It is with no small amount of nonchalance that I confess: I am angry.
Angry.
It's not that I'm just a little cranky, that a foul mood has settled over my day as a dark cloud passes over the sun. I didn't drop a hammer on my toe or get some bad news this morning. I'm afraid it's more serious than that. There is a bright red current of infected hurt and neglected ache running through my chest and proudly calling itself Anger. And it is threatening to undo me.
The pain of events now one year behind us, still surfacing, and after twelve months of dealing and thinking and praying and trying so desperately to heal, all I really want to do is throw stones at the whole thing because I am tired. So desperately, very tired.
The disappointment of realizing my evolution will never meet the ridiculous standards I blindly set for myself and still being so completely unwilling and partially unable to say: it is good enough. It is, all of it, enough.
The errant urge to compare my gifts to another's and shake indignant fists at the sky, demanding an answer and sulkily plotting backup plans that are ill-fated at best.
Toxins and sludge threaten to burst through the sieve and I inwardly yearn for an emptying out. To feel the darkness fall from me until my chest is empty, to allow light to trickle in and pool around the craters and crevices, until Gilead's balm heals my sin-sick soul and it is all joy, grace, peace...wholeness.
I know that the promise is for these things, that my inheritance is grace. I find comfort in the knowledge that if I can abandon my pouting and, standing on tip-toes, peer over the counter, I will see the Father who so lovingly knows and calls me waiting there. But for days on end I am crouched just below, staring at the mess and forgetting all about the grace. I kick the dirt and against the goads and wind up dusty and weaker than I was when this began.
How do we find the courage to stop being angry? Why is it that only after the anger has exhausted us, until we two together have done our worst that we turn our tattered, windless sails toward home?
Courage. Surrender. Grace.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Organic God, Week One: Mary, Why Are You Crying?
The ladies of the Gathering at Fellowship North have begun our new Bible study, and I have to tell you - I am loving the concept behind this one. It's a book. An actual, real, read-it-through, hardback book called The Organic God by Margaret Feinberg. Now, I got nothing against Beth Moore or Kay Arthur or Priscilla Shirer - love 'em as much as the next woman - but this book study is how I operate. I read. I think. I write. I learn. It's my process, and I get to spend the next several weeks walking through it with some of the dearest women I know.
I'll try to share my thoughts here each week (it's part of my process, after all), so with no further ado...
Week One
We've begun with the first three chapters, and they are: luminescence, an organic appetite, and bighearted. The first chapter, luminescence, is really more a preface...okay, it is a preface. But I did about 15 reflection questions on it, so I get to call it a chapter. At the end of the next chapter, she asks us to read John 20 and Luke 24, the passages where Jesus appeared to Mary and Cleopas (+ one), respectively, after His resurrection. She asks her readers to consider why all three of these individuals had a hard time recognizing Jesus.
The perspectives that the women in my group brought to the table last night were very interesting. That's one thing that I love about an intimate group study...we really have the chance to sharpen one another, even if just by explaining our own insights into the Word. Julie said that perhaps Mary and the travelers didn't recognize Jesus because He didn't want them to, wasn't ready to reveal Himself yet. Marty suggested that their recognition of Jesus was proportionate to their motivation in finding Him. Bev's eyes lit up as she recounted how magical she finds the story of the road to Emmaus, and she pointed out how Cleopas and his companion were caught in despair over everything that had happened in the previous week and unable to recognize Jesus for their own grief.
My opinion on Mary and the travelers' inability to see Jesus initially is fairly straightforward, but as I began to unpack it and realize its application in my life, an intricate urge toward faith and awareness picked up where the simplicity left off. I believe that Mary, Cleopas and Cleopas' companion failed to recognize Jesus because he was neither who nor what they were expecting in those moments. Grief-stricken, Mary was expecting to find Jesus' body and return Him to the tomb. Thinking He's the gardener, she implores Him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." I think this is where Jesus' heart may have broken a little. Mary cannot have been a very large woman, and here she is, wanting to find Jesus' body so desperately that she's willing to carry it back to the tomb herself. I can almost hear the compassion as He says her name. And instantly, she recognizes Him. I've always loved that it only takes Jesus saying Mary's name for her eyes to be opened.
In Luke, we read about two travelers on the road to Emmaus, Cleopas and his companion (possibly his wife). I think it's significant that Cleopas and friend are leaving Jerusalem, that it symbolizes resignation and a loss of hope. Now, I'm not judgin'. I've often wondered how I would have reacted in those days, and I most likely would've been about a mile ahead of them on the way home, crying my eyes out and drowning in a sea of confusion and disappointment. But Jesus shows up. He meets their grief and bewilderment head on, taking them back to the beginning and explaining the prophecy that revealed just how much of a tragedy this all was not. At best, they recognize that He's special, but it's not until they sit down to eat with Him, and He breaks bread, that their eyes are opened. Whether it was the act of Jesus breaking bread that they recognized or the fact that He chose to open their eyes in that moment is not clear to me. Regardless, they recognize Him, it all falls into place, and they immediately rush (uphill) several miles back to Jerusalem to tell the disciples what they've seen.
So what do I do with all of this today? Quite simply, I realize how often my expectations cost me an encounter with Jesus. When I pray for help, I tend to have specific ideas on how that should be provided. How many times have I missed His comforting presence because it didn't arrive in the shiny little package I thought I'd ordered?
By the same token, how willing am I to believe that God can show up in magnificent ways that are not, at first, easily believable? It was easier to believe that Jesus' death had been a loss than to believe that He had risen from the dead, even for people who had seen Him perform that miracle for another. I tend to fall back on convenient expectations, not realizing that I've set the bar too low by limiting what God can do to how much I can anticipate.
Jesus had told His followers that He would be crucified and rise from the dead on the third day. Still, they had trouble believing it when they saw it, perhaps because their hearts didn't fully believe it when they heard it. What promises has God made that my heart has not fully believed? And how often am I failing to recognize Him because my eyes are clouded by my own uninformed grief? And so...
I pray that the eyes of my heart may be enlightened, that I may know the hope to which He has called us, the riches of His glorious inheritance in His holy people...(Eph 1:18)
I'll try to share my thoughts here each week (it's part of my process, after all), so with no further ado...
Week One
We've begun with the first three chapters, and they are: luminescence, an organic appetite, and bighearted. The first chapter, luminescence, is really more a preface...okay, it is a preface. But I did about 15 reflection questions on it, so I get to call it a chapter. At the end of the next chapter, she asks us to read John 20 and Luke 24, the passages where Jesus appeared to Mary and Cleopas (+ one), respectively, after His resurrection. She asks her readers to consider why all three of these individuals had a hard time recognizing Jesus.
The perspectives that the women in my group brought to the table last night were very interesting. That's one thing that I love about an intimate group study...we really have the chance to sharpen one another, even if just by explaining our own insights into the Word. Julie said that perhaps Mary and the travelers didn't recognize Jesus because He didn't want them to, wasn't ready to reveal Himself yet. Marty suggested that their recognition of Jesus was proportionate to their motivation in finding Him. Bev's eyes lit up as she recounted how magical she finds the story of the road to Emmaus, and she pointed out how Cleopas and his companion were caught in despair over everything that had happened in the previous week and unable to recognize Jesus for their own grief.
My opinion on Mary and the travelers' inability to see Jesus initially is fairly straightforward, but as I began to unpack it and realize its application in my life, an intricate urge toward faith and awareness picked up where the simplicity left off. I believe that Mary, Cleopas and Cleopas' companion failed to recognize Jesus because he was neither who nor what they were expecting in those moments. Grief-stricken, Mary was expecting to find Jesus' body and return Him to the tomb. Thinking He's the gardener, she implores Him, "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him." I think this is where Jesus' heart may have broken a little. Mary cannot have been a very large woman, and here she is, wanting to find Jesus' body so desperately that she's willing to carry it back to the tomb herself. I can almost hear the compassion as He says her name. And instantly, she recognizes Him. I've always loved that it only takes Jesus saying Mary's name for her eyes to be opened.
In Luke, we read about two travelers on the road to Emmaus, Cleopas and his companion (possibly his wife). I think it's significant that Cleopas and friend are leaving Jerusalem, that it symbolizes resignation and a loss of hope. Now, I'm not judgin'. I've often wondered how I would have reacted in those days, and I most likely would've been about a mile ahead of them on the way home, crying my eyes out and drowning in a sea of confusion and disappointment. But Jesus shows up. He meets their grief and bewilderment head on, taking them back to the beginning and explaining the prophecy that revealed just how much of a tragedy this all was not. At best, they recognize that He's special, but it's not until they sit down to eat with Him, and He breaks bread, that their eyes are opened. Whether it was the act of Jesus breaking bread that they recognized or the fact that He chose to open their eyes in that moment is not clear to me. Regardless, they recognize Him, it all falls into place, and they immediately rush (uphill) several miles back to Jerusalem to tell the disciples what they've seen.
So what do I do with all of this today? Quite simply, I realize how often my expectations cost me an encounter with Jesus. When I pray for help, I tend to have specific ideas on how that should be provided. How many times have I missed His comforting presence because it didn't arrive in the shiny little package I thought I'd ordered?
By the same token, how willing am I to believe that God can show up in magnificent ways that are not, at first, easily believable? It was easier to believe that Jesus' death had been a loss than to believe that He had risen from the dead, even for people who had seen Him perform that miracle for another. I tend to fall back on convenient expectations, not realizing that I've set the bar too low by limiting what God can do to how much I can anticipate.
Jesus had told His followers that He would be crucified and rise from the dead on the third day. Still, they had trouble believing it when they saw it, perhaps because their hearts didn't fully believe it when they heard it. What promises has God made that my heart has not fully believed? And how often am I failing to recognize Him because my eyes are clouded by my own uninformed grief? And so...
I pray that the eyes of my heart may be enlightened, that I may know the hope to which He has called us, the riches of His glorious inheritance in His holy people...(Eph 1:18)
Monday, January 10, 2011
They Say That Hope Can Make You See
I am not a gardener. Not even close. In fact, I find the entire practice of gardening both mystifying and maddening. I grew tomatoes once, with my grandmother’s help. She happens to have the greenest thumb south of the Mason-Dixon line, though, so I’m pretty sure I did not grow those tomatoes. I tied some vines to some stakes and did a whole lot of post-planting inspection. That’s all. If the growing itself had been left to me, we’d have had a salsa-less summer. I just can’t grow things. Unfortunately, my yard reflects this.
The last few times I’ve pulled out of my driveway, I’ve looked at my flowerbeds and winced. I was too concerned with our busy schedule this summer to pay attention to my overgrown, weed-infested flowerbeds. Said overgrowth and weeds had remained in place and simply become petrified versions of themselves as we headed into the fall and, now, winter. So I thought: this weekend. I have to start thinking about spring planting this weekend. And I resolved to get out there on Saturday, yank those weeds out, rake some leaves, and lay the foundation for what I’m sure will be a wildly successful spring planting endeavor. Right? Right.
The wonder of yard work when you have a 3 year-old is that you have someone to keep you company – someone who is thrilled to be outside, soaking up the sun and generally enjoying Mommy’s lack of focus on whatever mischief is being made. So Olivia and I ventured outside on Saturday, armed with nothing but the best of intentions and one very serious set of gardening gloves. As Livi ran off to explore and play, I began my work in the flower beds.
As I reached for the first brown, crackled stems that had invaded my garden earlier this year, I was surprised to notice how much resistance I encountered. The strength of these roots was no match for the frailty of their above-ground extensions, and my first few attempts at ‘cleaning house’ yielded a few broken-off stems and little more. I guess I thought that since everything I could see was so weak and dead-looking, pulling the entire plant up would be no problem. Wrong. Those roots were still thriving.
It reminded me of the dead things in our lives, of the things that don’t belong, the invasive imitators that rise up to choke beauty. It reminded me of my reluctance to try to yank those things out of the soil because I know what their roots are, and I know how deeply they’re embedded. I know how much soil they’ll disturb on their way out, and I know how much strength it will take to grab hold and give ‘em a good pull. So, very often, I settle for some good old-fashioned cosmetic gardening - you know, cutting back those feeble old stems, the things that signal to the world that weeds are choking parts of my life - and figuring that I’ll deal with the bigger issue later.
Still, I called this to mind and found hope: that within the difficulties of the past year, some of the more invasive roots began to find themselves being pulled up and tossed into the burn pile. And that’s good. What’s hard is realizing that our work is never done, that as long as we’re here on this earth, we remain in need of constant pruning. But I also find comfort in that…comfort in knowing that this is common to all men, that if I can lay eyes on you, the good work is still in the process of being completed. And I find comfort in knowing that He who called us is faithful. And He’s far better at gardening than I am.
At one point during all of this, Livi presented herself and asked what I was doing. I explained to her that these were weeds, and they were in the way, and to get rid of them we had to pull them up by their roots, and that sometimes their roots were buried deep, so we had to be really strong to get them up. She seemed, at best, under-impressed and resumed her play elsewhere. I finished cleaning out the flower beds and set to work sweeping leaves out of my carport.
While she may not have been thrilled with the weed-pulling, Livi found the sweeping extra interesting, thanks to a couple of genius kiddie brooms gifted to her by my mom and Nana. So she decided she would help. She kicked a few leaves toward the edge of the carport, and then I heard her say, “Mama, look! I’m helping!” I looked up, and she was leaning into the tree just beside our house, with her head down and both hands on the trunk of the tree, pushing with all of her little might.
I chuckled a little at the irony…this very tree will have to be professionally removed within the next 3-5 years because of its proximity to the house and the threat of its roots disturbing my home’s foundation. A little bit wearily, I asked her what she was doing. She said, “I’m pushing this tree up, Mama.” As I began to explain to her that this is a giant tree, that it is huge and heavy, its roots are stronger and deeper than we could imagine, and that there’s no way her little body could move such a force, my soul heard: “…and you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’, and it will move…” And I realized, she had not stopped to consider the process and the variables. She didn’t grimace at the possibility of discomfort. She knew only that she didn’t want that tree to be there, and if her mommy could move things like that around, then she could too. It was just that simple.
I want that kind of faith. I want that courage. I want to see what my Father has done in one area of my life and unswervingly trust that He can do the same in another. I want to tell that mountain to move.
…for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.
Friday, December 31, 2010
When the Dealin's Done
It was June. And I was tired.
I was dealing with the residuals of some ridiculousness from earlier in the year, and I finally got to this place where I just stopped and said, How about a breather? And what if that breather lasted a while?
For some reason, six months seemed like the right amount of time, so that's what I chose. And while I was afraid to admit it too strongly at the time (because every vow is tested at some point), I knew that I would spend the next six months in one very serious sabbatical from dating.
So here we are, December 31, and I don't feel all that different. As in, I don't feel like I'm ready to wake up tomorrow and dive head-long into the relationship of my dreams. I mean, can you imagine? No. If anything, I think I feel more...temperate.
There have been these moments of stillness and silence in these 180 days...these times when I have had to quietly choose the right. And while I wish I could say that my heart has been steadfast enough to inspire the masses, I'm afraid that along the way, I have remained human. As I was reflecting on this unique little journey a couple of weeks ago, I was tempted to think that I've not accomplished anything of value, that since there was no grandiose epiphany, perhaps I had failed. Perhaps I had missed the point.
But see, the thing is, I've gotten the point. I'd gotten the point before I decided a break was in order. It's just that I needed the opportunity to flesh that out. I needed to have a chance to say what needed to be said...but I needed to learn how it is that I say that. I've known all along that my strength of compassion is also one of my greatest challenges, that I can hope in someone long after others have walked away, and often when I should have as well. What I didn't know was that, at some point, I could be compassionate without sacrificing my own dignity.
And what a revelation it has been. I landed in Houston in September, and it was there. I knew instantly that I could choose to be calloused, abrasive, rude. I truly had every right. Or I could choose mercy. My heart kind of gravitates toward mercy. So I chose mercy, but I chose well. And I learned that this was a good thing, that I could simply be kind. Simply.
What a marvel it is to learn how to be the best versions of ourselves. I only feel that I am just reaching the place where priorities have shifted into order and things are beginning to make sense. My daughter is such a gift, and being a mother is an enormous responsibility. My career is wonderful, but it demands an intense amount of focus. This is an extraordinary life. And I am beyond blessed to be living it. My hope is to live it well, and I'm grateful for the lessons that I've learned this year, both the painful ones in the beginning, and the peaceful ones in the end. So tonight, I celebrate. I started the year begging 2010 it to be better than the last. And while the year itself has no actual responsibility in the matter, I can honestly say that my desire was fulfilled. I hope yours was as well.
Cheers.
I was dealing with the residuals of some ridiculousness from earlier in the year, and I finally got to this place where I just stopped and said, How about a breather? And what if that breather lasted a while?
For some reason, six months seemed like the right amount of time, so that's what I chose. And while I was afraid to admit it too strongly at the time (because every vow is tested at some point), I knew that I would spend the next six months in one very serious sabbatical from dating.
So here we are, December 31, and I don't feel all that different. As in, I don't feel like I'm ready to wake up tomorrow and dive head-long into the relationship of my dreams. I mean, can you imagine? No. If anything, I think I feel more...temperate.
There have been these moments of stillness and silence in these 180 days...these times when I have had to quietly choose the right. And while I wish I could say that my heart has been steadfast enough to inspire the masses, I'm afraid that along the way, I have remained human. As I was reflecting on this unique little journey a couple of weeks ago, I was tempted to think that I've not accomplished anything of value, that since there was no grandiose epiphany, perhaps I had failed. Perhaps I had missed the point.
But see, the thing is, I've gotten the point. I'd gotten the point before I decided a break was in order. It's just that I needed the opportunity to flesh that out. I needed to have a chance to say what needed to be said...but I needed to learn how it is that I say that. I've known all along that my strength of compassion is also one of my greatest challenges, that I can hope in someone long after others have walked away, and often when I should have as well. What I didn't know was that, at some point, I could be compassionate without sacrificing my own dignity.
And what a revelation it has been. I landed in Houston in September, and it was there. I knew instantly that I could choose to be calloused, abrasive, rude. I truly had every right. Or I could choose mercy. My heart kind of gravitates toward mercy. So I chose mercy, but I chose well. And I learned that this was a good thing, that I could simply be kind. Simply.
What a marvel it is to learn how to be the best versions of ourselves. I only feel that I am just reaching the place where priorities have shifted into order and things are beginning to make sense. My daughter is such a gift, and being a mother is an enormous responsibility. My career is wonderful, but it demands an intense amount of focus. This is an extraordinary life. And I am beyond blessed to be living it. My hope is to live it well, and I'm grateful for the lessons that I've learned this year, both the painful ones in the beginning, and the peaceful ones in the end. So tonight, I celebrate. I started the year begging 2010 it to be better than the last. And while the year itself has no actual responsibility in the matter, I can honestly say that my desire was fulfilled. I hope yours was as well.
Cheers.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
And So It Continues
For the last few years, I've wondered at how difficult it seems to be to 'get into the Christmas spirit' as an adult compared to when I was a child and teenager. It's interesting to me that I often year other young(ish) adults say the same thing, that they're having a hard time getting into the spirit of the season. Naturally, that prompted me to analyze. The thing that I landed on last night was this: when I was younger, I had so many more opportunities to get jolly. I was in any number of choirs, all of whom would book holiday singing gigs. Every weekend held at least one organized Christmas shopping event, sometimes two. Decorating was awesome because there were five of us doing it (and five of us cleaning it up). And my mom was really good about playing Christmas music that we loved, making Christmas treats and crafts in the days leading up to the holiday, and just generally giving us reasons to be excited about the time of year. Now, you may have already figured this out, but it's taken me about 10 years to realize why it was easy to celebrate back then: I didn't have a choice.
Really, no one was holding a gun to my head, but I wasn't responsible for engineering my circumstances. I didn't plan the choir outings. Didn't schedule the shopping trips. Didn't pick out the Christmas tree or decide which cookies to bake or what record to play. The adults did that for us, and it was bliss because all we had to do was laugh and shop and sing and eat and make our wish lists. And the beauty of today is that I get to be the adult creating a season for my daughter where all she has to do is sit back and enjoy the ride. Sometimes that takes putting aside whatever stress may be lingering, or any issues that are clamoring for my attention. But for the most part, I'm finding such amazing joy this year in creating those moments for her and seeing the glee in her eyes when she looks out her window at Christmas lights, or she helps decorate our tree, or she gets to open her Advent box every night before bed.
It didn't come easily, though. Last year was a difficult year for me, and I struggled a little as we headed into December this year, half-flinching and wondering if this year would be the same. At some point, though, some switch somewhere flipped, and I decided it wouldn't be the same; it didn't have to be. I turned on Phil Wickham's Songs for Christmas and started getting the house ready for our decorations. As I cleaned and rearranged, the sound of bells and strings and voices swirled around me like magic until I was knee deep in good old-fashioned Christmas spirit.
Last night, Olivia and I came out to Cabot to help Nana bake the Christmas goodies she sends to grandkids who live out of town. I started out by making dinner for her and Grandpa, my trusty chicken enchiladas. After dinner, I gave Livi a bath and got her bundled into pjs, then we went for a drive around Cabot to look at Christmas lights. It was so amazing to see the same homes decked out that I used to marvel at 15 years ago. Livi just loved it and, as an added bonus, fell asleep on the way back to the house. Equally amazing was that after Livi was snoozing in the back, Nana was still oohing and aahing over the various displays in neighbors' yards. I so love her innocent spirit.
Later, Nana and I made Trash (her inexplicable name for Chex Mix, none of us know what it means), Ritz Cracker Cookies and Almond Bark Pretzels. We got into our pjs and watched Hallmark Christmas movies. It was a simple, low-key night, but it did my heart such good. So many reasons to be cheerful, such a sweet, simple time of sharing joy with my daughter and grandparents. And life is still life - I still have stress, there are still icky issues I have to handle - but the beauty of Christmas is that we get to stop, for five minutes, and say, "Peace."
This gift of God we’ll cherish well,
That ever joy our hearts shall fill.
How great our joy! (Great our joy!)
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)
Praise we the Lord in heaven on high!
(Praise we the Lord in heaven on high!)
Really, no one was holding a gun to my head, but I wasn't responsible for engineering my circumstances. I didn't plan the choir outings. Didn't schedule the shopping trips. Didn't pick out the Christmas tree or decide which cookies to bake or what record to play. The adults did that for us, and it was bliss because all we had to do was laugh and shop and sing and eat and make our wish lists. And the beauty of today is that I get to be the adult creating a season for my daughter where all she has to do is sit back and enjoy the ride. Sometimes that takes putting aside whatever stress may be lingering, or any issues that are clamoring for my attention. But for the most part, I'm finding such amazing joy this year in creating those moments for her and seeing the glee in her eyes when she looks out her window at Christmas lights, or she helps decorate our tree, or she gets to open her Advent box every night before bed.
It didn't come easily, though. Last year was a difficult year for me, and I struggled a little as we headed into December this year, half-flinching and wondering if this year would be the same. At some point, though, some switch somewhere flipped, and I decided it wouldn't be the same; it didn't have to be. I turned on Phil Wickham's Songs for Christmas and started getting the house ready for our decorations. As I cleaned and rearranged, the sound of bells and strings and voices swirled around me like magic until I was knee deep in good old-fashioned Christmas spirit.
Last night, Olivia and I came out to Cabot to help Nana bake the Christmas goodies she sends to grandkids who live out of town. I started out by making dinner for her and Grandpa, my trusty chicken enchiladas. After dinner, I gave Livi a bath and got her bundled into pjs, then we went for a drive around Cabot to look at Christmas lights. It was so amazing to see the same homes decked out that I used to marvel at 15 years ago. Livi just loved it and, as an added bonus, fell asleep on the way back to the house. Equally amazing was that after Livi was snoozing in the back, Nana was still oohing and aahing over the various displays in neighbors' yards. I so love her innocent spirit.
Later, Nana and I made Trash (her inexplicable name for Chex Mix, none of us know what it means), Ritz Cracker Cookies and Almond Bark Pretzels. We got into our pjs and watched Hallmark Christmas movies. It was a simple, low-key night, but it did my heart such good. So many reasons to be cheerful, such a sweet, simple time of sharing joy with my daughter and grandparents. And life is still life - I still have stress, there are still icky issues I have to handle - but the beauty of Christmas is that we get to stop, for five minutes, and say, "Peace."
This gift of God we’ll cherish well,
That ever joy our hearts shall fill.
How great our joy! (Great our joy!)
Joy, joy, joy! (Joy, joy, joy!)
Praise we the Lord in heaven on high!
(Praise we the Lord in heaven on high!)
Monday, September 6, 2010
When Did We See You Hungry?
If you've lived in the metro area for any length of time, you know that it's not uncommon to be stopped on the street by someone asking for money, or to see a man standing at a stop light, holding a cardboard sign that reads: "Hungry. Please help." Unfortunately, it's also not uncommon for my heart to break, my fear of others' opinions to swirl around my head, and my conscience to work overtime trying to design an excuse for keeping my eyes averted, my doors locked and my windows up. There it is, folks. Your daily dose of honesty. Don't worry - I've got more where that came from.
The Man on the Street
A few weeks ago, I was walking downtown with some friends, and a man approached and asked us for money. I had some cash in my purse, but I also had to get out of the parking deck, and I wasn't sure I had enough cash on hand to do both. And what was I supposed to do, anyway? Give him my Visa? Or worse, find an ATM? (I would hear this story later that evening.) So I let my friend handle it, and we walked on. But my insides were churning. I felt so guilty. The six dollar bills in my purse were screaming at me: "Let us out! That guy needs us!"
We walked the rest of the way to our cars, and as we were pulling up to the parking attendant's booth, one of my friends hopped out of the car in front of us, and ran towards us, waving money in her hands. "Here - it's for parking," she said, threw the money in my passenger side window and ran back to her truck. This was my provision for you. The words were almost audible. My shame was no less real. "Keep it," I mumbled to the friend who was riding with me. I paid the attendant with the money that was rightfully the Man on the Street's, and we left. As I drove home, I prayed for another opportunity to be His hands and feet, and I promised not to be a coward this time.
In All Things at All Times
So I began to contemplate ways that I could always be prepared to give. You know, keep an envelope with cash in it specifically for that purpose in my purse, carry baskets of bottled water and crackers and handi-wipes and clean socks in my truck, that kind of thing. The old familiar "They'll just use it to buy booze" sounded in my mind, and I stopped. And I thought about it. I started thinking about Jesus, and the parable of the Sheep and the Goats. That "inasmuch" is what always makes my gut wrench when I see someone in need and I fail to respond. I picture Jesus. Would I leave Jesus on the street, hungry? No! I would clothe him, bring him to my home, feed him, shelter him...I would treat him like royalty. But I had ignored the Man on the Street. I had not so much as acknowledged him, and I most certainly hadn't fed, clothed or sheltered him.
Then the thought occurred to me: there's no qualifier in Jesus' statements other than this - I was hungry, and you fed me. Not: I was hungry, and you gave me leftover food instead of money because who knows what I might have bought with your money. Or: I was legitimately homeless and not an addict or anything, so you drove me to a shelter and patted yourself on the back the whole way home. In other words: I had a need, and you verified its worthiness, then you responded in the most foolproof manner possible. This, Jesus did not say. This is barely better than what the goats said. No, this is what we, in all of our brilliance, have constructed so that little bits of our greed and insecurity and fear of actually living the kind of life Jesus lived can be ever so neatly swept under the rug of our sleeping faith. And when I say "we", I mean me.
On that Friday night last month, I prayed fervently for another opportunity to give. To see another Man on the Street and be able to give him whatever I had that he needed. I haven't seen him yet. What I've received instead is a greater understanding of Jesus' words and a deepened desire to give indiscriminately, to imitate my God who "gives generously to all, without finding fault." (James 1:5) My prayer is that I will see only the need and the one who has it, not the back story or the presumptions of guilt or innocence; that I will eagerly rise to be "generous on every occasion" (2 Cor 9:11).
This is why it is said:
The Man on the Street
A few weeks ago, I was walking downtown with some friends, and a man approached and asked us for money. I had some cash in my purse, but I also had to get out of the parking deck, and I wasn't sure I had enough cash on hand to do both. And what was I supposed to do, anyway? Give him my Visa? Or worse, find an ATM? (I would hear this story later that evening.) So I let my friend handle it, and we walked on. But my insides were churning. I felt so guilty. The six dollar bills in my purse were screaming at me: "Let us out! That guy needs us!"
We walked the rest of the way to our cars, and as we were pulling up to the parking attendant's booth, one of my friends hopped out of the car in front of us, and ran towards us, waving money in her hands. "Here - it's for parking," she said, threw the money in my passenger side window and ran back to her truck. This was my provision for you. The words were almost audible. My shame was no less real. "Keep it," I mumbled to the friend who was riding with me. I paid the attendant with the money that was rightfully the Man on the Street's, and we left. As I drove home, I prayed for another opportunity to be His hands and feet, and I promised not to be a coward this time.
In All Things at All Times
So I began to contemplate ways that I could always be prepared to give. You know, keep an envelope with cash in it specifically for that purpose in my purse, carry baskets of bottled water and crackers and handi-wipes and clean socks in my truck, that kind of thing. The old familiar "They'll just use it to buy booze" sounded in my mind, and I stopped. And I thought about it. I started thinking about Jesus, and the parable of the Sheep and the Goats. That "inasmuch" is what always makes my gut wrench when I see someone in need and I fail to respond. I picture Jesus. Would I leave Jesus on the street, hungry? No! I would clothe him, bring him to my home, feed him, shelter him...I would treat him like royalty. But I had ignored the Man on the Street. I had not so much as acknowledged him, and I most certainly hadn't fed, clothed or sheltered him.
Then the thought occurred to me: there's no qualifier in Jesus' statements other than this - I was hungry, and you fed me. Not: I was hungry, and you gave me leftover food instead of money because who knows what I might have bought with your money. Or: I was legitimately homeless and not an addict or anything, so you drove me to a shelter and patted yourself on the back the whole way home. In other words: I had a need, and you verified its worthiness, then you responded in the most foolproof manner possible. This, Jesus did not say. This is barely better than what the goats said. No, this is what we, in all of our brilliance, have constructed so that little bits of our greed and insecurity and fear of actually living the kind of life Jesus lived can be ever so neatly swept under the rug of our sleeping faith. And when I say "we", I mean me.
On that Friday night last month, I prayed fervently for another opportunity to give. To see another Man on the Street and be able to give him whatever I had that he needed. I haven't seen him yet. What I've received instead is a greater understanding of Jesus' words and a deepened desire to give indiscriminately, to imitate my God who "gives generously to all, without finding fault." (James 1:5) My prayer is that I will see only the need and the one who has it, not the back story or the presumptions of guilt or innocence; that I will eagerly rise to be "generous on every occasion" (2 Cor 9:11).
This is why it is said:
“Wake up, O sleeper,
rise from the dead,
and Christ will shine on you.”
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Baby O
My little girl will be 3 this weekend. I love that our birthdays are less than a month apart, for the simple fact that she does not have to wait very long between seeing Mommy's birthday festivities and getting to enjoy her own. In fact, even with a fever, what may be a UTI, and droopy, tired eyes, she managed to look at me this afternoon and say, "I am sooo excited for my birthday party!" Some kid.
I'm just so grateful for her, on so many levels and for so many reasons. Admittedly, some of those reasons reside in places deep in my soul, places that I sometimes have trouble reaching myself for all of their grand seclusion. But many reasons live on the surface - they're so easily visible. When I break it all down, though, all of the things I love about her, about being a mother, about having a daughter, it all comes down to a central truth: she is mine, and she is an amazing, beautiful gift from the Lord. I could list all of the things that she is: funny, gorgeous, sweet, loving, smart, but really, who doesn't think that about their kid? I mean, we think our kids broke the mold because of how much we love them...and all of a sudden I realize:
He thinks I broke the mold. He thinks you broke the mold. He loves us, and He thinks we are funny, gorgeous, sweet, loving, smart.
The blinding truth within all of this, the thing that makes Him holy, wonderful, amazing God is that He knows all about us, including our cavernous capability to disappoint, and His stride is unbroken in running to gather us into His arms. We are His delight. His delight! I don't know about you, but I very seldom feel like I'm delighting Him. And you know, Olivia's behavior doesn't always delight me, but she is, nonetheless, my delight. Because she's mine. Crazy how that works.
So briefly, a glimpse into one of those deep reasons that I'm thankful for Olivia: I have learned more of His character in the last 3 years than I ever dared imagine I would. That knowledge is so sweet to me, a constant truth to which I gladly (and sometimes frantically) cling when fears assail. My constant prayer is that she will know Him and never doubt His love for her.
I love this girl. And if you're lucky enough to know her, I don't doubt that you love her, too.
I'm just so grateful for her, on so many levels and for so many reasons. Admittedly, some of those reasons reside in places deep in my soul, places that I sometimes have trouble reaching myself for all of their grand seclusion. But many reasons live on the surface - they're so easily visible. When I break it all down, though, all of the things I love about her, about being a mother, about having a daughter, it all comes down to a central truth: she is mine, and she is an amazing, beautiful gift from the Lord. I could list all of the things that she is: funny, gorgeous, sweet, loving, smart, but really, who doesn't think that about their kid? I mean, we think our kids broke the mold because of how much we love them...and all of a sudden I realize:
He thinks I broke the mold. He thinks you broke the mold. He loves us, and He thinks we are funny, gorgeous, sweet, loving, smart.
The blinding truth within all of this, the thing that makes Him holy, wonderful, amazing God is that He knows all about us, including our cavernous capability to disappoint, and His stride is unbroken in running to gather us into His arms. We are His delight. His delight! I don't know about you, but I very seldom feel like I'm delighting Him. And you know, Olivia's behavior doesn't always delight me, but she is, nonetheless, my delight. Because she's mine. Crazy how that works.
So briefly, a glimpse into one of those deep reasons that I'm thankful for Olivia: I have learned more of His character in the last 3 years than I ever dared imagine I would. That knowledge is so sweet to me, a constant truth to which I gladly (and sometimes frantically) cling when fears assail. My constant prayer is that she will know Him and never doubt His love for her.
I love this girl. And if you're lucky enough to know her, I don't doubt that you love her, too.
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