me!" you will say.
I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten. Joel 2:25
Save the Last Dance
Having talked myself, with the help of a couple friends, a bit of chocolate ice-cream, and an hour or two of prayer, out of the blues or the reds or whatever they were, I am ready to be myself again. I would like to share with you something that made an impression on me as a teenager. Now, it’s going to get sentimental and mushy in here, so this is your last chance to escape if you need to.
About 14 years ago, (hold on while I adjust to hearing myself say such a thing) I had a friend who taught me a wonderful lesson. She was married to one of those men who never meets a stranger. One of those people who is an instant friend to everyone. A comfortable man who, even in the ranks of holiness, had no concept of the 6 inch rule. (I’m not even going to go into how I feel about the holiness paranoia of physical contact. That weird mental attitude that makes a guy watch you fall on your face instead of giving you his hand over a rough spot. Immaculate conceptions do not occur anymore. I have a rock-band drummer friend with more manners....OK, I’m really not going into this.)
Anyway, one day as this man was joking around with people and just being his artlessly friendly self, a woman asked my friend if she ever worried or was ever bothered by her husband’s outgoing ways. She looked in his direction with a joyful smile and said, “No, I’m wearing his ring.” The inquirer raised her eyebrows in that way that says “I don’t believe you.” and walked away.
But I believed her. When she said “I’m wearing his ring,” she meant “I have his heart.” That was enough for her. Let others enjoy his company, laugh at his jokes. Let him grasp onto the hand of whomever he was talking to. She’d even wait while he chatted with friends who had called to talk with her. She knew she had his heart. I watched her rest securely in this knowledge and tucked her comment away in my pocket. I took it out every now and then and turned it over and over until it made perfect sense to me. She knew he loved her and colored all of his actions in that light.
I don’t have a husband (So I should probably kick whoever that is on my couch watching the Matrix out. And make him take his pop can with him.) But I do have friends. Some I have had for many years and some are rather new. I could easily ruin one of these wonderful friendships with suspicion and jealousy. I could become the pestering friend who is always asking “Are you mad at me? Because you haven’t talked to me since Thursday.” Yes, even at my age this happens. I could become jealous of other friendships and demand attention. (And I do love attention. It’s my sanguine half.) Or I can choose to believe that whatever time has passed, or whatever things have come between us, I have their affections as they have mine. When they marry and homes and children take up their time, I say “I have their heart.” and rejoice with them. When I move far away and communication is hard because of jobs and the fact that no one lives in my time zone, I believe that I am loved and remembered as I love and remember.
There’s a song sung by some very bad ladies that I really like. It says that you can spend all the time you want with others. You can give them your smile and dance till dawn with them, as long as you save the last dance for me. And I know I’ve mixed my metaphors a little and thoroughly blurred the platonic and romantic, but you can overlook it, yes? (We’ll just blame that on my melancholy half.) I’m trying to make a point here about true affection. It doesn’t mind sharing and it trusts the one upon whom it has been bestowed.
So, old friend, here’s to you. You have my heart today, tomorrow, a thousand years from now. New friend, you have it, too. Save me a dance or a cup of coffee or a chair at you kitchen table and I’ll be by to get it when I can. I’ll be saving one for you, too.
About 14 years ago, (hold on while I adjust to hearing myself say such a thing) I had a friend who taught me a wonderful lesson. She was married to one of those men who never meets a stranger. One of those people who is an instant friend to everyone. A comfortable man who, even in the ranks of holiness, had no concept of the 6 inch rule. (I’m not even going to go into how I feel about the holiness paranoia of physical contact. That weird mental attitude that makes a guy watch you fall on your face instead of giving you his hand over a rough spot. Immaculate conceptions do not occur anymore. I have a rock-band drummer friend with more manners....OK, I’m really not going into this.)
Anyway, one day as this man was joking around with people and just being his artlessly friendly self, a woman asked my friend if she ever worried or was ever bothered by her husband’s outgoing ways. She looked in his direction with a joyful smile and said, “No, I’m wearing his ring.” The inquirer raised her eyebrows in that way that says “I don’t believe you.” and walked away.
But I believed her. When she said “I’m wearing his ring,” she meant “I have his heart.” That was enough for her. Let others enjoy his company, laugh at his jokes. Let him grasp onto the hand of whomever he was talking to. She’d even wait while he chatted with friends who had called to talk with her. She knew she had his heart. I watched her rest securely in this knowledge and tucked her comment away in my pocket. I took it out every now and then and turned it over and over until it made perfect sense to me. She knew he loved her and colored all of his actions in that light.
I don’t have a husband (So I should probably kick whoever that is on my couch watching the Matrix out. And make him take his pop can with him.) But I do have friends. Some I have had for many years and some are rather new. I could easily ruin one of these wonderful friendships with suspicion and jealousy. I could become the pestering friend who is always asking “Are you mad at me? Because you haven’t talked to me since Thursday.” Yes, even at my age this happens. I could become jealous of other friendships and demand attention. (And I do love attention. It’s my sanguine half.) Or I can choose to believe that whatever time has passed, or whatever things have come between us, I have their affections as they have mine. When they marry and homes and children take up their time, I say “I have their heart.” and rejoice with them. When I move far away and communication is hard because of jobs and the fact that no one lives in my time zone, I believe that I am loved and remembered as I love and remember.
There’s a song sung by some very bad ladies that I really like. It says that you can spend all the time you want with others. You can give them your smile and dance till dawn with them, as long as you save the last dance for me. And I know I’ve mixed my metaphors a little and thoroughly blurred the platonic and romantic, but you can overlook it, yes? (We’ll just blame that on my melancholy half.) I’m trying to make a point here about true affection. It doesn’t mind sharing and it trusts the one upon whom it has been bestowed.
So, old friend, here’s to you. You have my heart today, tomorrow, a thousand years from now. New friend, you have it, too. Save me a dance or a cup of coffee or a chair at you kitchen table and I’ll be by to get it when I can. I’ll be saving one for you, too.
Friday, July 22, 2011
She Prays Like a Girl
One of my favorite lines in the Bible is in the book of Hebrews "Women received their dead brought back to life again." To me, this epitomizes the power that is in the prayers of women. They, through faith, received THEIR DEAD back to them. All through the Bible, God has answered the impossible prayers of women. I believe that three things in the make-up of a woman make her prayers irresistible. Three of her potential faults are turned to great strength when she applies them to prayer.
First, she is able to completely disregard logic. People sometimes say she is crazy because rationality is often left out of the equation when she calculates her faith. She only sees that something has gone wrong that should be right. My favorite incidence of this is with the Shunamite woman. When her son died, she was unshaken in her belief that all was well; she set out for his life with no intention of returning without it. Illogical, irrational! But death forsooth! The situation was contrary to all that she had been promised and all that she had prayed for, therefore it was unacceptable. Sometimes logic and rationality get in the way of faith. You won't walk on water with logic. A rational mind will never ask for miracles. God has neither compunction nor requirement to fit into your diagram. Possible and impossible are words that people use to describe their own limitations; they are irrelevant to God and so they are irrelevant to my faith.
Second, a woman cries. She is not afraid to become emotionally invested. A woman is not afraid to cry when she is grieved, or when she is thankful, or when she loves. I can't say for sure that the Shunamite woman was crying as she traveled to the prophet's house, but I imagine that she was because the prophet recognized something that made him say "Her soul is vexed within her." Tears are physical evidence of serious need and they arrest the attention of God. They are so precious to him that he puts them in a bottle. I used to be a quiet crier. I didn't want people to see me as weak or easily broken. But there are things over which should be easily broken. That gentle tear that slides silently down the calm face may be admirable in the painting of a saint, but it's empty. Like Hannah, who cried so hard the priest thought she was drunk, I want God to hear me so badly that I don't care who else hears also.
Third, a woman is persistent. She won't just let things go. Lack of persistence is often what keeps us from seeing an answer to prayer. People may get irritated with the one who keeps coming back and coming back and coming back and then.... coming back again. God never loses patience for there is power in a ceaseless prayer. You have no idea what is being accomplished by your assault on the gates of hell, for victory is first won in the spiritual realm. Persistence pays off, sister of mine. They are things over which I am so burdened that I doubt an hour passes between my prayers. I have often said to God, "You know me. You know I won't leave until you hear me. Evening, morning, and at noon I will be here with my petition." Just like the Shunamite woman who would not go home until the prophet went with her.
Tennyson wrote a poem that I like very much. Part of it says "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Therefore let your voice rise like a fountain for me night and day." If you love someone, pray. If you are grieved past bearing, pray. If the night is too long and the battle seems lost, pray! Let your voice rise like a fountain day and night, without reserve or shame, full of passion and sincerity.
Don't be dismayed by what seems impossible. Cling to faith and persist in hope. Wear your heart on your sleeve before the throne of God, for He is not offended by your emotions. Let there be no silences where there should be speech. You will stop the mouth of lions. You will receive promises. You will tear down strongholds in the name of Christ. And you will receive your "dead" brought back to life again. A woman of prayer is a woman of power who makes a difference.
Satan groaned and said to his hell's angels,
"It's that sort of light sprung Lazarus.
Unstoppable. This'll be big, big
Trouble, all sorts of bother
For the lot of us..."
~William Langland
First, she is able to completely disregard logic. People sometimes say she is crazy because rationality is often left out of the equation when she calculates her faith. She only sees that something has gone wrong that should be right. My favorite incidence of this is with the Shunamite woman. When her son died, she was unshaken in her belief that all was well; she set out for his life with no intention of returning without it. Illogical, irrational! But death forsooth! The situation was contrary to all that she had been promised and all that she had prayed for, therefore it was unacceptable. Sometimes logic and rationality get in the way of faith. You won't walk on water with logic. A rational mind will never ask for miracles. God has neither compunction nor requirement to fit into your diagram. Possible and impossible are words that people use to describe their own limitations; they are irrelevant to God and so they are irrelevant to my faith.
Second, a woman cries. She is not afraid to become emotionally invested. A woman is not afraid to cry when she is grieved, or when she is thankful, or when she loves. I can't say for sure that the Shunamite woman was crying as she traveled to the prophet's house, but I imagine that she was because the prophet recognized something that made him say "Her soul is vexed within her." Tears are physical evidence of serious need and they arrest the attention of God. They are so precious to him that he puts them in a bottle. I used to be a quiet crier. I didn't want people to see me as weak or easily broken. But there are things over which should be easily broken. That gentle tear that slides silently down the calm face may be admirable in the painting of a saint, but it's empty. Like Hannah, who cried so hard the priest thought she was drunk, I want God to hear me so badly that I don't care who else hears also.
Third, a woman is persistent. She won't just let things go. Lack of persistence is often what keeps us from seeing an answer to prayer. People may get irritated with the one who keeps coming back and coming back and coming back and then.... coming back again. God never loses patience for there is power in a ceaseless prayer. You have no idea what is being accomplished by your assault on the gates of hell, for victory is first won in the spiritual realm. Persistence pays off, sister of mine. They are things over which I am so burdened that I doubt an hour passes between my prayers. I have often said to God, "You know me. You know I won't leave until you hear me. Evening, morning, and at noon I will be here with my petition." Just like the Shunamite woman who would not go home until the prophet went with her.
Tennyson wrote a poem that I like very much. Part of it says "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Therefore let your voice rise like a fountain for me night and day." If you love someone, pray. If you are grieved past bearing, pray. If the night is too long and the battle seems lost, pray! Let your voice rise like a fountain day and night, without reserve or shame, full of passion and sincerity.
Don't be dismayed by what seems impossible. Cling to faith and persist in hope. Wear your heart on your sleeve before the throne of God, for He is not offended by your emotions. Let there be no silences where there should be speech. You will stop the mouth of lions. You will receive promises. You will tear down strongholds in the name of Christ. And you will receive your "dead" brought back to life again. A woman of prayer is a woman of power who makes a difference.
Satan groaned and said to his hell's angels,
"It's that sort of light sprung Lazarus.
Unstoppable. This'll be big, big
Trouble, all sorts of bother
For the lot of us..."
~William Langland
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