I was asked recently to share a piece of my own personal writing on the topic of redemption. When asked if I had pieces on redemption, I asked for time to comb through my writings and find something that could work. Therefore, I came here to look through my past and see what stood out.
In the end, however, what stood out were themes of trial and suffering, themes of confusion and despair, themes of love and mercy, grace and kindness. It made me question my thinking. Do I focus too much on the here and now? Of course, and I've known that for a while. Do I take the fact that I am redeemed for granted? Yes, yes I do and it's a shame. Is the aspect of redemption lost to my writing? No, not at all.
You see, even though my memory scan comes up short on the focus of redemption, redemption does not come up short in my thoughts. Redemption, my friends, permeates every cell of this flesh, every pulse of my aura, every wave of my thoughts. Redemption flows from my being into everything I do and say and write because I AM redeemed.
This isn't to say that I am sin-free or rise above falling short of the Glory of God. After all, if I don't fall short of His Glory, why do I need redemption, at all? That is also not to say that I am here to take His Grace for granted or use the knowledge of His Mercy to run amok, though I may have at one point or another in my life done such things.
What I am saying, however, is that I am human. I live my life in the every day ups and downs just like everyone else. Yet, when I have those ups and downs, though I walk in the shoes my humanity and mortality, I am cloaked in the robes of redemption. I am bathed in the Living Water. My head has been anointed with oil and my cup is, and always will be, full.
My triumphs are the triumphs of the redeemed. My failures are the failures of the redeemed. My every breath in and my every breath out count the rhythm of the life of the redeemed.
Though I may not write specifically of redemption often, every sentiment I pump, every word I spin, every letter I mold is a piece of clay salvaged from the fire, remade for another use, redeemed from destruction. For that is everything that I am.
I am Redeemed.
Friday, December 30, 2005
15 Again
This morning a strange phenomenon occurred. I rose before the sun. My alarm went off and I made a groaning roll to check the clock. "Thirty minutes more," I thought to myself and set the alarm on my phone. Ten or fifteen of those additional minutes were spent coaxing my body back into sweet slumber. I drew the blankets closer to my face. The only exposed parts of my body, a cool, dark air played impishly across my cheeks and nose, whining for me to wake and start the day. Stubborn as I am, however, I managed to fall back asleep, only to be awakened, once again and all too soon, by my phone alarm.
Sleep and my bed, being two of my favorite things, begged me to stay within their warm, comforting embrace. I listened to their tender song, their siren lullaby. The sound melted in my ears, seeped into my consciousness, whispered for it to cede control once again to unconscious bliss. I lay there listening for a moment or more. I heard the call and felt the need to obey. I wanted to obey, to drift back into the quiet land of Nod.
Sadly, that tiny bit of my brain controlled by responsibility proved too strong for the temptress Sleep and her cohorts Bed, Blankets and the ever nefarious Pillow. I pressed the vixens from my body and let the cool air rush around my entire body, resistant though it was to such stimulation. Weary hands rubbed wearier eyes as my leaden feet directed me toward the shower.
Far beneath the horizon, the Sun hid still.
The shower was hot and it felt good. Clean felt good. I finished getting ready and had some breakfast before the telephone rang. Just like when I was fifteen, a dear friend, a friend far better than I probably deserve, was driving out of her way in order to pick me up and give me a ride. Just like when I was fifteen, I am carless. Well, not exactly. Just like when I was fifteen, I have a car sitting in the driveway, waiting for me to drive it. But just like when I was fifteen, I have not the where-with-all to operate the vehicle. Then it was the lack of a license. Now, it is the lack of knowledge and confidence in driving a manual transmission.
Just like when I was fifteen, I am at the mercy of the kindness of friends to cart my bum around, even if that means committing crimes against nature such as rising before the sun. Thank you friends. I appreciate it greatly.
(but please pray God will bestow the knowledge and confidence of driving a stick shift to me soon!!!!)
This morning a strange phenomenon occurred. I rose before the sun. My alarm went off and I made a groaning roll to check the clock. "Thirty minutes more," I thought to myself and set the alarm on my phone. Ten or fifteen of those additional minutes were spent coaxing my body back into sweet slumber. I drew the blankets closer to my face. The only exposed parts of my body, a cool, dark air played impishly across my cheeks and nose, whining for me to wake and start the day. Stubborn as I am, however, I managed to fall back asleep, only to be awakened, once again and all too soon, by my phone alarm.
Sleep and my bed, being two of my favorite things, begged me to stay within their warm, comforting embrace. I listened to their tender song, their siren lullaby. The sound melted in my ears, seeped into my consciousness, whispered for it to cede control once again to unconscious bliss. I lay there listening for a moment or more. I heard the call and felt the need to obey. I wanted to obey, to drift back into the quiet land of Nod.
Sadly, that tiny bit of my brain controlled by responsibility proved too strong for the temptress Sleep and her cohorts Bed, Blankets and the ever nefarious Pillow. I pressed the vixens from my body and let the cool air rush around my entire body, resistant though it was to such stimulation. Weary hands rubbed wearier eyes as my leaden feet directed me toward the shower.
Far beneath the horizon, the Sun hid still.
The shower was hot and it felt good. Clean felt good. I finished getting ready and had some breakfast before the telephone rang. Just like when I was fifteen, a dear friend, a friend far better than I probably deserve, was driving out of her way in order to pick me up and give me a ride. Just like when I was fifteen, I am carless. Well, not exactly. Just like when I was fifteen, I have a car sitting in the driveway, waiting for me to drive it. But just like when I was fifteen, I have not the where-with-all to operate the vehicle. Then it was the lack of a license. Now, it is the lack of knowledge and confidence in driving a manual transmission.
Just like when I was fifteen, I am at the mercy of the kindness of friends to cart my bum around, even if that means committing crimes against nature such as rising before the sun. Thank you friends. I appreciate it greatly.
(but please pray God will bestow the knowledge and confidence of driving a stick shift to me soon!!!!)
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
New Day
Well, I suppose it's time for a new post. Even though I have a million thoughts in my head, I'm going to instead leave you with a quote I found quite satisfying.
Think what a better world it woudl be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap.~ Barbara Jordan, civil rights champion
of course, my milk would have to be soy...but still. mmmmm.
Well, I suppose it's time for a new post. Even though I have a million thoughts in my head, I'm going to instead leave you with a quote I found quite satisfying.
Think what a better world it woudl be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap.~ Barbara Jordan, civil rights champion
of course, my milk would have to be soy...but still. mmmmm.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Sky Light
I saw a "Simpson's Sky" this morning as I drove into work. It's the kind of sky that's a brilliant blue beyond the horizon with cumulus clouds, the white, fluffy kind that look like cotton balls, spread out across the atmosphere. It was a clear morning. Crystal and cool, the aftermath of yesterday's storms.
Do you know what makes the sky turn different colors? Why some days are clearer than others and some sunsets and sunrises more fancifully displayed than others? Particles. Particles in the air. Today's sky was so visibly clear because yesterday's storm swept away the gunk in the air.
Last nights sunset, however, last nights sunset was phantasmical. Pomegranate pinks bled into deep, bruising purple-blues. Particles remained in the air still; many dusty water droplets from the calming storms. Sunlight bounced from one particle to another, refracting and reflecting light, breaking and bending the colored waves until the sky lit up in splendor near the horizon, the black curtain of night rolling slowly to a close.
Isn't it amazing how beauty comes in so many different forms? Today, the sky was beautiful because it was so clear. Last night, it was beautiful due to all of the gunk. I feel like too often in life, people think beauty only lies in the clear and uncluttered. Houses are only beautiful if they are dusted, vacuumed and mopped. Clothes are only beautiful if they are dry-cleaned, starched and pressed. Women are only beautiful if they are slender, painted and polite. Men are only beautiful if they are virile, muscular and courteous.
In other words, people are only beautiful if they are neat, tidy and mess-free. And yet, as we see every day when the sun rises and sets, beauty can be greatly altered, magnified or minimized by the clutter in the air. Think about the deserts. Why are the sunsets there so beautiful? Because the wind kicks up all that sand, adding to the sky even more particles onto and through which sunlight might bend and break like a prism in an open window.
I'm learning more and more that, while outward beauty may be admired, it is within the mess that beauty may be fully appreciated. I am learning that clear skies come only after cleansing storms and storms build from the clutter and the mess. Sometimes the only way we can truly appreciate clear skies is to survive the storm and a storm lurks within us all.
After all, as Dinah Shore said, "Trouble is part of your life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough."
I saw a "Simpson's Sky" this morning as I drove into work. It's the kind of sky that's a brilliant blue beyond the horizon with cumulus clouds, the white, fluffy kind that look like cotton balls, spread out across the atmosphere. It was a clear morning. Crystal and cool, the aftermath of yesterday's storms.
Do you know what makes the sky turn different colors? Why some days are clearer than others and some sunsets and sunrises more fancifully displayed than others? Particles. Particles in the air. Today's sky was so visibly clear because yesterday's storm swept away the gunk in the air.
Last nights sunset, however, last nights sunset was phantasmical. Pomegranate pinks bled into deep, bruising purple-blues. Particles remained in the air still; many dusty water droplets from the calming storms. Sunlight bounced from one particle to another, refracting and reflecting light, breaking and bending the colored waves until the sky lit up in splendor near the horizon, the black curtain of night rolling slowly to a close.
Isn't it amazing how beauty comes in so many different forms? Today, the sky was beautiful because it was so clear. Last night, it was beautiful due to all of the gunk. I feel like too often in life, people think beauty only lies in the clear and uncluttered. Houses are only beautiful if they are dusted, vacuumed and mopped. Clothes are only beautiful if they are dry-cleaned, starched and pressed. Women are only beautiful if they are slender, painted and polite. Men are only beautiful if they are virile, muscular and courteous.
In other words, people are only beautiful if they are neat, tidy and mess-free. And yet, as we see every day when the sun rises and sets, beauty can be greatly altered, magnified or minimized by the clutter in the air. Think about the deserts. Why are the sunsets there so beautiful? Because the wind kicks up all that sand, adding to the sky even more particles onto and through which sunlight might bend and break like a prism in an open window.
I'm learning more and more that, while outward beauty may be admired, it is within the mess that beauty may be fully appreciated. I am learning that clear skies come only after cleansing storms and storms build from the clutter and the mess. Sometimes the only way we can truly appreciate clear skies is to survive the storm and a storm lurks within us all.
After all, as Dinah Shore said, "Trouble is part of your life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough."
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Fine and Dandy
I've been going through a rough time lately, but it's been good. I feel like God is drawing me closer and closer and I cherish that. I've had a lot of questions and just as much turmoil, but God has been with me through them all. He's been more than with me, He's carried me.
I love control. Scratch that, I love being in control. I'm not a huge fan of control if it's out of my hands. Lately, God has coaxed me into relinquishing control to Him. I have kicked and screamed and cried. A lot. And yet, through it all, God extends His arms and allows me to burrow my face in his chest, wipe my tears on His immaculate robes.
I don't think God gets annoyed with our questions; with our frustrations. I think if they bring us closer to Him in the end, He sees them as good things-- as tools, even. For, after all, did He not say that He would not set upon us temptation that we would not be able to overcome? And did He not assure us that, through Him, we are able to do all things? Has He not told us to boldly seek out and own His promises?
To me, trials, tribulations and questions all lead to this. To me, it takes faith to be able to boldly come before and question the God of the Universe, knowing that He has promised to withhold nothing from us. I am learning this more each day and with each and every question. I thank Him for these questions and trials, for I know, even these are happening so that I may better understand Him and so that He may be glorified. Amen.
I've been going through a rough time lately, but it's been good. I feel like God is drawing me closer and closer and I cherish that. I've had a lot of questions and just as much turmoil, but God has been with me through them all. He's been more than with me, He's carried me.
I love control. Scratch that, I love being in control. I'm not a huge fan of control if it's out of my hands. Lately, God has coaxed me into relinquishing control to Him. I have kicked and screamed and cried. A lot. And yet, through it all, God extends His arms and allows me to burrow my face in his chest, wipe my tears on His immaculate robes.
I don't think God gets annoyed with our questions; with our frustrations. I think if they bring us closer to Him in the end, He sees them as good things-- as tools, even. For, after all, did He not say that He would not set upon us temptation that we would not be able to overcome? And did He not assure us that, through Him, we are able to do all things? Has He not told us to boldly seek out and own His promises?
To me, trials, tribulations and questions all lead to this. To me, it takes faith to be able to boldly come before and question the God of the Universe, knowing that He has promised to withhold nothing from us. I am learning this more each day and with each and every question. I thank Him for these questions and trials, for I know, even these are happening so that I may better understand Him and so that He may be glorified. Amen.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Come Pick Me Up
D.L. Moody is famously (and oft) quoted as saying, while passing a drunkard on a curb, "There, but by the grace of God, go I." Unfortunately, I think people often interpret his quote as meaning "If not for God's grace, I could be that drunkard." Over the past few years I've begun to think a bit differently.
Am I incorrect, or are not all sins equal? Is not each sin simply an act of going against God, no matter what the exploit (or thought or intention) might be? Don't get me wrong; I understand the sentiment. If it weren't for God, we could all be on that street corner, passed out and filthy. Yet, here's what I'm getting at: isn't there a possibility we are, in some figurative sense, hugging that curb?
I have interviewed many people over the past few years that have fallen on hard and grievous times. What I have found in every story, however, is a piece of my own story. I cannot look at these men and women and haughtily sneer, "There, but by the grace of God, go I." I hear their stories, look at them and whisper, "Yes, I understand, I have been there, too." Our situations may not have been remotely similar, but our hearts prove identical mirrors.
No matter what they have been through; I have seen a bit of myself, a bit of my own rebellious heart in each and every heartache relayed. After all, what is sin, but heartache? The Bible cautions God's people to guard their hearts above all else, for the heart is the wellspring of life. Out of the heart comes life. Why? Because that is where the Holy Spirit resides. When we turn against the guidance of the Holy Spirit, we are turning against, and in turn hurting, our own hearts. We are creating heartache.
I may not have lived a life so utterly downtrodden as others I have known, but I have allowed my soul to live there. I have allowed my heart to dry up, to crack like parched soil. And yet, the grace of God allows me to return, to drink again and again from waters that will not run dry, no matter what. So, no, I may not be a drunkard, hugging the ground with all my might, but my heart, my heart has. Therefore, I thank God for His grace. And I thank Him for redemption. I thank Him for continuing to teach me, for not giving up on me, for not passing me by as I lay on the sidewalk-- for offering me a hand, for picking me up.
Maybe, just maybe what Moody meant by, "There, but for the grace of God, go I" wasn't that without God's grace he would be a filthy drunkard. Maybe what he meant, and what I know is true of myself, was that it is only by the grace of God that my drunkard heart would never be left alone on a dirty curb. For He will pick me up and carry me to safety, away from public, prying eyes. He refuses to leave me or forsake me, no matter where or how I stray. That is the grace of God.
D.L. Moody is famously (and oft) quoted as saying, while passing a drunkard on a curb, "There, but by the grace of God, go I." Unfortunately, I think people often interpret his quote as meaning "If not for God's grace, I could be that drunkard." Over the past few years I've begun to think a bit differently.
Am I incorrect, or are not all sins equal? Is not each sin simply an act of going against God, no matter what the exploit (or thought or intention) might be? Don't get me wrong; I understand the sentiment. If it weren't for God, we could all be on that street corner, passed out and filthy. Yet, here's what I'm getting at: isn't there a possibility we are, in some figurative sense, hugging that curb?
I have interviewed many people over the past few years that have fallen on hard and grievous times. What I have found in every story, however, is a piece of my own story. I cannot look at these men and women and haughtily sneer, "There, but by the grace of God, go I." I hear their stories, look at them and whisper, "Yes, I understand, I have been there, too." Our situations may not have been remotely similar, but our hearts prove identical mirrors.
No matter what they have been through; I have seen a bit of myself, a bit of my own rebellious heart in each and every heartache relayed. After all, what is sin, but heartache? The Bible cautions God's people to guard their hearts above all else, for the heart is the wellspring of life. Out of the heart comes life. Why? Because that is where the Holy Spirit resides. When we turn against the guidance of the Holy Spirit, we are turning against, and in turn hurting, our own hearts. We are creating heartache.
I may not have lived a life so utterly downtrodden as others I have known, but I have allowed my soul to live there. I have allowed my heart to dry up, to crack like parched soil. And yet, the grace of God allows me to return, to drink again and again from waters that will not run dry, no matter what. So, no, I may not be a drunkard, hugging the ground with all my might, but my heart, my heart has. Therefore, I thank God for His grace. And I thank Him for redemption. I thank Him for continuing to teach me, for not giving up on me, for not passing me by as I lay on the sidewalk-- for offering me a hand, for picking me up.
Maybe, just maybe what Moody meant by, "There, but for the grace of God, go I" wasn't that without God's grace he would be a filthy drunkard. Maybe what he meant, and what I know is true of myself, was that it is only by the grace of God that my drunkard heart would never be left alone on a dirty curb. For He will pick me up and carry me to safety, away from public, prying eyes. He refuses to leave me or forsake me, no matter where or how I stray. That is the grace of God.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Justice?
So, lately I've been attending a class of sorts at my church. We're a Presbyterian church-- a reformed church. That means a lot of different things, things of which I am learning in this class. One of the beliefs of the reformed church is that God predestined His people. We, as humans, are utterly depraved and therefore can do no good work on our own. As a matter of fact, even becoming a Christian is an act of God moving our hearts toward Him through the Holy Spirit.
Now, I know there are "free will" believers who read this, as well as "predestination" believers. Free Will verses Predestination is an age-long debate; one that I am not so foolish as to intend to solve here on my blog. Therefore, that is not the question at hand.
I am, however, looking to spark some conversation about a question burning in my mind. It is a question that has been eating at me for some time. It is a question that someone else posed in a manner of sorts-- someone who wasn't a Christian, but had great questions about Christianity. It is a question that may never be answered.
I have, for some time now, believed in the idea of predestination over the idea of free will. That is, I believe that God chose who He would save from the depths of hell, in order to spend eternity with Him-- not because He didn't give us Free Will, but because, as humans, the free will we have is so corrupt, we *could not* bend it to choose God. So, I believe that we have the ability to make our own choices, but we are incapable of making the ultimate decision to follow God.
I can see that, that's easy for me to see. I can see it because, on a daily basis, I choose multiple things over God. I have many idols, myself not the least of these, that I make higher priority than God. So, my question here today isn't whether or not to believe "predestination" or "free will."
My question is as follows: I know that the depraved state of man makes going to hell "fair." Being redeemed is "unfair" because we deserved worse. But God didn't have a "Plan B." He knew from before time that Man would fall and He would send Christ to redeem us. He knew He would send the Holy Spirit to bend the hearts of His chosen people. So, if He knew all of this from before day one, He basically brought Man to earth knowing that he would fail and many would end up in hell. He brought Man to earth knowing that we would never deserve to be with Him and only a select few would be able to escape eternal damnation. I understand God saving me is an act of mercy but, if He knew all of this to begin with-- how is any of His plan "Just"?
discuss.
So, lately I've been attending a class of sorts at my church. We're a Presbyterian church-- a reformed church. That means a lot of different things, things of which I am learning in this class. One of the beliefs of the reformed church is that God predestined His people. We, as humans, are utterly depraved and therefore can do no good work on our own. As a matter of fact, even becoming a Christian is an act of God moving our hearts toward Him through the Holy Spirit.
Now, I know there are "free will" believers who read this, as well as "predestination" believers. Free Will verses Predestination is an age-long debate; one that I am not so foolish as to intend to solve here on my blog. Therefore, that is not the question at hand.
I am, however, looking to spark some conversation about a question burning in my mind. It is a question that has been eating at me for some time. It is a question that someone else posed in a manner of sorts-- someone who wasn't a Christian, but had great questions about Christianity. It is a question that may never be answered.
I have, for some time now, believed in the idea of predestination over the idea of free will. That is, I believe that God chose who He would save from the depths of hell, in order to spend eternity with Him-- not because He didn't give us Free Will, but because, as humans, the free will we have is so corrupt, we *could not* bend it to choose God. So, I believe that we have the ability to make our own choices, but we are incapable of making the ultimate decision to follow God.
I can see that, that's easy for me to see. I can see it because, on a daily basis, I choose multiple things over God. I have many idols, myself not the least of these, that I make higher priority than God. So, my question here today isn't whether or not to believe "predestination" or "free will."
My question is as follows: I know that the depraved state of man makes going to hell "fair." Being redeemed is "unfair" because we deserved worse. But God didn't have a "Plan B." He knew from before time that Man would fall and He would send Christ to redeem us. He knew He would send the Holy Spirit to bend the hearts of His chosen people. So, if He knew all of this from before day one, He basically brought Man to earth knowing that he would fail and many would end up in hell. He brought Man to earth knowing that we would never deserve to be with Him and only a select few would be able to escape eternal damnation. I understand God saving me is an act of mercy but, if He knew all of this to begin with-- how is any of His plan "Just"?
discuss.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Why I should have been a "Cat Person"
Most people would agree that there are two kinds of people in the world... or at least in the U.S.: Dog People and Cat People. Growing up, my dad bred, raised and trained dogs, but we always had a cat, too. Therefore, I thought of myself as an equal-opportunity pet lover. I will have to say, however, that as much as I loved playing with puppies, my pet was always a cat.
Always, that is, until a freak accident occurred in high school and I ended up being allergic to cats for the rest of my life. It's kind of like Spiderman or Static Shock-- except instead of getting super powers, I got super allergies. eew.
Since that time, I have feigned hatred of cats and settled into my destiny as a "Dog Person." More specifically, I love golden retrievers. You know how they say pets and owners look alike? Well, I think they might have similar personalities, too.
Take my love of golden retrievers, for example. They are really wonderful, sweet, albeit slightly neurotic, dogs. I wouldn't say that label is too far off from myself. The other thing about goldens, and a lot of dogs, is that they want to please and appease their owners. They are, in affect, people pleasers.
Ouch. That arrow hit the bulls eye dead center.
Even though I am a confessed people pleaser, myself, there are so many times when I just want to hide away from the world; do my own thing. These are the times I wish I was more like a cat. Dogs follow on your heels looking for love and attention. Cats, well, cats do their own thing. They get pet when they want affection, fed when they are hungry and left alone when people are the last thing they want to see.
Yeah, I really wish I wasn't so allergic to cats. I think I'd make a great cat person. But, I guess I'd still need a dog, too. Oh, well.
Most people would agree that there are two kinds of people in the world... or at least in the U.S.: Dog People and Cat People. Growing up, my dad bred, raised and trained dogs, but we always had a cat, too. Therefore, I thought of myself as an equal-opportunity pet lover. I will have to say, however, that as much as I loved playing with puppies, my pet was always a cat.
Always, that is, until a freak accident occurred in high school and I ended up being allergic to cats for the rest of my life. It's kind of like Spiderman or Static Shock-- except instead of getting super powers, I got super allergies. eew.
Since that time, I have feigned hatred of cats and settled into my destiny as a "Dog Person." More specifically, I love golden retrievers. You know how they say pets and owners look alike? Well, I think they might have similar personalities, too.
Take my love of golden retrievers, for example. They are really wonderful, sweet, albeit slightly neurotic, dogs. I wouldn't say that label is too far off from myself. The other thing about goldens, and a lot of dogs, is that they want to please and appease their owners. They are, in affect, people pleasers.
Ouch. That arrow hit the bulls eye dead center.
Even though I am a confessed people pleaser, myself, there are so many times when I just want to hide away from the world; do my own thing. These are the times I wish I was more like a cat. Dogs follow on your heels looking for love and attention. Cats, well, cats do their own thing. They get pet when they want affection, fed when they are hungry and left alone when people are the last thing they want to see.
Yeah, I really wish I wasn't so allergic to cats. I think I'd make a great cat person. But, I guess I'd still need a dog, too. Oh, well.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
True North
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. ~Matthew 5:8
We've focused on this verse over the last couple of weeks in church. We're in the middle, or perhaps toward the end, of a series on the Beatitudes. The first week my pastor spoke on this verse, he prayed a prayer just for me. He may not have known it, but he did and I told him so afterward. His prayer was that some in the congregation may not even want to see God, but that He would be with them still.
In college, I learned a worship song called Open The Eyes of My Heart. The premise of the song is that it is a petition to God to open the "eyes of my heart" so that I could see Him. I don't know how many times I have sung this song with altered lyrics, or not at all, because honestly, the thought of seeing God "high and lifted up, shining in the light of [His] glory" terrified me. I mean, think about it, Saul saw Jesus on the road to Damascus and was blinded for days. Moses met with God on the mountaintop and came down so luminous that the Jewish people begged him to go away-- just from being in the presence of God! And let me tell you, verses like this one have not helped in my stigma of fearing the sight of God.
I spoke with my pastor about this and have been mulling over our conversation. Last night I prayed for the courage to even ask to come into His presence-- an honor Christ's death and resurrection has told us to proclaim boldly. As I was praying, it hit me: I still cling to the tenements of law. Now, I know that I have been saved by grace through faith, it is a gift and "not by works so that no one can boast" as stated in Ephesians, but somewhere, deep down inside, I still believe that I have to do something in order to earn God's trust, His love, His presence.
I look at verses like the one above and I see an "if, then" equation, a cause and effect. When I read it, I read "if you purify your heart, then you can see God" or "because you have purified your heart, you are allowed to see God." Honestly, with that sort of stipulation, no wonder I fear the presence of God!
My pastor said that in the Greek, "pure" means undivided, whole. I can never cause my heart to wholly and soley seek God. Therefore, I fear entering into His presence because I know I can never purify my own heart. What's more, I take verses such as this and set my sights not on seeing God, but on making my own heart pure. How tricky is my own self idolatry! I've taken even the word of God and made it about me.
In truth, I have steered my efforts away from seeking God, and more toward "perfecting" myself. Realizing this led me to think again on the sermons related to seeing God. During the last sermon, the pastor stated that our Christian lives "start in mercy, proceed in mercy and end in mercy." Our lives are a journey begun and finished by God.
Most journeymen will tell you the most effective tool to have on any trek is a compass. However, if you've ever seen a compass, you'd know it has two readings for North. You see, the earth's gravitational pull offsets the readings of a magnetic compass ever so slightly, thus effecting the compass reading. In order to counter-balance the gravitational pull, compass makers began to make two positions to read for North: Magnetic North and True North.
Just as the gravitational pull of the earth effects the readings of a magnetic compass, my own divisiveness effects the actions, intentions and proceedings of my heart. In this my greatest fears are both justified and waylaid. It is 100% true -I cannot purify my own heart; I cannot steer it wholly toward God-- clearly my own attempts to navigate the path continue to pull short of True North.
However, it is only by God's work in me, through the Holy Spirit, that I can even have the courage to ask to seek Him. And in *that* journey, He will purify my heart, refine my inmost being. He is, after all, the Alpha and the Omega; the Beginning and the End. I can begin no good work that He has not already begun in me.
Tonight when I think I will pray for direction on this journey; I will pray for the Holy Spirit to steer me past My North, straight on to True North.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. ~Matthew 5:8
We've focused on this verse over the last couple of weeks in church. We're in the middle, or perhaps toward the end, of a series on the Beatitudes. The first week my pastor spoke on this verse, he prayed a prayer just for me. He may not have known it, but he did and I told him so afterward. His prayer was that some in the congregation may not even want to see God, but that He would be with them still.
In college, I learned a worship song called Open The Eyes of My Heart. The premise of the song is that it is a petition to God to open the "eyes of my heart" so that I could see Him. I don't know how many times I have sung this song with altered lyrics, or not at all, because honestly, the thought of seeing God "high and lifted up, shining in the light of [His] glory" terrified me. I mean, think about it, Saul saw Jesus on the road to Damascus and was blinded for days. Moses met with God on the mountaintop and came down so luminous that the Jewish people begged him to go away-- just from being in the presence of God! And let me tell you, verses like this one have not helped in my stigma of fearing the sight of God.
I spoke with my pastor about this and have been mulling over our conversation. Last night I prayed for the courage to even ask to come into His presence-- an honor Christ's death and resurrection has told us to proclaim boldly. As I was praying, it hit me: I still cling to the tenements of law. Now, I know that I have been saved by grace through faith, it is a gift and "not by works so that no one can boast" as stated in Ephesians, but somewhere, deep down inside, I still believe that I have to do something in order to earn God's trust, His love, His presence.
I look at verses like the one above and I see an "if, then" equation, a cause and effect. When I read it, I read "if you purify your heart, then you can see God" or "because you have purified your heart, you are allowed to see God." Honestly, with that sort of stipulation, no wonder I fear the presence of God!
My pastor said that in the Greek, "pure" means undivided, whole. I can never cause my heart to wholly and soley seek God. Therefore, I fear entering into His presence because I know I can never purify my own heart. What's more, I take verses such as this and set my sights not on seeing God, but on making my own heart pure. How tricky is my own self idolatry! I've taken even the word of God and made it about me.
In truth, I have steered my efforts away from seeking God, and more toward "perfecting" myself. Realizing this led me to think again on the sermons related to seeing God. During the last sermon, the pastor stated that our Christian lives "start in mercy, proceed in mercy and end in mercy." Our lives are a journey begun and finished by God.
Most journeymen will tell you the most effective tool to have on any trek is a compass. However, if you've ever seen a compass, you'd know it has two readings for North. You see, the earth's gravitational pull offsets the readings of a magnetic compass ever so slightly, thus effecting the compass reading. In order to counter-balance the gravitational pull, compass makers began to make two positions to read for North: Magnetic North and True North.
Just as the gravitational pull of the earth effects the readings of a magnetic compass, my own divisiveness effects the actions, intentions and proceedings of my heart. In this my greatest fears are both justified and waylaid. It is 100% true -I cannot purify my own heart; I cannot steer it wholly toward God-- clearly my own attempts to navigate the path continue to pull short of True North.
However, it is only by God's work in me, through the Holy Spirit, that I can even have the courage to ask to seek Him. And in *that* journey, He will purify my heart, refine my inmost being. He is, after all, the Alpha and the Omega; the Beginning and the End. I can begin no good work that He has not already begun in me.
Tonight when I think I will pray for direction on this journey; I will pray for the Holy Spirit to steer me past My North, straight on to True North.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Shades of Grey
As I Christian, I often want to think in "black" and "white." I want absolutes. Honestly, it's not that repugnant of a demand, is it? After all, being a Christian means that I believe in One Absolute Truth. Having one's world set to the tune of a single Truth, the desire to see everything else meted out as "good" or "bad" really isn't all that strange.
However, the more I learn about this faith, the more I learn that Truth is not so much a line dividing "right" and "wrong," but more a beacon of light, a focal point from which light emits, illuminating those objects closest to the light and falling short on things further from it. The further we progress from the light, the darker, fuzzier, less clear objects (or objectives) become. The light doesn't just drop off, like an ocean floor, though. It gradually fades into the darkness; gradually succumbs to shades of grey.
So are the decisions and choices we make day in and out. Sometimes, they are brought into the light, shown for their true worth (good or bad). Sometimes they are too far into the darkness to explore or pursue, lest we lose ourselves in the darkness, as well. No, Truth isn't the fulcrum of a seesaw, it is a lighthouse island in the middle of the ocean.
Nothing on this earth is purely good or purely evil. There is always a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Take those schools in Georgia who shut down due to gas prices. People were enraged, were they not? I can hear the initial reactions (even in my own head), "Education should not have to suffer so you can save a buck!!!" But, what do you think that buck saved went to pay for? If those buses continued to run and guzzle gas at such significant prices, how deeply would it cut into the school budget? What program would suffer for the cost of gas? With public education funding already stretched tightly across the nation, what would a gouge like that do to an already slim budget?
There are so many sides to everything. So few choices between right and wrong these days. How can we really expect to stand on a line and dole out decisions to the left or the right? No, I believe there are many shades of grey to investigate; many levels of light and dark.
As I Christian, I often want to think in "black" and "white." I want absolutes. Honestly, it's not that repugnant of a demand, is it? After all, being a Christian means that I believe in One Absolute Truth. Having one's world set to the tune of a single Truth, the desire to see everything else meted out as "good" or "bad" really isn't all that strange.
However, the more I learn about this faith, the more I learn that Truth is not so much a line dividing "right" and "wrong," but more a beacon of light, a focal point from which light emits, illuminating those objects closest to the light and falling short on things further from it. The further we progress from the light, the darker, fuzzier, less clear objects (or objectives) become. The light doesn't just drop off, like an ocean floor, though. It gradually fades into the darkness; gradually succumbs to shades of grey.
So are the decisions and choices we make day in and out. Sometimes, they are brought into the light, shown for their true worth (good or bad). Sometimes they are too far into the darkness to explore or pursue, lest we lose ourselves in the darkness, as well. No, Truth isn't the fulcrum of a seesaw, it is a lighthouse island in the middle of the ocean.
Nothing on this earth is purely good or purely evil. There is always a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Take those schools in Georgia who shut down due to gas prices. People were enraged, were they not? I can hear the initial reactions (even in my own head), "Education should not have to suffer so you can save a buck!!!" But, what do you think that buck saved went to pay for? If those buses continued to run and guzzle gas at such significant prices, how deeply would it cut into the school budget? What program would suffer for the cost of gas? With public education funding already stretched tightly across the nation, what would a gouge like that do to an already slim budget?
There are so many sides to everything. So few choices between right and wrong these days. How can we really expect to stand on a line and dole out decisions to the left or the right? No, I believe there are many shades of grey to investigate; many levels of light and dark.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Build Me a Fire
Autumn finally hit my city today. The rains came last night, sweeping aside the curtain of humidity, revealing a stage set with clear blue skies and crisp temperatures.
I know Spring is supposed to be the season of love when the world is awakening from its icy slumber, emerging from hibernation, ready to seek interaction again, but Autumn might just outdo Spring for me. Spring's ardor is so blatant. Bright blooms cry out for attention. Wild creatures buzz and purr as phermones draw them out of their solitude. Hormones run rampant as skirt lengths recede up thighs.
Autumn, however, Autumn's allure is found in its seduction. Autumn draws you in. She sneaks up on you, like any temptress might. She offers you succor from the sweltering heat of her sister Summer. Autumn coos and whispers, "Cross my threshold. Enter my embrace, here you will be safe. Here you will find comfort from your weary days."
Her breath sweeps 'round your ears, cooling the senses. She entreats you with chilly nights warmed by crackling fires, toasted marshmallows and mulled wine. Her game is slow and deliberate. Unlike her brazen sister Spring, Autumn does not herald her arrival. She creeps in purposefully and, like the rising tide, arrives upon the stoop of your sand castle before the bridge is drawn. She rolls around the moat, breaches the outer wall and crashes your inner sanctuary only to ebb away with the sinking tide, leaving behind a wreckage fit for her barren sister Winter.
She is a vixen of the most wily kind, this season Autumn. With cinnamon and cider on her side, she coaxes you into sweaters and scarves and close-toed shoes. She awakens carnal instincts. She begs to be kindled, stirred, stoked and allowed to blaze freely, her light reflected in our eyes. But in the end, she dies away, leaving only embers, ashes and that smoky smell that lingers in your sweater for weeks and your mind ever more.
Autumn finally hit my city today. The rains came last night, sweeping aside the curtain of humidity, revealing a stage set with clear blue skies and crisp temperatures.
I know Spring is supposed to be the season of love when the world is awakening from its icy slumber, emerging from hibernation, ready to seek interaction again, but Autumn might just outdo Spring for me. Spring's ardor is so blatant. Bright blooms cry out for attention. Wild creatures buzz and purr as phermones draw them out of their solitude. Hormones run rampant as skirt lengths recede up thighs.
Autumn, however, Autumn's allure is found in its seduction. Autumn draws you in. She sneaks up on you, like any temptress might. She offers you succor from the sweltering heat of her sister Summer. Autumn coos and whispers, "Cross my threshold. Enter my embrace, here you will be safe. Here you will find comfort from your weary days."
Her breath sweeps 'round your ears, cooling the senses. She entreats you with chilly nights warmed by crackling fires, toasted marshmallows and mulled wine. Her game is slow and deliberate. Unlike her brazen sister Spring, Autumn does not herald her arrival. She creeps in purposefully and, like the rising tide, arrives upon the stoop of your sand castle before the bridge is drawn. She rolls around the moat, breaches the outer wall and crashes your inner sanctuary only to ebb away with the sinking tide, leaving behind a wreckage fit for her barren sister Winter.
She is a vixen of the most wily kind, this season Autumn. With cinnamon and cider on her side, she coaxes you into sweaters and scarves and close-toed shoes. She awakens carnal instincts. She begs to be kindled, stirred, stoked and allowed to blaze freely, her light reflected in our eyes. But in the end, she dies away, leaving only embers, ashes and that smoky smell that lingers in your sweater for weeks and your mind ever more.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
But... You Don't Even LIKE Children
It was laughable, really, me getting a job at a day care. However, I'd rather laugh with a paycheck than continue with my sobering stint of unemployment.
It was the summer after I graduated from college. I had neglected to inform my boss that I would be around for the summer before moving off and starting a new life. As luck would have it, I finally got around to telling her the day *after* she had hired someone to take my place. I don't think I even realized she was interviewing for my position. Of course, as I had worked in the office for two years, including the previous summer, she would rather have had me around than have to teach a newbie, but alas, my procrastination (and a lacking budget) truly worked against me.
Speaking of lacking budgets, I attempted to find a "respectable" job for about a month before the funds ran depressingly low and I broke down, applying for the first guaranteed prospect: working for the campus day care. You may be able to guess my friends' reactions from the title of this post, but I reassured them that everything would work out swimmingly. After all, I had a nephew whom I loved and he was a kid. Therefore, if a=b (I love my nephew) and b=c (my nephew is a kid), then a must equal c, right? Surely, I must love kids, right? Wrong.
I was the last person they hired for the summer and ended up being the "floater." Basically, I would go wherever a person was needed. At first I was "stuck" with the two and three year olds. Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings we had 18 of the little buggers, most of them ESL (English as Second Language). In the afternoon on those days, we had 5 kids, also some ESL, with one little boy who would NOT. STOP. CRYING.* Honestly, I don't know which was worse, the morning or the afternoon.
It wasn't until I this job that I understood the allure of "Happy Hour." Honestly, chasing after rugrats all day really wore me out and ran my spirits ragged. In a couple of weeks, though, I was moved to the four and five year old class. I *loved* it there. If you don't understand the different developmental stages of kids, let me help you out. Younger kids like to explore and learn on their own. They might have one or two bosom buddies with whom they will share their experiences. If you are not one of these people, back off-- or at least enter with caution.
Four and Five year olds, however, were fascinating. They played with me. They talked to me. They explained the inner-workings of their minds. Even the ESL kids could speak English for the most part and they even came out of their own worlds every once in a while to ask my name, to wonder who the heck I was and why I wanted to play with them.
Then my worst fear realized itself and I was switched back to the twos and threes. After playing with kids who would respond, I thought this sheer torture. That is, until Kevin repeated "truck" and Sam echoed "giraffe." At that moment, the moment where I realized they do pay attention and they actually want to learn from me, at that moment, my heart broke open and those chubby little hands massaged my soul into a play-doh-like goo.
I can honestly say those few short months at the day care changed my life forever. I loved playing with the four and five year olds, I even had some fun with the six to twelve year olds (though they work the nerves a bit themselves), but after I finally peered into a two year old's eyes and saw a little genius waiting to be taught, struggling to learn, inviting me into his independent little world-- after that, my heart was never the same.
Isn't it funny how that happens so often? You go somewhere to "teach" and end up "learning." I hope that never changes.
*Incidentally, this little boy did finally stop crying-- his last day at the day care. It was funny. He finally adapted and played and had fun. Then he had to leave all over again since he was just visiting the States for the summer from Korea. Poor little guy must have been so traumatized. = ( He taught me a lot, too.
It was laughable, really, me getting a job at a day care. However, I'd rather laugh with a paycheck than continue with my sobering stint of unemployment.
It was the summer after I graduated from college. I had neglected to inform my boss that I would be around for the summer before moving off and starting a new life. As luck would have it, I finally got around to telling her the day *after* she had hired someone to take my place. I don't think I even realized she was interviewing for my position. Of course, as I had worked in the office for two years, including the previous summer, she would rather have had me around than have to teach a newbie, but alas, my procrastination (and a lacking budget) truly worked against me.
Speaking of lacking budgets, I attempted to find a "respectable" job for about a month before the funds ran depressingly low and I broke down, applying for the first guaranteed prospect: working for the campus day care. You may be able to guess my friends' reactions from the title of this post, but I reassured them that everything would work out swimmingly. After all, I had a nephew whom I loved and he was a kid. Therefore, if a=b (I love my nephew) and b=c (my nephew is a kid), then a must equal c, right? Surely, I must love kids, right? Wrong.
I was the last person they hired for the summer and ended up being the "floater." Basically, I would go wherever a person was needed. At first I was "stuck" with the two and three year olds. Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings we had 18 of the little buggers, most of them ESL (English as Second Language). In the afternoon on those days, we had 5 kids, also some ESL, with one little boy who would NOT. STOP. CRYING.* Honestly, I don't know which was worse, the morning or the afternoon.
It wasn't until I this job that I understood the allure of "Happy Hour." Honestly, chasing after rugrats all day really wore me out and ran my spirits ragged. In a couple of weeks, though, I was moved to the four and five year old class. I *loved* it there. If you don't understand the different developmental stages of kids, let me help you out. Younger kids like to explore and learn on their own. They might have one or two bosom buddies with whom they will share their experiences. If you are not one of these people, back off-- or at least enter with caution.
Four and Five year olds, however, were fascinating. They played with me. They talked to me. They explained the inner-workings of their minds. Even the ESL kids could speak English for the most part and they even came out of their own worlds every once in a while to ask my name, to wonder who the heck I was and why I wanted to play with them.
Then my worst fear realized itself and I was switched back to the twos and threes. After playing with kids who would respond, I thought this sheer torture. That is, until Kevin repeated "truck" and Sam echoed "giraffe." At that moment, the moment where I realized they do pay attention and they actually want to learn from me, at that moment, my heart broke open and those chubby little hands massaged my soul into a play-doh-like goo.
I can honestly say those few short months at the day care changed my life forever. I loved playing with the four and five year olds, I even had some fun with the six to twelve year olds (though they work the nerves a bit themselves), but after I finally peered into a two year old's eyes and saw a little genius waiting to be taught, struggling to learn, inviting me into his independent little world-- after that, my heart was never the same.
Isn't it funny how that happens so often? You go somewhere to "teach" and end up "learning." I hope that never changes.
*Incidentally, this little boy did finally stop crying-- his last day at the day care. It was funny. He finally adapted and played and had fun. Then he had to leave all over again since he was just visiting the States for the summer from Korea. Poor little guy must have been so traumatized. = ( He taught me a lot, too.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Two Years Plus
Wow, it's been over two years since I started PRE. That's really odd to me. It doesn't feel like it's been two years. As a matter of fact, PRE was my second blogging endeavor, so it's been much more than two years since I entered the blogging world. Crazy, man, crazy.
I'm not as artsy as I used to be. I mean, on this blog. Actually, if I had to be honest, I'm probably not as artsy in real life, either. That's kind of sad. It's not that it takes much more time to be a little more creative, it's just that it takes just enough more time that I don't care to put the effort in to it.
I used to draw. With chalk. Not on sidewalks, although I did enough of that around my college campus in an effort to advertise events. But what I'm talking about is taking art chalks/pastels and a large sheet of paper and making something out of nothing. In college, actually, I wanted to decorate my room but didn't want to just buy posters of random things to put up, so I made my own. I took posterboard and old posters and covered them with pictures and phrases that inspired me. When I left college I left them behind.
Sometimes I feel when I left college I left too much behind. Granted, there are some pieces of immaturity that I was wont to leave-- thrift store chic can only get you so far in life before you have to "grow up." Even more so, thrift store chic mentality can only get you so far in life before you have to grow up.
I didn't think the chalk posters would wear well on the trek. And, honestly, I wouldn't have put them up again-- they aren't "me" any more. But sometimes I look at my chalks and I miss sitting on the hardwood floor of my little college apartment, music blaring, hands covered in color, art forming in front of me.
Today my artistic side tends to express itself most in fashion-- clothing, accessories, makeup. Especially makeup. It's the reason I'm a makeup addict, actually. I don't wear gobs and gobs of it, but I love the idea of creating with it. Makeup is an artistic outlet for me. I go into stores and before I know it, my hands are covered with shades like when I sat on that hardwood floor. Sitting in front of my mirror, I play and watch art form on the canvas that is my face.
And then I wash it away. I don't put it on my wall or save it in a scrap book. I watch it swirl down the drain or smear across my towel. So it is with my creativity these days. It is not so much documented here or in some journal, as it is painted into a flourish in my mind at night, only to be washed down the drain of forgetfulness by the maiden sleep. And what a detergent she is, for she leaves no trace of the masterpiece, save for a line or two smeared across my mind, a haunting residue of the art that was.
Wow, it's been over two years since I started PRE. That's really odd to me. It doesn't feel like it's been two years. As a matter of fact, PRE was my second blogging endeavor, so it's been much more than two years since I entered the blogging world. Crazy, man, crazy.
I'm not as artsy as I used to be. I mean, on this blog. Actually, if I had to be honest, I'm probably not as artsy in real life, either. That's kind of sad. It's not that it takes much more time to be a little more creative, it's just that it takes just enough more time that I don't care to put the effort in to it.
I used to draw. With chalk. Not on sidewalks, although I did enough of that around my college campus in an effort to advertise events. But what I'm talking about is taking art chalks/pastels and a large sheet of paper and making something out of nothing. In college, actually, I wanted to decorate my room but didn't want to just buy posters of random things to put up, so I made my own. I took posterboard and old posters and covered them with pictures and phrases that inspired me. When I left college I left them behind.
Sometimes I feel when I left college I left too much behind. Granted, there are some pieces of immaturity that I was wont to leave-- thrift store chic can only get you so far in life before you have to "grow up." Even more so, thrift store chic mentality can only get you so far in life before you have to grow up.
I didn't think the chalk posters would wear well on the trek. And, honestly, I wouldn't have put them up again-- they aren't "me" any more. But sometimes I look at my chalks and I miss sitting on the hardwood floor of my little college apartment, music blaring, hands covered in color, art forming in front of me.
Today my artistic side tends to express itself most in fashion-- clothing, accessories, makeup. Especially makeup. It's the reason I'm a makeup addict, actually. I don't wear gobs and gobs of it, but I love the idea of creating with it. Makeup is an artistic outlet for me. I go into stores and before I know it, my hands are covered with shades like when I sat on that hardwood floor. Sitting in front of my mirror, I play and watch art form on the canvas that is my face.
And then I wash it away. I don't put it on my wall or save it in a scrap book. I watch it swirl down the drain or smear across my towel. So it is with my creativity these days. It is not so much documented here or in some journal, as it is painted into a flourish in my mind at night, only to be washed down the drain of forgetfulness by the maiden sleep. And what a detergent she is, for she leaves no trace of the masterpiece, save for a line or two smeared across my mind, a haunting residue of the art that was.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Simulation Poverty
I don't know how many times a day or week I tell people I'm poor. I know I'm not actually poor. I'm not impoverished. I don't live on the streets and dig in dumpsters. So, I came up with a slant on the claim of being poor. Now I say, "I'm not poor, I'm indebted." In fact, that saying is more true than I could ever know.
Myles wrote a post recently about attempting to simulate poverty based on the HHS 2004 Poverty Guidelines. While an admirable challenge, I find at least one major flaw in his effort: it is an effort.
You see, I've worked with the poverty-stricken for a number of years now and if there's one thing I've learned from it all, it is this: circumstance plays such an enormous part of poverty. I have spoken to many men and women who have found themselves on the street and I only know of one who has really made an effort stay there. Granted, many men and women who find themselves on the street may give up trying to get off of them; they might succumb to the feeling that fate has cast them aside, but mostly, there is some attempt to rise above poverty.
Whether they be victims of natural disasters (such as the Katrina victims), drugs, alcohol, failed marriages, overwhelming hospital bills or run-aways from physical abuse, there's a feeling among a majority of the homeless and impoverished that poverty has beset them. They did not seek out poverty, it landed upon them. This leads to an attitude no simulation can ever replicate. It's the difference between being hit by a drunk driver and driving yourself into a pole. Both are tragic, but one is a choice and the other inflicted.
I don't know how many times a day or week I tell people I'm poor. I know I'm not actually poor. I'm not impoverished. I don't live on the streets and dig in dumpsters. So, I came up with a slant on the claim of being poor. Now I say, "I'm not poor, I'm indebted." In fact, that saying is more true than I could ever know.
Myles wrote a post recently about attempting to simulate poverty based on the HHS 2004 Poverty Guidelines. While an admirable challenge, I find at least one major flaw in his effort: it is an effort.
You see, I've worked with the poverty-stricken for a number of years now and if there's one thing I've learned from it all, it is this: circumstance plays such an enormous part of poverty. I have spoken to many men and women who have found themselves on the street and I only know of one who has really made an effort stay there. Granted, many men and women who find themselves on the street may give up trying to get off of them; they might succumb to the feeling that fate has cast them aside, but mostly, there is some attempt to rise above poverty.
Whether they be victims of natural disasters (such as the Katrina victims), drugs, alcohol, failed marriages, overwhelming hospital bills or run-aways from physical abuse, there's a feeling among a majority of the homeless and impoverished that poverty has beset them. They did not seek out poverty, it landed upon them. This leads to an attitude no simulation can ever replicate. It's the difference between being hit by a drunk driver and driving yourself into a pole. Both are tragic, but one is a choice and the other inflicted.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Someone Paved the Sky
While we rested unaware
Warming neglected beds
Vandals tricked the starry hunter
Washed him with cement
Orion where were you,
Where was your bow
Faithful guardian on high?
Not satisfied with fields and forests
They went and paved the sky
The sun won't rise or call the moon
To offer hope of light
They're trapped beneath the stone horizon
Where highway becomes sky
No longer simply under foot
But heavy over head
Eyes fall on steely monochrome
No green, no blue, no red
The world's faded into grey
Apparently over night
While we rested unaware
Someone paved the sky
~me
While we rested unaware
Warming neglected beds
Vandals tricked the starry hunter
Washed him with cement
Orion where were you,
Where was your bow
Faithful guardian on high?
Not satisfied with fields and forests
They went and paved the sky
The sun won't rise or call the moon
To offer hope of light
They're trapped beneath the stone horizon
Where highway becomes sky
No longer simply under foot
But heavy over head
Eyes fall on steely monochrome
No green, no blue, no red
The world's faded into grey
Apparently over night
While we rested unaware
Someone paved the sky
~me
Monday, September 12, 2005
I Left My Heart In...
I was Saturday night. The heat of the day had finally ebbed into a respectable temper. Overhead, a nearly half-sated moon cast a surprisingly bright light for its dark, maize-colored demeanor. Not a cloud dared vandalize the ebony canvas, though stars smattered about defiantly here and there.
Windows rolled down, the still night air forced to movement by my speeding vehicle, I allowed my senses to soak in the world around me-- including those emitting from my stereo. And then, with six simple beats of a song, it hit me: I have given away or inadvertently lost so many pieces of my heart that I'm surprised I have any love left to give at all.
It's funny how a beautiful night can remind you of love; how a simple song can remind you of times gone by. With those six beats I remembered someone who had stolen a piece of my heart that I may never see again. That memory triggered others and before I knew it, the cool breeze through my windows began to bite instead of refresh and the dark, open sky signaled loss instead of opportunity.
And yet, I continued to remember and with those memories came relief and gratitude, for even though my heart has traveled where my body never has, it still has more to give. Instead of despair at the love I have lost, I thanked God for the love I've been blessed to give and receive, and the ability to continue to do so.
With that realization, the horizon burst open once again as one of opportunity. The road unfurled before me leading to new adventures. My heart, rising and falling within my chest to the rhythm of the night once more. The song ended and I rewound it, listening to it with fresh, appreciative ears; grateful to be able to feel at all.
I was Saturday night. The heat of the day had finally ebbed into a respectable temper. Overhead, a nearly half-sated moon cast a surprisingly bright light for its dark, maize-colored demeanor. Not a cloud dared vandalize the ebony canvas, though stars smattered about defiantly here and there.
Windows rolled down, the still night air forced to movement by my speeding vehicle, I allowed my senses to soak in the world around me-- including those emitting from my stereo. And then, with six simple beats of a song, it hit me: I have given away or inadvertently lost so many pieces of my heart that I'm surprised I have any love left to give at all.
It's funny how a beautiful night can remind you of love; how a simple song can remind you of times gone by. With those six beats I remembered someone who had stolen a piece of my heart that I may never see again. That memory triggered others and before I knew it, the cool breeze through my windows began to bite instead of refresh and the dark, open sky signaled loss instead of opportunity.
And yet, I continued to remember and with those memories came relief and gratitude, for even though my heart has traveled where my body never has, it still has more to give. Instead of despair at the love I have lost, I thanked God for the love I've been blessed to give and receive, and the ability to continue to do so.
With that realization, the horizon burst open once again as one of opportunity. The road unfurled before me leading to new adventures. My heart, rising and falling within my chest to the rhythm of the night once more. The song ended and I rewound it, listening to it with fresh, appreciative ears; grateful to be able to feel at all.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Hiya Boys and Girls
hmmm, that headline makes me feel like Bozo the Clown, or some other creepy clown, I don't think I like that.
Speaking of Bozo the Clown, my elementary school used to have carnivals for fundraisers (I think that's what they were for, for me it was just fun) and my mom would volunteer and always ended up manning the "Bozo Buckets" game where you had to throw pouches into buckets and you got a prize depending on how far down the line (and farther from where you stood) you could get the beanbag in the bucket. Yeah... welcome to my unbridled stream of consciousness.
Have I ever told you that my parents used to make me "ding" at the dinner table? It's true. Actually, I think it might have been my sister's idea-- sounds like something an older sister would think of. Anyhooo, yeah, I was encouraged to "ding" when I changed subjects because my mind would run along at a speed beyond that of normal human comprehension. Therefore, I would be talking about school lunch and then switch to what happened on the bus ride home before my family had any idea what was going on. My mind kind of works in a "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" type way where I associate two random events based on a string of occurrences without actually going through those occurrences with the people around me. yeah. that's it.
I don't know why I'm rambling today. Maybe I just need to "purge" my mind a little. Get out the random stuff so I can actually focus on what needs to be done. This is helping.
What I really wanted to say here, today, is that I really appreciate everyone's support of my decisions-- whether that be to run a marathon, or to realize that it's not going to happen. Thank you. I appreciate your support more than I could iterate at this moment. It means a lot to me. AND, if you got through all that mumbo jumbo at the beginning of this post, then you deserve an extra thanks. ;-)
as a side note, I had to "ignore" a lot during the spell check of this post. that makes me laugh. (especially for an aspiring copy editor type person such as myself)
the end.
hmmm, that headline makes me feel like Bozo the Clown, or some other creepy clown, I don't think I like that.
Speaking of Bozo the Clown, my elementary school used to have carnivals for fundraisers (I think that's what they were for, for me it was just fun) and my mom would volunteer and always ended up manning the "Bozo Buckets" game where you had to throw pouches into buckets and you got a prize depending on how far down the line (and farther from where you stood) you could get the beanbag in the bucket. Yeah... welcome to my unbridled stream of consciousness.
Have I ever told you that my parents used to make me "ding" at the dinner table? It's true. Actually, I think it might have been my sister's idea-- sounds like something an older sister would think of. Anyhooo, yeah, I was encouraged to "ding" when I changed subjects because my mind would run along at a speed beyond that of normal human comprehension. Therefore, I would be talking about school lunch and then switch to what happened on the bus ride home before my family had any idea what was going on. My mind kind of works in a "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" type way where I associate two random events based on a string of occurrences without actually going through those occurrences with the people around me. yeah. that's it.
I don't know why I'm rambling today. Maybe I just need to "purge" my mind a little. Get out the random stuff so I can actually focus on what needs to be done. This is helping.
What I really wanted to say here, today, is that I really appreciate everyone's support of my decisions-- whether that be to run a marathon, or to realize that it's not going to happen. Thank you. I appreciate your support more than I could iterate at this moment. It means a lot to me. AND, if you got through all that mumbo jumbo at the beginning of this post, then you deserve an extra thanks. ;-)
as a side note, I had to "ignore" a lot during the spell check of this post. that makes me laugh. (especially for an aspiring copy editor type person such as myself)
the end.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Defeat
Or shall I say "de-feet"? Yeah, it's a bad pun, I know, but I'm feeling bad enough to use it.
After much counsel, prayer and debate, I have chosen not to recommit to the Nike marathon. There are many, many variables to factor in to the equation.
It was a very difficult decision, but am now certain it was the correct one. Thank you for your support. 100% of all donations already given will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, which is actually better than the 75% they would have received had I continued. So, at least that's good.
I'm going now. Talk to you later.
Or shall I say "de-feet"? Yeah, it's a bad pun, I know, but I'm feeling bad enough to use it.
After much counsel, prayer and debate, I have chosen not to recommit to the Nike marathon. There are many, many variables to factor in to the equation.
It was a very difficult decision, but am now certain it was the correct one. Thank you for your support. 100% of all donations already given will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, which is actually better than the 75% they would have received had I continued. So, at least that's good.
I'm going now. Talk to you later.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
I Need a Hero
In eighth grade I dated a boy named Dave (and by dated I mean we mutually liked each other for a few weeks and once held hands during a school basketball game). Dave was a ninth grader and the typical class clown. He was goofy, outgoing and mischievous. I don't remember when it was that I first noticed him or how we came to meet, but I'm pretty sure I will always remember him.
I will remember Dave in the same way I remember my elementary school boyfriend, Randy. You see, one day during our fun class hour some guy made fun of me and Dave beat him up. In the same way, Randy once tackled his best friend because he was chasing me down. Granted, I do not condone fighting, it is not a solution to anything, but those might have been some of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
I have no idea what those boys are up to now, but I will remember them as heroes. I will remember that they defended me, regardless of the consequence. Dave got kicked out of his favorite class and Randy faced the wrath of choosing to side with a girl over his best friend, even in second or third grade. They found defending my honor worthy of receiving punishment of their own.
On the recommendation of a friend, I just started reading a book called Captivating. Normally, I'm quite skeptical of Christian self-help books. So, I was happy to read that this wasn't one, but just seemed like one. Being that I just started, I will not, as of yet, give my endorsement of this book, but it brought up a point that I wanted to share.
At the very onset of the book, the authors, John and Stasi Eldridge, state things they believe are true of all women. One of those 'universalities' is that all women want a hero. Over the past few weeks, this concept has been becoming more and more apparent to me, more and more real.
I know I'm not the only woman who was brought up on fairy tales filled with princes sweeping fair maidens away, revealing the true princess hiding inside even the most commonplace of girls. Throughout the years, however, I've become jaded to ideas of white knights slaying hideous captors, rescuing me from my isolated turret in order to ride off into the sunset. Really, it's not fair to hold men to such fantasies, is it? Maybe not.
Not only do the authors state that women want a hero, they claim that men desire to be a hero. Like Dave and Randy, men want to be able to stand up for and defend a worthy woman. (There are obvious Biblical allusions here to Christ standing up for and defending His Bride the Church even unto death, but I won't go into that) According to the authors, men want something worth fighting for and women want to be worthy.
It's an interesting concept and I'm still soaking it in. I'm made to desire to be worthy of the affections of others. And I'm made to give affection. I'm not only made to want a hero, I'm made to be worthy of one.
In eighth grade I dated a boy named Dave (and by dated I mean we mutually liked each other for a few weeks and once held hands during a school basketball game). Dave was a ninth grader and the typical class clown. He was goofy, outgoing and mischievous. I don't remember when it was that I first noticed him or how we came to meet, but I'm pretty sure I will always remember him.
I will remember Dave in the same way I remember my elementary school boyfriend, Randy. You see, one day during our fun class hour some guy made fun of me and Dave beat him up. In the same way, Randy once tackled his best friend because he was chasing me down. Granted, I do not condone fighting, it is not a solution to anything, but those might have been some of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
I have no idea what those boys are up to now, but I will remember them as heroes. I will remember that they defended me, regardless of the consequence. Dave got kicked out of his favorite class and Randy faced the wrath of choosing to side with a girl over his best friend, even in second or third grade. They found defending my honor worthy of receiving punishment of their own.
On the recommendation of a friend, I just started reading a book called Captivating. Normally, I'm quite skeptical of Christian self-help books. So, I was happy to read that this wasn't one, but just seemed like one. Being that I just started, I will not, as of yet, give my endorsement of this book, but it brought up a point that I wanted to share.
At the very onset of the book, the authors, John and Stasi Eldridge, state things they believe are true of all women. One of those 'universalities' is that all women want a hero. Over the past few weeks, this concept has been becoming more and more apparent to me, more and more real.
I know I'm not the only woman who was brought up on fairy tales filled with princes sweeping fair maidens away, revealing the true princess hiding inside even the most commonplace of girls. Throughout the years, however, I've become jaded to ideas of white knights slaying hideous captors, rescuing me from my isolated turret in order to ride off into the sunset. Really, it's not fair to hold men to such fantasies, is it? Maybe not.
Not only do the authors state that women want a hero, they claim that men desire to be a hero. Like Dave and Randy, men want to be able to stand up for and defend a worthy woman. (There are obvious Biblical allusions here to Christ standing up for and defending His Bride the Church even unto death, but I won't go into that) According to the authors, men want something worth fighting for and women want to be worthy.
It's an interesting concept and I'm still soaking it in. I'm made to desire to be worthy of the affections of others. And I'm made to give affection. I'm not only made to want a hero, I'm made to be worthy of one.
Monday, August 08, 2005
HELP!
So, I've hit a mega wall with my marathon training. Not only have I injured both of my I.T. bands (something that can be worked out, but takes extra time and money), my asthma has been kicking my butt this summer and my fundraising hasn't been going so well (to say the least).
After much debate, I thought about bowing out of the race. However, I have received a little more affirmation and would like to recommit to run the 1/2 instead of the full-- IF I can get the required funds in by TOMORROW!
I don't need 100% of the funds in order to recommit, just 50%. That's $1,600-- compared with the $575 I have already raised.
Here's where you can help.
If you ever thought about donating to the cause, now's the time. Go here to donate now. I'm really looking for a sign here in order to continue.
Please help. = (
~me
p.s.-- thank you very, very much to those of you who have already donated! you guys rock! = ) If I do have to bow out, please know that 100% of your donations will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I am really hoping to be able to go on, though, with renewed energy and spirit.
So, I've hit a mega wall with my marathon training. Not only have I injured both of my I.T. bands (something that can be worked out, but takes extra time and money), my asthma has been kicking my butt this summer and my fundraising hasn't been going so well (to say the least).
After much debate, I thought about bowing out of the race. However, I have received a little more affirmation and would like to recommit to run the 1/2 instead of the full-- IF I can get the required funds in by TOMORROW!
I don't need 100% of the funds in order to recommit, just 50%. That's $1,600-- compared with the $575 I have already raised.
Here's where you can help.
If you ever thought about donating to the cause, now's the time. Go here to donate now. I'm really looking for a sign here in order to continue.
Please help. = (
~me
p.s.-- thank you very, very much to those of you who have already donated! you guys rock! = ) If I do have to bow out, please know that 100% of your donations will go to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I am really hoping to be able to go on, though, with renewed energy and spirit.
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