Refreshing Hearts One Sentence At A Time
The tickets were purchased, the map was defined, supplies packed and ready, clouds parting in the sky to reveal a cosmos so blue and sunny that tropical islands yawned in jealous torment; the adventure was set to begin in three, two -- and wait. Hold on.
Pause for a moment.
The phone is ringing.
It's the realtor, and we have a closing date! It is.... tomorrow! Tomorrow? Tomorrow!? That means I need to call -- I need to pack -- I need to unpack -- I need to text Mom -- I need to go to the --
And a new adventure began instead.
"Humble yourselves therefore, under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your care on him, because he cares about you." 1 Peter 5:6
Let's get a few words out of the way before we go any further. The word, "exalt," means 1)honor, 2)fill with sublime emotion, 3)heighten or intensify, 4)raise in rank, character, or status. Humble is both an adjective and verb, meaning 1)inferior in station, 2)marked by modesty, 3)of low station, 4)cause to be unpretentious, 5)cause to feel shame or hurt the pride.
I like to make plans. I like to make lists. I like to make plans that incorporate my lists, and then check off the boxes in order. And yes, my clothes closet is ordered by the colors of the rainbow.
Sometimes I make plans for my life. Sometimes I say, “I will go to the park tomorrow,” or “I will get groceries tomorrow,” or “I will watch Bones today.” I am learning that the long-term plans are the ones that seem to fall through. I am learning that not all of the boxes get checked off in order. I am learning that I don’t like it when my boxes are not checked off in order. Where is the excitement in last minute changes, and where is the thrill in flakiness? Um, I’m really not as stuffy as that last sentence makes me sound. I just like an order to the chaos. An order which I create.
But do I look for the adventure?
What if there is an order in the chaos, and I’m simply unaware of it?
I don’t think people plan for loss, broken water heaters, floods, earthquakes, bug bites, and job changes. I don’t want to speculate that most people plan their own worst-case scenario. Do you plan your own worst life? Do you look for ways to hurt others or yourself? I don’t, so I’m going off of my own ideal world. Mine is one similar to that of Neverland or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, where there are lush, green, open fields rolling in the distance, and parks with flowers, and laughing friends nearby, ready to do something fun.
So there’s a gap between the real world and what-could-be.
Because in this real world, the adventure has been filled with rain clouds, plane rides, tears, shiny skyscrapers, hugs with my daughter, bitten nails, crashed computers, divine lunches, and inconsolable loss. The adventure included boat rides, beaches, bridges, boxes, and paradise. The darkness crept nearby, watching with dollar signs in its eyes. He imagined destruction and whispered threats of loneliness. The new adventure was unlike anything I had imagined.
But I did get to ride a camel in the sand.
He moaned at me, arching his long, tan, furry neck toward me, groaning and baring his crooked, yellow teeth. His trainer smacked him smartly on the neck with a small brown stick, demanding some unknown command in Arabic. After a few more moments of groaning, lips quivering and teeth snarling, he began arching his back legs to a standing position. I gripped the saddle horn as the back-end rose higher, and his front knees eventually began to quake and burst with movement upward. Then he was walking, one slow step after another, moaning further, shaking his head in disagreement, as if he was done with the pony ride. I sat far on his back, gripping the old leather, ten feet in the air, on this beast towering above the tourists below. He roamed in a slow circle around the hot, sandy area, guided by the man in the khaki tunic. The camel settled in his spot, front side first, bowing into the sand, folding his legs under his thick, hairy torso. Rocking and quaking, I settled back on the ground and climbed off his back.
And all too soon, I had to fly away from those shiny buildings, sand dunes, and my sister’s warm hugs.
What can I say about riding a camel?
Hold on tight, especially when starting out and ending, because the fall forward could be a hilarious sight to see, though painful for the fall-er.
What can I say about the new adventure?
Hold on tight and a grab a ginger pill, because there’s turbulence up ahead.
Another part of the new adventure was moving to our first house, then turning around and helping my parents leave their house – my “home” – of 25 years. So in between the boxes, airplane rides, boxes, broken computers, leaky house fragments, boxes, shimmering anniversaries, and golden hotel rooms, the year 2013 has been --- an adventure. It’s a tale of remorse, angst, distilled silence, and fresh morning sunshine streaming in through the window. It has been salted and spiced with hummus, take-out, large bills, extraordinary views, pecans, boxes, emptiness, and tears. In the preparation of moving, unpacking, moving, packing, and readying for flying, there was teaching classes, coordinating ministry events, and home-making.
And since the first leg of the adventure, the shiny drama has dissipated into unmotivated laziness. I partially think I’ve earned it. The Big Year is not even halfway over, but all the oil is used up. The Tandoori powder is prepped but the chicken is already eaten.
My husband – my sane half – says this unmotivated feeling is just a let-down after vacation. He says that it is post-year’s-worth-of-suspense-leading-up-to-an-adventure. Now that we bought the cow...we have to care for it. Now that we’ve been to paradise…we have to live with central Texas in a drought.
Not that I’m complaining, really. I’m very grateful to have seen what I’ve seen, to be able to hear the sounds of foreign instruments, to have tasted authentic food, to have stayed up way too late talking with my family, to have stood on the tallest floor on the planet. And I’m grateful for the home I get to come back to, for the soft carpet underfoot, the warm sunshine and cooing doves out the back window. I’m just trying to figure out the emotions that roll along in this tidal wave. What do you say when the grey seems dimmer and the silence seems louder?
My heart has been heavy, my arms weak, and my legs sore. And not just from working out. Although that is a factor.
The clock has been winning recently, ticking along merrily, leaving me behind. The adventure continues into chapter three, and I’m still trying to figure out what happened in chapter two. Each page-turn I fall a little farther behind, and lack the motivation to read along. So I watch tv. Because it is happy. Because it is easier. Because it is observing, rather than having to react myself.
I’m riddled with fear, with this deep sadness, sometimes, when I think about how this adventure continues on, and I’m not ready for it to do so. I’m content with the springtime, and yet the wind continues to steadily blow across the field. Who am I in the midst of this changing planet, this controlling government, this judgemental society? Who am I, that one little session of dusting or creating a website will add to an eternity of importance? What are my words that my viewpoint will help others carry on?
I’ve avoided writing lately. It’s the motivational thing, but also some other feelings of inadequacy that have been whispered into my ear as of late. I was wiping up the mud on my kitchen floor today, the mud my daughter tracked in after playing in the muddy backyard, after the plumbing guys had left the hose in the open back door, after which they had told me we would need a new hot water heater, after which we had found water seeping up in our bathroom. I was wiping up the mud by hand because the Swiffer vacuum is broken, and have been waiting for the next payday to get a new one because I didn’t see room in the budget to get one. It’s a good thing we didn’t have room for a $40 gadget. I’d sure hate to have to buy a new water heater or something.
And I thought, you know, I really want to be dramatic about this. I want to be depressed at how we have had to pay for a rushed passport, and a computer that the cable company broke and refuses to pay for; I want to be depressed that we will not get back the deposit from our apartment because of some silly miscommunications; I want to be depressed and dramatic because this whole new home-owner experience has been just as expensive as I expected.
But there’s a measure of sanity in the back of my mind that speaks the truth of, “God will provide.” Cast all your care on Him, because he cares about you. He doesn’t just care for me and my silly and expensive broken water heater, he cares about you and your dust bunnies, your sunny day, your bad choices, your sore back, your justified goals, your fears. He cares, and he has a plan.
I want to be dramatic about the many ups and downs on this rollercoaster ride. I want to sit back in silence and let the game play itself out. I want to have more money in the bank.
However, this adventure is more than dollars and cents. This adventure is a cliff-hanger, where the reader isn’t sure if the traveller will be required to dive into the deepest, darkest, underwater caves, or if this is the chapter of flashbacks to the good ol’ days. Is this the chapter where the audience gets a little insight into the protagonist, or is this the chapter where the protagonist gets thrown into the tar pit and has to fight off the monster alligator-dog?
Regardless, the protagonist has to endure it. Why? Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a very good adventure story.
"Humble yourselves therefore, under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your care on him, because he cares about you." 1 Peter 5:6
I hear a lot about having humility. I think it’s a good practice. But I think there’s a fine line between having just enough, too little, or too much humility. Because I know God has a better plan than I can ever make, but he gave me this adventure so I can become a better version of myself. I can’t be timid, shy, or a quivering sack of dirt. I have to have grit, heart, and spunk. There has to be determination, tenacity, and guts. Who really wants the alligator-dog to win? I think the audience would rather see the under-dog win. Therefore I will remember that I am a character in the story, but one written into the story with purpose and creativity. Because He cares about me.
And remember, he cares about you, too. He has a mighty hand, a mighty plan. So if you have to scrape the dirt from your floor, on your hands and knees, wondering what kind of cents all of this makes, notice that you aren’t alone. And maybe the wind will whisper the promises of a steadfast Creator as you wipe. Use the grit and be refined as a more steadfast being. The chapter continues to play out, and sometimes the reader’s speed is breath-taking. But the Author controls the storyline. He will honor you; he will lift you out of the pit; he will fill you with peace; he will strengthen your character. Use this crazy adventure to become more like your Author. Maybe one day soon he will allow you to see more of his storyboard.
These days a fitness trend is to run a marathon. From programs like “Couch to 5K” to television shows about the trend (see episode of The Office labeled “Fun Run” in which Michael organizes a fundraiser to help out Rabies. It’s funny. Trust me.). I’m not a runner. In fact, I usually joke about how my favorite hobby or pastime is to be as lazy as possible. Then I typically delete or erase that sentence and write the truth, which is that I spend my time reading, watching TV, going to movies, playing with my daughter, making homemade cards, dancing in the living room with my daughter, trying to clean the apartment, or helping with several programs at church. And after all of that, I like to be as lazy as possible.
Sometimes when a challenge presents itself I prefer to shy away from the thing, skirt around the issue, or type it into my phone’s To Do list with the blue dot instead of the urgent red dot. Eh, I’ll call about the leaning apartment building tomorrow. Ah, yeah, the laundry can wait until it is not raining outside. Yup, I definitely don’t need to get those pictures printed until another paycheck comes in. Notice none of those things were really a challenge, but what can I say. I’m lazy at heart. I hide it under obsessive compulsion. Ha.
So when a true challenge arises, the situation can kind of get out of control. Imagine if Procrastination clashes with Punctuality. One swings a left hook, the other falls to the ground and huffs, “Dude!” It’s kind of an uneven fight.
Each day brings new challenges, extraordinary plotlines, fresh ideas, unusual events, unique activities, and distinct possibilities. There are also the old narrators, ancient ruins, and stale bread with a bit of mold lying in the cupboard. The new and the old combine to create whimpering toddlers, deflated stroller tires, cotton ball clouds, dewdrops on the green grass, and stacks of bills on the table where last night’s dinner napkins still lay crumpled and crisp. Some days are easier than others. On some days, we have to do hard things.
“An ultramarathon (also called ultra distance) is any sporting event involving running and walking longer than the traditional marathon length of 42.195 kilometres (26.2188 mi)… There are two types of ultramarathon events: those that cover a specified distance, and events that take place during specified time (with the winner covering the most distance in that time). The most common distances are 50 kilometres (31.069 mi), 100 kilometres (62.137 mi), 50 miles (80.467 km) and 100 miles (160.934 km), although many races have other distances. The 100 kilometers is an official International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) world record event” (Wikipedia).
“Sixty one year-old Cliff Young became a household name in 1983 when he beat all of the starters and won the first Westfield Sydney to Melbourne Ultra Marathon. He wasn’t known before the race – but was certainly know after that” (www.ultralegends.com). At 61 years of age, the potato farmer joined in the ultramarathon which comprised of 566 miles and took him five days, 15 hours, and four minutes to run. One website says, “Now, around the time of the 1983 edition of this yearly race, your average world-class uber-android athlete could complete this course by running the equivalent 21.6 marathons back-to-back-to-back over the course of 7 days, with a daily regimen of sprinting for 17 hours straight, sleeping for 7, then getting back up and doing it again the next morning.” Cliff Young finished the race nine hours faster than any previous record holder. And he did it wearing overalls and rain boots.
“He arrived at the start with the feeling that the other runners were looking at him with disdain. He knew he had something to prove,” (ultralegends.com).
You see; we can do hard things.
When I was younger my parents rented a movie called, “The Unsinkable Molly Brown,” about a woman on board the Titanic who survived; and not only did she survive, but she helped others along the way. She is best known for her actions on the Titanic, but she was actually a woman who lived an extraordinary life. Margaret “Molly” Brown was born in 1867 in Missouri to Irish immigrants. Her parents encouraged a strong education for all people and allowed her stay in school until the ripe old age of 13. She began working in factories then followed a line of work to Leadville, Colorado, where she met her future husband, J.J. Brown. Many rainy days in the mines, years of hungrily scratching through the mud, and thoroughly researched hunts later, the two became millionaires after a gold discovery. With the help of this added wealth and status, Margaret participated in social reform projects, serving in soup kitchens, feeding the poor, and finding housing for children on the streets. “Margaret’s commitment to social reform grew, and in 1901 she attempted to win a seat in the state senate. This action defied the common maxim, touted by her own husband, which stated that a woman’s name should appear in the newspaper only three times: at her birth, upon her marriage and at her death” (http://www.mollybrown.org/learn/about-molly-brown/).
I don’t know about you, but that would totally tick me off.
Anyways, to continue on, Margaret and J.J. loved to travel around the world, which brought them somewhat together, but the two quietly separated after 23 years of marriage. She continued to receive money from J.J., traveling and continuing in her “philanthropic endeavors,” which led her to board the Titanic in order to return home to visit a sickly grandson.
“Shortly before midnight on April 14th the Titanic struck ice. Margaret described her experience in the Newport Herald, ‘I stretched on the brass bed, at the side of which was a lamp. So completely absorbed in my reading I gave little thought to the crash that struck at my window overhead and threw me to the floor.’ After the crash, Margaret heard increasing confusion in the hall causing her to investigate further. ‘I again looked out and saw a man whose face was blanched, his eyes protruding, wearing the look of a haunted creature. He was gasping for breath and in an undertone he gasped, 'get your life saver'.’ After helping fellow passengers she was taken a hold of and with the words ‘you are going too’ was dropped four feet into the lowering lifeboat #6. Lifeboat #6 was equipped to hold 65 passengers. However, it pushed off from Titanic with 21 women, 2 men and a twelve-year-old boy on board. The women in the lifeboat rowed for hours. At 4:30 a.m. Margaret saw a flash of light. It was from the approaching ship Carpathia, which was the first to answer the distress call. After some difficulty, lifeboat #6 pulled up alongside of the Carpathia, and the occupants were pulled aboard one at a time.
Margaret, though sore, tired and cold, began to take action. Her knowledge of foreign languages enabled her to console survivors who spoke little English. She also rifled through the ship to find extra blankets and supplies to distribute to women who were sleeping in the dining room and corridors. Margaret realized that many women had lost everything -- husbands, children, clothes, money and valuables -- and needed to start a life in a new country. She rallied the first class passengers to donate money to help less fortunate passengers. Before the Carpathia reached New York $10,000 had been raised” (mollybrown.org).
You see, we can do hard things.
“Emma Edmonds was one of approximately 400 women who succeeded in enlisting in the army (either Union or Confederate) during the Civil War. Her uniqueness is that she not only succeeded in remaining in the army for several years, but was also eminently successful as a Union spy -- all while impersonating a man” (http://www.civilwarhome.com/edmondsbio.htm). Emma is one of the more fascinating ladies who, happening to be buried in the military section of Washington Cemetery, in Houston, Texas, caught my eye in middle school history class and will always garner my respect. An abusive father led her to run away from Canada to America, where she enlisted with the Union Army. “She cropped her hair, got a man's suit of clothing, took the name of Frank Thompson and tried to enlist. It took her four tries but finally she did in fact get sworn into the Union Army (at that time the physical consisted merely of asking the enlistee questions -- no medical examination). On April 25, 1861, Emma Edmonds alias Frank Thompson became a male nurse in the Second Volunteers of the United States Army” (civilwarhome.com). When Emma heard of a position in General McClellan’s division, she “studied all she could find on weapons, tactics, local geography and military personalities and when interviewed for the position, Private Thompson so impressed the staff that the position was his (hers)” (civilwarhome.com).
Playing this role as a part of her new life, she carried out eleven successful espionage infiltrations of the Confederate army. She darkened her skin with silver nitrate to play the part of a black man, Cuff; she acted the part of a fat Irish peddler woman named Bridget; she wandered into Louisville, Kentucky as a Southern gentleman named Charles. She worked as a nurse, she listened to gossip, unearthed valuable information about “Quaker guns” (look it up, it’s awesome), was injured while riding a horse during battle and still made it back to camp, and she unwittingly defected from the army because of a bout with malaria.
“After the war Emma wrote her memoirs titled ‘Nurse and Spy in the Union Army,’ which became a very popular book selling thousands of copies. Emma gave all of her profits from the book to the U.S. war relief fund. Once the book was completed Emma became homesick for her native Canada; when she returned there she found love. In 1867 Emma married Linus Seeyle and went back to the United States, initially to Cleveland, Ohio. The marriage was happy, and Emma raised three sons, one of whom enlisted in the army ‘just like Mama did’. While happy in her family life Emma continued to brood over being branded a deserter in the Civil War. With the encouragement of her friends she petitioned the War Department for a full review of her case. The case was debated and on March 28, 1884, the House of Representatives passed House Bill Number 5335 validating Mrs. Seeyle's case… On July 5, 1884, a special act of Congress granted Emma Edmonds alias Frank Thompson an honorable discharge from the army, plus a bonus and a veteran's pension of twelve dollars a month” (civilwarhome.com).
You see, we can do hard things.
“By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going...
By faith Abraham, even though he was past age—and Sarah herself was barren—was enabled to become a father because he considered Him faithful who had made the promise...
By faith Moses’ parents hid him for three months after he was born, because they saw he was no ordinary child, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict...
By faith Moses, when he had grown up, refused to be known as the son of Pharaoh’s daughter...
By faith the people passed through the Red Sea as on dry land; but when the Egyptians tried to do so, they were drowned...
By faith the prostitute Rahab, because she welcomed the spies, was not killed with those who were disobedient...
All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them... God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect” (excerpts from Hebrews 11).
You see, we can do hard things.
It may mean leaving comfortable surroundings, pretending to be something we are not, hoping for more than we can see, loving the unlovable, cutting off hair and old ties, ignoring disparaging remarks, pushing boundaries, welcoming strangers, listening to the banter of neighbors, losing visible love, and running more than you could ever imagine, wearing what may appear to be the wrong equipment, rowing through the cold night, and running away at just the right time. Sometimes it is following the fire in your heart or the calm voice in the quiet. We make mistakes, we misstep, we falter; but our God is faithful. Sometimes we don’t see the promises entirely fulfilled when we are around, but God builds kingdoms one brick at a time.
In all these stories of triumph, victory, and success, significant factors are the conflict and antagonists which ignited the fires of these people. Would Emma have left home if her father was benevolent instead of maleficent? What if Margaret listened to her husband and all those men who said women shouldn’t make the news? What if Cliff didn’t have to herd sheep? Our challenges are what make us better. To be honest, I get totally tired of challenges. I get tired of the brick-laying. I want to feel that inner motivation, that euphoric bliss of palm fronds waving in the breeze against a blue-sky backdrop. But sometimes I look back and see that I wouldn’t have the experience and knowledge I have without those mistakes, wrong turns, broken ideas, and plot twists. I sure wouldn't have all the stories to go along with them. Emma didn’t gather her information all at once, but through conversations, making stew, and fleeing in the rain. Cliff kept running through meal times, nap times, and even when his crew fell ill. Margaret had to ignore the negative husband and continue helping the needy and poor. Hard things are accomplished slowly, with perseverance, gratitude, and moments at a time.
Overcome evil with good. Overcome exhaustion with prayer. Overcome poopy diapers, lost naptimes, empty pantries, grumpy neighbors, long lists, dwindling bank accounts, toppled plans, with faith and knowledge that God is at your side the whole time.
I saw a craft on Pinterest that inspired me, and some days I really need some inspiration and a reminder that God works through me even when I don’t know it. You can do hard things. I can do hard things. Click here for a little project on the days when you need to remember that you can do all things through Christ who strengthens you.
“Because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you,” we say with confidence, “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid” (Hebrews 13:5b-6a).
Maybe you’re the hero, the underdog, the tired mom, the empty glass, the sinking ship, the abusive father, the faker, the fat Irish woman, the miner, the reticent spouse, the defector, the runner in rain boots, the spooked horse, the lost child, the missing spy, the fearful parent, the veteran or the nomad. God has put you in the story; what are you going to do with the role?
What is your least favorite part of a church service?
You know you have one.
Whether you’re the person coordinating the event, behind the board in the sound booth, on stage holding a guitar or microphone, or waiting for your turn at the pulpit, there’s that moment where you have to brace yourself, wince inwardly, and take a deep breath when That Time begins. Yes, you know what I’m talking about.
Mine is the greeting time. I can’t stand it. Imagine how Lina Lamont says it in her nasally voice in Singin’ In The Rain. I caaaaaan’t staaand it. You have to smile at everyone around you, even though moments ago you were just wondering what you were going to have for lunch and don’t know if you really want to eat at home but the hubster wants to eat out so there’s going to be an argument later. Then you have to look around to see who’s reaching out toward you to shake your hand. Shake Your Hand. Shake. Your. Hand. Because I definitely shake everybody’s hand when I see them. No! There are some hugs, friendly banter. If there is a voluntary handshake in Real Life, it’s usually one of those two-handed handshakes that just feels more sincere than its predecessor.
And then there’s the awesome conversation that you have with a)strangers and b)friends.
Conversation A goes like:
Person 1: Hi there.
Person 2: Hi.
Person 1: How are you?
Person 2: Doing good this morning.
Person 1: Good, good. Glad to hear it.
Person 2: And you?
Person 1: Yes, good. It’s good to see you!
Person 2: You too.
Conversation B goes like:
Friend 1: Hi there.
Friend 1: How are you?
Me: Doing good this morning.
Friend 1: Good, good. Glad to hear it.
Me: And you?
Friend1: Yes, good. It’s good to see you!
Me: You too.
And then move on, and so on, and henceforth, and blah blah blah until the song starts up again and, praise the Lord, there is relief from the agony. I just spent about half an hour looking for jokes about greeting time at church and couldn’t find any. I think that is surprising. There were a lot of terrible jokes, and it kind of made me feel bad that I was making fun of or complaining about one of the aspects of a church service. See, I do try not to complain about something unless I can find a viable solution for fixing it. Unless I can change a scenario, hot glue, paint, or duct tape, or make some kind of phone call to somebody who CAN fix the broken thing, then I will try to just deal. But here’s the thing about the deal….greeting time happens in almost every church, in every service, and good luck trying to change it. And honestly, who cares? Who cares that it’s awkward, fake, and a terrible way to spread germs like the plague?
There was a service my husband and I attended, which brilliantly avoided greeting time. I LOVED that service. You walk in the building; in the foyer was a table for making a cup of coffee. Walk into the worship center and the lights were dim, there was music in the background. You could converse with people or just take a seat. We’d have the music, the speaker, and afterward many of us would go out to dinner. Oh yes. That’s right.
What is it about the Greeting Time that I find so terrible? Am I alone in this?! I just don’t like the close proximity, the short-lived moment in which nobody is ready to discuss how they are ACTUALLY feeling that morning, and the forced faux friendliness. If you know me, then it’s cool if we have a little or big hug and/or a handshake if we usually handshake. But if I see you at the grocery store and we chat better than we do during the Greeting Time, let’s just be done with the waxy mannerisms, shall we? Nobody needs to shake my hand, and it never ever anywhere makes me feel welcome. I don’t know where your hands have been. Were you just picking your nose? Picking the lint in your pocket? Picking something out of your teeth? Ew. I don’t want your morning’s eggs on my hands. Even if you’re nice.
What is it about a handshake?
I’m not criticizing the fact that new people need to feel welcome, and I do understand how necessary it is for anybody who has arrived at an event to feel invited, part of the group, and that they belong. I agree with that. But it seems there should be a better way to make that happen. I don’t know if it can happen in a two-minute segue.
Maybe it has to do with me.
I DO realize that most people probably don’t even blink when it comes to greeting time. For me it’s a grinding of the teeth, nails on the chalkboard, a train wreck. I think my blood pressure skyrockets when I’m forced to meet new people that are standing right behind me. Maybe it has something to do with the ensuing chaos of people suddenly talking, walking around, moving every which way. Maybe it has to do with a fear of crowds or something. Check it out; just looked up “fear of crowds phobia” and what’s kind of funny is what came up:
That’s right. Agoraphobia is “an anxiety disorder characterized by anxiety in situations where the sufferer perceives the environment to be difficult or embarrassing to escape.” I get that, Wikipedia. I get that.
Now, I’m not looking for myself to have more trouble or drama than I already have, but let’s face it. Greeting time is a breeding ground for agoraphobes. Party rock, agoraphobes! Let’s hear it for the boys!
I’d rather have a quiet moment to chat with someone about what her name is, if she has come before, and what program I can interest her in. Or discuss how cute her shoes are. Or ask a question about my daughter’s teeth or health and how it relates to that person’s daughter. And a two –minute rock concert just doesn’t help that.
Now, don’t get me wrong in that I really DO like the real moments from people that I do know. I love a hug from a friend, waving to a friendly face across the room, and laughing about my poor husband’s wonky guitar solo that we will laugh about when we go out to lunch later. (Love you!)
I just needed to write something out about Greetin’ Time after a couple pointless handshakes yesterday. I really need to remember to put some hand sanitizer in my purse. It’s just one of those things you have to deal with, this GT. It’s definitely not a gift or talent for me.
I am reminded of my social awkwardness at the park. It’s this innate fear within me, of addressing Strangers. It doesn’t matter if they look friendly, kind, or like airplane hijackers, there’s this inner struggle to force words out of my mouth. Blarg! When I was a child my mother called it Shyness. Now I’m searching for a name and a cure; you see, it’s easier to defeat a problem when you can give it a name. And as a leader for an important ministry to my heart, as a Christ-follower, as a mom, I need to be able to walk up to new people and not feel like Cousin It. But I’m an organizer, not a greeter.
After months of vexation with my daughter, trying every tactic to get her to Take A Nap, I finally settled on the solution of singing hymns to her. For some reason, this works. I’m so glad. It started out with holding her down, holding her hand, and singing any song I could find in my old hymnbook for as long as it took for her to fall asleep, and now she asks me to sing songs from my book. Actually, if I leave before she’s completely asleep she will pull the book off her dresser where I leave it, and pull it into bed with her. And…. after that she usually comes to get me and asks, “What’s wrong with me?” and I walk her back to bed to see that she’s been trying to sleep on top of the hardback book.
I thumb through, perusing the songs I grew up learning in choir, and sing what I know. I try to settle on the ones that are slower, calmer, and I have found that the ones where I sing a bit higher are the ones that work the best. Some favorites are “Be Thou My Vision,” “In The Garden,” “My God is Near Me All The Time,” and “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
In college we had this event called Renaissance Week, where the entire university held activities, a big dinner, some shows, and lectures on the Renaissance. I went to one where a music professor talked about A Mighty Fortress, and it was such an interesting discussion. I love learning about where stories and songs come from.
Martin Luther wrote the words and composed the melody sometime between 1527 and 1529. Remember that Martin Luther was a German monk, priest, professor of theology and iconic figure of the Protestant Reformation (Wikipedia). He strongly disputed the claim that freedom from God's punishment for sin could be purchased with money; that salvation is not earned but a gift of God; and helped the Bible become more accessible to the common man.
Quick facts about “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”:
• It has been called the "Battle Hymn of the Reformation" for the effect it had.
• It was a tribute to Luther's friend Leonhard Kaiser, who was executed on August 16, 1527.
• The words are a paraphrase of Psalm 46.
• Luther composed the melody, named "Ein feste Burg" from the text's first line, in meter 220.127.116.11.7. This is sometimes denoted "rhythmic tune" to distinguish it from the later isometric variant, in 18.104.22.168.7 (thanks Wikipedia).
• This hymn covers the full sweep of the Christian's life. In it, we find the answer to conflict, striving, spiritual warfare, and at last, victory” (<http://www.crosswalk.com/11583552/ > 10 Sept 2012).
One of the most significant facts I learned about the song was that not every verse ends with a cheerful note, literally, musically, and lyrically. Here are the lyrics:
A mighty fortress is our God,
a bulwark never failing;
our helper he amid the flood
of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe
doth seek to work us woe;
his craft and power are great,
and armed with cruel hate,
on earth is not his equal.
Did we in our own strength confide,
our striving would be losing,
were not the right man on our side,
the man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is he;
Lord Sabaoth, his name,
from age to age the same,
and he must win the battle.
And though this world, with devils filled,
should threaten to undo us,
we will not fear, for God hath willed
his truth to triumph through us.
The Prince of Darkness grim,
we tremble not for him;
his rage we can endure,
for lo, his doom is sure;
one little word shall fell him.
That word above all earthly powers,
no thanks to them, abideth;
the Spirit and the gifts are ours,
thru him who with us sideth.
Let goods and kindred go,
this mortal life also;
the body they may kill;
God's truth abideth still;
his kingdom is forever.
Who’s got no equal on earth in verse 1? Our ancient foe. So why are we singing out him being so strong?! Look at verse 3: God hath willed his truth to triumph through us. Our enemy may be unequal, but one little word shall fell him. One little word, one little name: Jesus. That name, that word, above all earthly powers. Let goods and kindred go; this mortal life also. God’s truth abideth still; his kingdom is forever.
Psalm 46 says:
God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts.
The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.
Come and see the works of the Lord,
the desolations he has brought on the earth.
He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth;
he breaks the bow and shatters the spear,
he burns the shields with fire.
“Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.
Fortress: a large fort or fortified town; a place or source of refuge or support. Bulwark: any protection against external danger, injury, or annoyance. I like the reminder, that the almighty, protecting God who was around in 1 BC, who was around in 1527, is still around and present as ever in 2012. He abideth still.
Even during Greeting Time.
Even when you step in gum in the parking lot.
Even when the plans go wrong.
Even when you can’t hand her a brochure.
Even when you can’t find wiggle room in the budget.
Even when gray clouds fill the sky, masking the bright yellow sun.
Lord Sabaoth, the Lord of Hosts, of armies, from age to age the same. And He must win the battle.
So whether the battle is internal, or external, among friends or strangers, or silly awkwardness at the park or in line at the grocery store, He can work through it. He’s the one to run to, flinging our shameful inadequacy into his arms when we forget, fail, or falter. “God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day. Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall; he lifts his voice, the earth melts. The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress” (Psalm 46:5-7).
Maybe today is your Greeting Time. Maybe Greeting Time is your favorite thing, or maybe you’re glad to be on stage with a microphone so you don’t have to participate. Well for those of us in the audience, I’ll just keep on singing the chords and remember that even when my blood pressure rises, there’s a stronger one standing beside me. And he must win the battle.
Lately the word “Brave” has been floating around in the recesses of my mind. It’s wafting about like a speck of dust on a sunbeam, or a balloon in an air-conditioning draft. It’s bumping about, touching on memories, last looks, final hugs, sunrises, cups of coffee, and the thumping of feet on the pavement at the park. Do I consider myself brave? Nah. Not on any given day.
I saw the movie Brave. I kind of thought the protagonist was a little rebellious and the floaty-glowy-ball-light-fairies were a tad unrealistic. In my daily life, there are absolutely no floaty-glowy-ball-light-fairies hovering about, tempting me to follow them. That would actually make things quite a bit easier than they are. Instead, I related more to the mother character in the movie, and understand feeling more bear than bonnie lass.
Is “brave” a warrior, a champion, who fights to the death in arenas when there is no other choice than to thrust defiant fists into the air? Is being brave challenging “fate”? Is being brave a puffing out of the chest, a brandishing of the sword? Is it brave to just open your eyes in the morning and consider getting out of bed?
The dictionary first puts the word Brave in the adjective category. It is: 1) possessing or exhibiting courage or courageous endurance; 2) making a fine appearance. Then as a noun it is 1) a brave person, 2) a warrior, especially among North American Indian tribes; and 3) a bully; a boast or challenge. As a verb used with objects, it means 1) to meet or face courageously: to brave misfortunes; 2) to defy; challenge; dare, and 3) to make splendid.
Stick with me here.
1. bold, intrepid, daring, dauntless, heroic. Brave, courageous, valiant, fearless, gallant refer to confident bearing in the face of difficulties or dangers. ‘Brave’ is the most comprehensive: it is especially used of that confident fortitude or daring that actively faces and endures anything threatening. ‘Courageous’ implies a higher or nobler kind of bravery, especially as resulting from an inborn quality of mind or spirit that faces or endures perils or difficulties without fear and even with enthusiasm. ‘Valiant’ implies a correspondence between an inner courageousness and external deeds, particularly of physical strength or endurance. ‘Fearless’ implies unflinching spirit and coolness in the face of danger. ‘Gallant’ implies a chivalrous, impetuous, or dashing bravery.
Is picking up my husband’s socks and underwear from the closet floor considered brave? I venture to say yes. Is killing a spider, when there’s no one else around to kill it, brave? Again, it is a two-armed mortal against an eight-limbed demon, and hence therefore deserves the label of dauntless.
What if there’s a fear of something greater, of a severe earth shift, of loss? What if there is an ongoing season of goodbyes and what's left is rather sadness than gumption? What if the heavy is also dark?
“It is awfully hard to be brave, when you're only a Very Small Animal.”
- A. A. Milne (Winnie-The-Pooh)
In these shifting sands, I often feel like a Very Small Animal, just one pinpoint among the many, many stars. The reality is that I am not invincible, dreams shift and shatter, and yellow-brick roads sometimes lead to dead ends. Sometimes life is a quick drop, a sudden stop. And what do we do? We can look up into the blue sky and wonder who is watching. We can glance over our shoulders to see if anybody saw when we fell down and skinned our knees. We can wipe away that glimmer of a tear because there just isn’t time right now.
I have always liked the movie Elizabethtown. It is the story of a man whose great invention at a shoe company craters and he is fired; while he rigs a contraption to commit suicide, his sister calls to inform him that his father had a heart attack and died. Yeah yeah, it sounds sad, whatever. This is the platform from which he falls, however, and the audience takes the journey with him, facing failure and its wretched aftermath, burial, crazy extended family, intense sorrow, regret, new love, and fresh beginnings.
“You have five minutes to wallow in the delicious misery,” Claire Colburn says in a note to Drew Baylor. “Enjoy it, embrace it, discard ...and proceed.”
“Sadness is easier because it's surrender. I say, make time to dance alone with one hand waving free.”
I think the writers of this story understood sadness and its toll. We see Drew dancing under a grove of shade trees after scattering some of his dad’s ashes along the road. He cries; sometimes you can dance and cry at the same time, and it’s more about being in the moment than searching for triumph.
And one quote Claire gives to Drew, which sits on a back shelf of my mind for those difficult days when I really don’t want to do the laundry but the closet is stinky so it’s either my nose or my sanity, and sometimes my nose wins…..
Claire says, “We are intrepid. We carry on.”
When I first heard that word in the film, and taking the context of that moment, for some reason I assumed the word ‘intrepid,’ meant something like ‘long-suffering’ or some glorious, persevering, walking word. You know -- a word that has to do with walking long distances. I know; my vocabulary should be better. Sometimes it is. But today as I looked up synonyms with ‘brave,’ there appeared the word, ‘intrepid.’ Ah, then. Intrepid means ‘fearless and bold.’ Plucky. Dauntless. Resolute.
We are intrepid. We carry on.
Is a person just brave when he needs to be? How does bravery – courage – makes itself present and perfect? Does it count to be brave if you really don’t want to be? What if you have the opportunity to walk away and live, when walking toward the object of fear could mean death or intense loneliness? What if you have to make the decision on your own?
“David also said to Solomon his son, ‘Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you.’”
1 Chronicles 28:20
That one sums about all of it up. It works for any problem, any situation. God will not fail or leave. Be strong, be courageous, do the work.
How do I know if it’s supposed to be my work? What if I’m just putting that pressure on myself?
I don’t know.
“Even cowards can endure hardship; only the brave can endure suspense.”
~ Mignon McLaughlin
“Living by faith includes the call to something greater than cowardly self-preservation.”
~ J.R.R. Tolkien
“We have to be braver than we think we can be, because God is constantly calling us to be more than we are.”
~ Madeleine L'Engle
“Our fate lives in us. You only have to be brave enough to see it.”
~ Pixar’s “Brave”
I don’t know or attribute much to ‘fate’ and its friends. But there is a journey, a path, a web, a plotline, through which we travel while on this earth. What I’m starting to see is that the more difficult the landscape, the more I see of my true self. I see the selfish flippancy, the materialistic cravings, the immature belief. I see the shaking flesh, the whimpering muscles. Through the emptying out there is an instigation of firmness within me; as the complaining sifts out like powdery flour, a more solid hand forms a tangible faith. You see, I am petty, I am weak. I am late, I am clumsy, I am dubious. But the God who made me has me here to learn more about his security. He is secure, he is Always. He is intrepid.
But I don’t always know his plan, and that kind of makes my heart four-cups-of-coffee jittery.
“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”
~ Winston Churchill
“Bran thought about it. 'Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?'
'That is the only time a man can be brave,' his father told him.”
~ George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
“Before I knew you, I thought brave was not being afraid. You've taught me that bravery is being terrified and doing it anyway.”
~ Laurell K. Hamilton, Blood Noir
So, maybe, sticking around counts as bravery. Not everyone sticks around.
“I think laughter may be a form of courage. As humans we sometimes stand tall and look into the sun and laugh, and I think we are never more brave than when we do that.”
- Linda Ellerbee
Let’s refer back to the synonyms of brave: “‘Courageous’ implies a higher or nobler kind of bravery, especially as resulting from an inborn quality of mind or spirit that faces or endures perils or difficulties without fear and even with enthusiasm.”
Facing the changes in life, just by walking through them, counts as bravery. Humans are flawed, containing an inborn quality of mind and spirit that will endure peril and difficulty. Can we face our flaws without fear? Can we face the cold winter, the bare tree branches and hardened earth? Can we face this with enthusiasm? What if our biggest challenge lies within us?
“It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.”
Claire: “You want to be really great? Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make them wonder why you're still smiling. That's true greatness to me.”
“Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.”
He is the Everlasting, the hope and the healer. If our God is for us, then who can stop us?
As a child of the King, there is no logical, physical, or mental reason not to be brave. His spirit is in me. He rescues me every morning, every sunset, every spider, every sprained ankle, every bruised ego. He makes me courageous, if only I will let him make me fearless. It’s my choice to give in to the sadness or ask him for a little more strength.
“And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.” ~ Philippians 4:19
His riches are more than just padded bank accounts, stacks of gold bars, and stock market dividends. His riches are strength for the weary, comfort, fullness of heart, mercy, seeing Him, peace, and inheriting the kingdom of heaven. His gifts are close hugs, warm beds, gut-clutching laughter, cloudless skies, and the soft whispering of the stars.
His reward is his presence.
I think I can be brave so long as he’s holding my hand. Then I can make time to dance along with my other hand waving free.
<http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/brave?s=t> (3 Sept 2012)
My husband, daughter, a good friend, and I were eating dinner at the newest Chinese restaurant in town. There was the obligatory fortune cookie at the end of the meal, as we wiped the teriyaki sauce off our lips and broke into those delightful cardboard-esque treats. The friendly server handed my daughter her own cookie and I helped open the package. After cracking it open, I pulled out the paper strip to read what hers said. “Do not fear failure,” it said. The sentence actually made me pause, because I think that is something I definitely want to teach my Little M, and myself as well. I was going to keep it and maybe put it in her baby scrapbook, when she suddenly stuck it in her mouth and then spit it onto the floor. Oh well.
See, I’m at a point where there are a few branches coming up in my pathway, and there’s a quiet, unsettled, and apprehensive voice in the back of my mind who continually cautions, “Are you sure you want to do that?” Whether the choice is picking out which shirt to wear, buying a book, or asking my husband to take out the garbage, the voice is always there. She’s gotten quieter over the years, but sometimes starts to disturb the peace upstairs. And with the ideas of buying a house, changes in our family life, and furthering action on my passions, all beginning to stir into the pot, she’s really started to affect the amount of adrenaline pulsing through my veins at any given time.
“What if --,” she begins to say.
“Hush,” I reply.
“What about --,” she falters, her hands waving about in the air.
“We have already thought about that, and I don’t want to worry right now,” I answer, shaking my head.
“But what will people think?!” she asks, slapping her cheek, her eyes widening.
“I don’t have time for you right now, I need to figure out what’s for dinner,” I say, turning my back on her, and turning up the television.
“Fine,” she yells, stomping into the bedroom. “But I’ll be back in eight minutes to discuss this with you then!”
I’m someone who you can say errs on the side of caution. I’m clumsy enough, I’m self-conscious enough, I’ve had enough real-life-tv-sitcom moments to have learned a lesson or two.
1) Don’t talk about your waiter at the restaurant, especially when he could be standing right behind you as you insult his order-taking techniques.
2) Maybe don’t let two guys argue about you at midnight in front of an apartment complex? Go inside first.
3) Watch your steps in unfamiliar territory. And familiar territory.
Along with that cautionary, somewhat slow-moving persona you can imagine, add to it a certain obsessive compulsiveness and introversion that, if it weren’t for my lack of impeccable housekeeping skills, could easily become a light case of agoraphobia. Fortunately, I’m terrible at dusting and love to go outdoors for the fresh air. I do realize this post makes me seem a little bit crazy. Nonstandard. Anomalous. Peculiar.
And so it goes.
I was sitting at church the other day I saw a tiny spider on the floor by my feet. I thought, “I didn’t see that spider when I sat down or I wouldn’t have sat here.” Then that made me think about all the things I CANNOT see around me, like bitten-off fingernails or dust mites or skin flakes. Yeah. Gross. But then it also kind of made me think, you know, there’s really a lot more that all of us cannot see. There is a spiritual world around us we don’t usually notice. If we could actually see those life-sized spiders before they were next to us, some anger, frustrations, and trip-ups would just be so much easier to avoid.
Next, the thought came that, honestly, our dim eyes see so very little. We have our own insufficient perspectives, our own petty fears and emasculations. We accept feeble attempts and shaky knees, and to have any fear at all almost seems to fear everything. And that’s not how it’s supposed to be.
“You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world… We know that we live in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of the world. If anyone acknowledges that Jesus is the Son of God, God lives in him and he in God. And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him. In this way, love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment, because in this world we are like him. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.”
1 John 4:4; 13-18
A quick search on BibleGateway brings up 83 verses for the search, “do not be afraid.” That’s crazy, those.
Sometimes, fearing creepy spiders is the easier reaction. Sometimes, when the bombs begin dropping around you, forgetting that you’ve won the battle seems more believable. When the mortar bursts and shrapnel scrapes across your heart, it’s easier to give in to the darkness. But we aren’t supposed to let the shadows win. The children of God have overcome, are complete, and we discard fear.
And failure, well, it seems that God cares about our acts, our hearts, and that we dwell in him; that we obey his commands, that we seek purity in him. I don’t touch on the category of “purity” very often; that might have something to do with my aversion to chores. But what seems to be the majority of what is considered success for a Christ-follower is to be joyful, loving, kind, gentle, and good. It doesn’t matter what kind of shelter you reside in, if you have three perfect children, or thousands of followers on Twitter. Although it would be rad to have a booth dedicated to my art at Comic Con. But no, that’s not really the goal. That’s not what keeps you going when the storm begins to whirl.
We seek God and his presence, seek our dreams, seek our desires. We test our desires against his Word and look for guidance. But when it comes to wisdom with finances, wondering when the spark plugs should be changed, replacing carpets, or recovering from surgery, and when we can get to the store to buy groceries….
I wish all of this wasn’t so hard. I wish that families stayed in the same places, rejection wasn’t an issue, and that we could more easily hold on to an eternal perspective. But our humanity gets in the way… our mold, our dust, and that gripping tightness in the chest. We walk, as with feet slugging through thick, deep mud. We can’t always see the sun. We have the promises that shield our faces and pull us up out of the mire, declaring a hope and a future, and that we will walk in high places with a shield and salvation.
“I took you from the ends of the earth,
from its farthest corners I called you.
I said, ‘You are my servant’;
I have chosen you and have not rejected you.
So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
We cling to this, brushing off the falling ashes, walking through the thunder, and seeking shelter. If our God is with us, we do not fail. When God completes us, we are closer to his heart; and we cannot be in any better place.
It’s very likely that along the way we will be idiotic, silly, and forgetful. We will literally fall, twist our ankles, club ourselves in the head with the car door because the carport is rusted and there’s a waterfall right outside the passenger side... we will cry out when our children refuse to obey, and hoard chocolate bars in a hidden cupboard. We will fail to maintain perfection on this earth, to be on time, to budget correctly, and to find the good in others. And what do we do then?
“The poor and needy search for water, but there is none; their tongues are parched with thirst. But I the Lord will answer them; I, the God of Israel, will not forsake them. I will make rivers flow on barren heights, and springs within the valleys. I will turn the desert into pools of water, and the parched ground into springs. I will put in the desert the cedar and the acacia, the myrtle and the olive. I will set pines in the wasteland, the fir and the cypress together, so that people may see and know, may consider and understand, that the hand of the Lord has done this, that the Holy One of Israel has created it.”
“I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth.”
We have to stick with Him, because he’s got this. We have to trust him to forgive our inner failures, we have to give up our stubbornness, and we have to choose to leave behind My Way Of Doing It. And he will work out the kinks, even if it hurts a little, even if we thought they were okay to have around.
There are many ways to tell a story, and there are many types of stories to be told. Legend and autobiography, tragedy, comedy, and the popular hero tale are an industry that encompass literature, art, film, and our children’s toy shelves. In the hero plot, the protagonist must face a challenge or series of obstacles in order to change his destiny. The hero usually starts off as a character forced into making a decision. Then the stakes are raised. Quite often there is a great loss for the hero; Spider Man was only Peter Parker until his Uncle Ben was killed; Batman watched his parents suffer and die at the hands of a thief; Elizabeth Bennet didn’t give a rip for Darcy until her sister ran off; Katniss took her sister’s place in a battle to the death. Even Jesus, in a real-life example, had to allow his work to be completed: “Jesus commanded Peter, ‘Put your sword away! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?’”
So what do we expect?
Personally I do not consider myself a hero. I was proud of myself for being able to do 35 girlie pushups the other day; I got one basket away from being caught up on the laundry. Hoo haa. This is not really exciting. But my story, and your story, are important. You are your own protagonist. What is your challenge, your series of obstacles?
What will you lose?
And can you overcome?
The reward is much greater when the loss has a noble purpose.
On this blue planet we are drifting closer to eternity every moment, so don’t let the moments go to waste.
“In You, O Lord, I have taken refuge;
Let me never be ashamed;
In Your righteousness deliver me.
Incline Your ear to me, rescue me quickly;
Be to me a rock of strength,
A stronghold to save me.
For You are my rock and my fortress;
For Your name’s sake You will lead me and guide me…
For You are my strength.
Into Your hand I commit my spirit;
You have ransomed me, O Lord, God of truth...
I trust in the Lord.
I will rejoice and be glad in Your lovingkindness,
Because You have seen my affliction;
You have known the troubles of my soul,
And You have not given me over into the hand of the enemy;
You have set my feet in a large place.”
I battle with myself over a lot of shortcomings. I contemplate contentment and consider the falling stars and I see my incapacity to react in the right way so often. My toddler gets so frustrated at the littlest upset when she attempts to try something -- linking together toy trains, putting on her shoes, eating broccoli with her fork; she screams, her face turns red, she sometimes throws her fork or knocks over the project at hand. And am I like that? When I don’t get my way, when my schedule is disrupted, when I feel like I’m failing? Sometimes yes.
But we don’t look back. We don’t throw ourselves onto our beds and give up. Not today, anyway. Into his hands we commit; we commit to letting ourselves be molded, letting our stories be shaped, letting our pathways be wrought as they may. Maybe the pathway is financial success or new houses or shiny cars or full cupboards or smiling hugs from friends. Maybe there is loss or upset expectations, but we don’t fear it, and we kick the spiders out of the way. Maybe this is read in a small room or on a small screen, but He has set your feet in a large place. It’s wide open, soft green grasses, with large, leafy trees in the distance; small yellow flowers flutter around your feet in the soft breeze, while two birds soar overhead, the sunshine beaming down on your shoulders. You are chosen; you are strong; you are in the hands of a very capable Author.
But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. (1 Corinthians 1:9)
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