Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, June 01, 2009
Judas
Without my betrayal the prophecy fails
No crown of thorns; no cross and no nails
So I ask for deliverance from my destiny
My name is Judas; someone had to be me
~Judas by Griffin House
Few characters provoke such complete hatred throughout history as Judas Iscariot. In his Inferno, Dante names the very center of hell after Jesus' betrayer. There Judas receives the most severe punishment of all damned souls, an eternity head-first in the central mouth of Satan, the ultimate traitor, with his back continuously grated by the fallen angel's claws.
And yet, God shows us time and again that He is a God of foreshadowing and significance. Were He not, He would not laid out hundreds of prophecies, such as the one alluded to in the song verse above, for His Son to fulfill. Were He not a God of foreshadowing, He would not have had the prophet Hosea mate with a whore and then call his children Not Loved and Not My People only to have them redeemed in the end. He is a God who uses names, uses things people already know to announce the things they could never understand.
When I look at the life of Judas, I concede that I will never understand. Here was a man who followed Jesus, the Messiah; followed Him and knew all He did and, what's more, knew He did it in the name of The Lord. And yet, he sold Him for a sack of coins. Then, in the end, he took his own life out of shame and despondency.
If one believes in free will, one can easily claim "Judas did as he saw fit and then felt bad. He did as a man would do." But, if one adheres to a faith of predestination, then someone had to be Judas, right? Someone had to betray Jesus or else God's plan doesn't unfold like it ought to. And then, does that person deserve to suffer an eternity parted from the God he more than likely believed and never had a chance of fully serving?
It's easier for me to believe that, in his humanity, man will choose to walk away from God than it is for be to believe that a loving God will choose to send man to eternity in hell. And yet, it's also easier for me to believe more that a loving God will allow people into heaven after all we've done to not deserve it than it is for me to agree that we could ever earn our way in.
The answer, then, my friends, is that I don't know. And I don't understand.
What a freeing answer it is.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
do you dare to dream?
He remembered the day well: the day he heard that he who holds the dreams holds the keys. That was the day he forbade himself to ever dream again.
Now, this might seem like some silly notion of your average schoolboy, but, schoolboy or otherwise, this one was neither silly nor average. He was the kind of boy others sat up and took notice of. Books stood at his command, begging to be pulled from the shelves and understood in some new, enlightened way. Little girls gave him a wide berth out of respect and awe they couldn't quite place.
They knew it wasn't the valor of the star athlete. Neither was it the authority of the class president or the teacher's pet. Closer still, but not quite there, was the reverent fear of the trouble maker. Devoid completely of the over-slicked salesman.
In essence, he contained all of the bravery, ingenuity and intrique and none of the qualms. And no one knew why.
He knew why. He was the boy who refused to dream and, therefore, having no dreams to lock him in, could always live free.
Little did he know that dreams, wont as he was to dismiss them, are things that can't help but exist. And exist they did...in the deep recesses and insulated caverns within. Wall to wall to wall the dreams meet and share. They bend and shape. They intertwine and recreate each other. In the end, they can not help but converge into an exploding kaleidoscope of what could have beens and never should have beens and what ifs and what was thats and that just can't bes.
But for now, they simmer. He is not as yet aware of all that he has banished from his awarness and how that will forever change his life.
and soon.
Now, this might seem like some silly notion of your average schoolboy, but, schoolboy or otherwise, this one was neither silly nor average. He was the kind of boy others sat up and took notice of. Books stood at his command, begging to be pulled from the shelves and understood in some new, enlightened way. Little girls gave him a wide berth out of respect and awe they couldn't quite place.
They knew it wasn't the valor of the star athlete. Neither was it the authority of the class president or the teacher's pet. Closer still, but not quite there, was the reverent fear of the trouble maker. Devoid completely of the over-slicked salesman.
In essence, he contained all of the bravery, ingenuity and intrique and none of the qualms. And no one knew why.
He knew why. He was the boy who refused to dream and, therefore, having no dreams to lock him in, could always live free.
Little did he know that dreams, wont as he was to dismiss them, are things that can't help but exist. And exist they did...in the deep recesses and insulated caverns within. Wall to wall to wall the dreams meet and share. They bend and shape. They intertwine and recreate each other. In the end, they can not help but converge into an exploding kaleidoscope of what could have beens and never should have beens and what ifs and what was thats and that just can't bes.
But for now, they simmer. He is not as yet aware of all that he has banished from his awarness and how that will forever change his life.
and soon.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
As far as the East is from the West
Despite her best efforts, my mother fell short at teaching me any sort of navigational directions as a child. She would test my senses on routine trips and ventures, only to to be met, time and time again, with my complete oblivion. In fact, my sense of direction was so horrible that it became a family joke (though more "funny/sad"--because it was true---than "funny/haha") that prudence would advise taking the opposite direction of whichever way I suggested. All I knew was that when my mom drove me to day care in the morning, the sun was on my side of the car and when she picked me up at night, it was still there, on my side.
As I got older I earned the privilege of riding my bike to friends' houses. One time I actually rode my bicycle a good twenty minutes in the wrong direction because I couldn't remember whether I should turn left or right at the bike trail entrance. That was my first, and needless to say last for quite some time, endeavor to venture on my own on the trail.
It wasn't until driver's ed that my dubious sense of direction was overcome by something much, much stronger: my stubbornness. Meaning well, our instructor told us that men tend to use concrete methods of navigation, such as compass directions and mileage, whereas women use landmarks and other temporal objects (turn left at that deli we had lunch at the week before Easter last year...). Then he continued to explain why the "manly way" was better: restaurants close, buildings change ownership or are torn down, there may be more than one of them, etc. etc.
This was the point where I decided I wanted to learn the lay of the land and finally took notice of my surroundings.
After that I learned my hometown is laid out like a grid, streets running east and west starting at Lake Michigan, avenues running north and south starting at the northern county border. Finding an address in that city is one of the easiest things a person could ever do, with one or two exceptions thrown in here and there.
This system became my directional point of reference; so much so that it took me a moment to readjust at college when the nearest lake was to the north of campus, not the east. And then I moved to Nashville--a place where East Nashville is technically north of the city and West End practically runs down the middle of it. Here I've had to once again realign and recenter my internal compass in order to make heads or tails of the city layout.
Sometimes, however, navigating a city proves far simpler than navigating one's self. Oftentimes I still feel like the little girl sitting in the passenger's seat on the way to the Reddlin's house, telling my mom to turn right on 85th when she knew we were suppose to turn left into the cul du sac-filled neighborhood just up the road. I feel like I haven't yet met that well-meaning driver's ed instructor of life who will off-handedly tell me the way to break out of my nonchalance.
Yet this nonchalance, this system navigation, has less to do with moving vehicles than it has to do with something so much more industrial, more dangerous, more demanding. This navigational system I now find myself in is not a grid with easy rules. You can not graph this on your TI-85. And yet, like my self from yester years, I sit at a junction with the question hanging overhead: "Which way do I go?"
And I am still afraid that I will choose the wrong path. What's more, I'm afraid of not learning anything by turning right when the answer was left. There are answers everywhere. Maybe the question shouldn't be which way do I go but "what will I learn and who will be willing to let me learn and learn along side me?" I think those are the more important questions. '
As far as east is from the west. That's how far my thoughts are from yours. I know. It seems that leaves a massive gulch in which we all might revel and careen and err and be tangled or loosed, to be broken and redeemed.
East is the car ride in to my day care and west is the car ride home. Between is the gully in which we live and play and breathe and sob and eat and rest and revive. And Hope.
I am no longer a child. I know how to get to the Reddlin's. Now I just need to stop second guessing myself. I know where I am: between the east and the west. Helping me have confidence in that. For that is what I need. here. in the in between.
Despite her best efforts, my mother fell short at teaching me any sort of navigational directions as a child. She would test my senses on routine trips and ventures, only to to be met, time and time again, with my complete oblivion. In fact, my sense of direction was so horrible that it became a family joke (though more "funny/sad"--because it was true---than "funny/haha") that prudence would advise taking the opposite direction of whichever way I suggested. All I knew was that when my mom drove me to day care in the morning, the sun was on my side of the car and when she picked me up at night, it was still there, on my side.
As I got older I earned the privilege of riding my bike to friends' houses. One time I actually rode my bicycle a good twenty minutes in the wrong direction because I couldn't remember whether I should turn left or right at the bike trail entrance. That was my first, and needless to say last for quite some time, endeavor to venture on my own on the trail.
It wasn't until driver's ed that my dubious sense of direction was overcome by something much, much stronger: my stubbornness. Meaning well, our instructor told us that men tend to use concrete methods of navigation, such as compass directions and mileage, whereas women use landmarks and other temporal objects (turn left at that deli we had lunch at the week before Easter last year...). Then he continued to explain why the "manly way" was better: restaurants close, buildings change ownership or are torn down, there may be more than one of them, etc. etc.
This was the point where I decided I wanted to learn the lay of the land and finally took notice of my surroundings.
After that I learned my hometown is laid out like a grid, streets running east and west starting at Lake Michigan, avenues running north and south starting at the northern county border. Finding an address in that city is one of the easiest things a person could ever do, with one or two exceptions thrown in here and there.
This system became my directional point of reference; so much so that it took me a moment to readjust at college when the nearest lake was to the north of campus, not the east. And then I moved to Nashville--a place where East Nashville is technically north of the city and West End practically runs down the middle of it. Here I've had to once again realign and recenter my internal compass in order to make heads or tails of the city layout.
Sometimes, however, navigating a city proves far simpler than navigating one's self. Oftentimes I still feel like the little girl sitting in the passenger's seat on the way to the Reddlin's house, telling my mom to turn right on 85th when she knew we were suppose to turn left into the cul du sac-filled neighborhood just up the road. I feel like I haven't yet met that well-meaning driver's ed instructor of life who will off-handedly tell me the way to break out of my nonchalance.
Yet this nonchalance, this system navigation, has less to do with moving vehicles than it has to do with something so much more industrial, more dangerous, more demanding. This navigational system I now find myself in is not a grid with easy rules. You can not graph this on your TI-85. And yet, like my self from yester years, I sit at a junction with the question hanging overhead: "Which way do I go?"
And I am still afraid that I will choose the wrong path. What's more, I'm afraid of not learning anything by turning right when the answer was left. There are answers everywhere. Maybe the question shouldn't be which way do I go but "what will I learn and who will be willing to let me learn and learn along side me?" I think those are the more important questions. '
As far as east is from the west. That's how far my thoughts are from yours. I know. It seems that leaves a massive gulch in which we all might revel and careen and err and be tangled or loosed, to be broken and redeemed.
East is the car ride in to my day care and west is the car ride home. Between is the gully in which we live and play and breathe and sob and eat and rest and revive. And Hope.
I am no longer a child. I know how to get to the Reddlin's. Now I just need to stop second guessing myself. I know where I am: between the east and the west. Helping me have confidence in that. For that is what I need. here. in the in between.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
TWO & THREE
Unsure of how long she would have to wait and unable to contain her nervous energy, she stood up and began to walk aimlessly around the room. Though her feet moved slowly, her eyes passed quickly over the room and then out of the large windows lining the side of the room across from the door.
Outside, half a dozen blackbirds congregated on the power lines watching a lone bird of tan and gold hop nimbly from branch to near-naked branch of a great oak nearby. She continued to watch, entranced, as two squirrels swept up the trunk of the massive tree in frantic, dizzying circles looking, presumably, for the last few acorns they could forage before fall finally gave way to winter. As the feuding squirrels neared the solitary bird, it sprung from its perch and drifted softly to the ground like so many leaves had before it.
Once there, it continued its quirky little hop off toward the front of the house where she knew it must be going to rummage under the bushes that trailed from each side of the stoop. For some reason she felt more connected to that lone, little bird hunting and pecking through everyone else's leftovers for something, anything of substance. She watched it hopping as long as she could see it, but it was gone before too long and her attention turned back toward the empty room.
As she turned back into the room, she caught a bit of motion out of the corner of her eye. She was instinctively drawn toward it. Heading along the windows back toward the front of the house, she rounded the edge of the couch and came to a corner hutch. The dim light from the dreary day only glinted slightly across the windows in the door. The movement came from inside the cabinet.
Looking around first to be sure she was still alone, she opened the cabinet door, reached in and pulled out an intricate porcelain carousel. Horses and dragons moved up and down on poles of gold filigree. The inner column boasted miniature scenes of people laughing and dancing as if there had never been anything bad in the world. She turned it over and over in her hands looking for the key she knew would play the song her heart so desperately longed for.
"It hasn't played in over a year," came a cold, crisp voice behind her. She turned abruptly to face the matron of the house, still clutching the carousel, willing her eyes to stay dry. "But it won't stop turning, either. My own little personal reminder that the show must go on even if the music's died…not that I need one, Lillian, do I?"
III
"My grandmother went by Lillian. Please, call me Lilly."
"Your grandmother was a commendable woman. You would do well to remember that and use her name with honor," huffed the old woman. "I swear, your generation has no sense of propriety."
"Forgive me, ma'am," retorted the younger, "but it was my father who first began calling me Lilly and it is his memory I would prefer to honor." Lilly's fingers tightened a bit on the trinket in her grasp and then loosed once more when she saw a slight shadow pass across her hostess's face.
The most sought after woman in her youth, Victoria Mackenzie had, like a fine wine, merely improved with age. Indeed, she was a woman of great grace, proficient at inspiring jealously, awe, admiration and fear. But something had changed since the last time Lilly had seen her.
Her silver-gray locks, once a rich mahogany brown, were now streaked here and there with wisps of pearly white. The highlighting effect it gave simultaneously softened her angular features and magnified the aura of careworn years draped like a shawl over her proudly drawn shoulders. After years of ruling her family and community with an iron fist, Mrs. Mackenzie was finally showing signs of growing weary.
Lilly took a moment to set the carousel gently on the nearest coffee table, not daring to turn her back on Victoria Mackenzie. Signs of wear, or no, she had no intentions of letting her hostess leave her sight again. The young maid appeared at the door to ask if the madam would like some refreshments brought in. After a short directive, she scurried away out of sight, leaving the two of them alone once more.
"Shall we have a seat, then? No need standing about for hours on end." Mrs. Mackenzie positioned herself in a high-backed chair nearest the entrance or, as Lilly saw it, the only exit. Leary, but eager to get the meeting over with as soon as possible, Lilly walked round to the front of the couch and lowered herself cautiously to the edge, careful not to make herself too comfortable, lest the encounter truly persist for "hours on end."
As if on cue, the maid padded back into the parlor, pushing a cart of tea and cakes. The haughty calico followed, stopping in the doorway to watch the nervous servant prepare the guest's and then her mistress' tea. It flicked its tail and waited as she dropped one and then another lump of sugar into each dainty porcelain cup resting in their matching saucers. After offering cream to each lady, the maid then proffered a third saucer from the cart, filled it with cream and placed it on the woven rug just beside the cart and waited as the cat loped up to it, sniffed it and tucked in happily for an afternoon treat.
When the maid left the room and closed the door behind her, Lilly knew she would not see her again today. She wondered if she would see her again, at all and hoped the answer was no. These thoughts ran involuntarily through her head as she absentmindedly stirred her tea, waiting for it to cool to sipping temperatures. Once again the crisp voice called her to.
"Now then, I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here today. Oddly enough, we're here to talk about that," she sighed, with a nod to the little coffee table on which Lilly has just placed the carousel, still turning in its own eerily silent reverie, "and this." Lilly's eyes followed as Mrs. Mackenzie lowered a jeweled hand and pointed her lithe fingers toward the foot of the cart. There her eyes met the golden-hazel stare of the calico cat.
Unsure of how long she would have to wait and unable to contain her nervous energy, she stood up and began to walk aimlessly around the room. Though her feet moved slowly, her eyes passed quickly over the room and then out of the large windows lining the side of the room across from the door.
Outside, half a dozen blackbirds congregated on the power lines watching a lone bird of tan and gold hop nimbly from branch to near-naked branch of a great oak nearby. She continued to watch, entranced, as two squirrels swept up the trunk of the massive tree in frantic, dizzying circles looking, presumably, for the last few acorns they could forage before fall finally gave way to winter. As the feuding squirrels neared the solitary bird, it sprung from its perch and drifted softly to the ground like so many leaves had before it.
Once there, it continued its quirky little hop off toward the front of the house where she knew it must be going to rummage under the bushes that trailed from each side of the stoop. For some reason she felt more connected to that lone, little bird hunting and pecking through everyone else's leftovers for something, anything of substance. She watched it hopping as long as she could see it, but it was gone before too long and her attention turned back toward the empty room.
As she turned back into the room, she caught a bit of motion out of the corner of her eye. She was instinctively drawn toward it. Heading along the windows back toward the front of the house, she rounded the edge of the couch and came to a corner hutch. The dim light from the dreary day only glinted slightly across the windows in the door. The movement came from inside the cabinet.
Looking around first to be sure she was still alone, she opened the cabinet door, reached in and pulled out an intricate porcelain carousel. Horses and dragons moved up and down on poles of gold filigree. The inner column boasted miniature scenes of people laughing and dancing as if there had never been anything bad in the world. She turned it over and over in her hands looking for the key she knew would play the song her heart so desperately longed for.
"It hasn't played in over a year," came a cold, crisp voice behind her. She turned abruptly to face the matron of the house, still clutching the carousel, willing her eyes to stay dry. "But it won't stop turning, either. My own little personal reminder that the show must go on even if the music's died…not that I need one, Lillian, do I?"
III
"My grandmother went by Lillian. Please, call me Lilly."
"Your grandmother was a commendable woman. You would do well to remember that and use her name with honor," huffed the old woman. "I swear, your generation has no sense of propriety."
"Forgive me, ma'am," retorted the younger, "but it was my father who first began calling me Lilly and it is his memory I would prefer to honor." Lilly's fingers tightened a bit on the trinket in her grasp and then loosed once more when she saw a slight shadow pass across her hostess's face.
The most sought after woman in her youth, Victoria Mackenzie had, like a fine wine, merely improved with age. Indeed, she was a woman of great grace, proficient at inspiring jealously, awe, admiration and fear. But something had changed since the last time Lilly had seen her.
Her silver-gray locks, once a rich mahogany brown, were now streaked here and there with wisps of pearly white. The highlighting effect it gave simultaneously softened her angular features and magnified the aura of careworn years draped like a shawl over her proudly drawn shoulders. After years of ruling her family and community with an iron fist, Mrs. Mackenzie was finally showing signs of growing weary.
Lilly took a moment to set the carousel gently on the nearest coffee table, not daring to turn her back on Victoria Mackenzie. Signs of wear, or no, she had no intentions of letting her hostess leave her sight again. The young maid appeared at the door to ask if the madam would like some refreshments brought in. After a short directive, she scurried away out of sight, leaving the two of them alone once more.
"Shall we have a seat, then? No need standing about for hours on end." Mrs. Mackenzie positioned herself in a high-backed chair nearest the entrance or, as Lilly saw it, the only exit. Leary, but eager to get the meeting over with as soon as possible, Lilly walked round to the front of the couch and lowered herself cautiously to the edge, careful not to make herself too comfortable, lest the encounter truly persist for "hours on end."
As if on cue, the maid padded back into the parlor, pushing a cart of tea and cakes. The haughty calico followed, stopping in the doorway to watch the nervous servant prepare the guest's and then her mistress' tea. It flicked its tail and waited as she dropped one and then another lump of sugar into each dainty porcelain cup resting in their matching saucers. After offering cream to each lady, the maid then proffered a third saucer from the cart, filled it with cream and placed it on the woven rug just beside the cart and waited as the cat loped up to it, sniffed it and tucked in happily for an afternoon treat.
When the maid left the room and closed the door behind her, Lilly knew she would not see her again today. She wondered if she would see her again, at all and hoped the answer was no. These thoughts ran involuntarily through her head as she absentmindedly stirred her tea, waiting for it to cool to sipping temperatures. Once again the crisp voice called her to.
"Now then, I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here today. Oddly enough, we're here to talk about that," she sighed, with a nod to the little coffee table on which Lilly has just placed the carousel, still turning in its own eerily silent reverie, "and this." Lilly's eyes followed as Mrs. Mackenzie lowered a jeweled hand and pointed her lithe fingers toward the foot of the cart. There her eyes met the golden-hazel stare of the calico cat.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Short Story
I've been working on a short story. I could put everything I've written so far here at once, but I'm going to give them to you section by section over the next couple of weeks... you know, just for fun. Enjoy! (or don't... but then you kind of stink.) ;^)
ONE
She crossed the threshold with a mixture of relief and trepidation. Outside the wind brushed stiffened leaves across blades of withering grass crisp with frozen dew. A shiver ran up her spine causing her to quiver involuntarily. It was colder than she remembered. Drawing her coat even closer to her body, she hugged herself tightly, arms wrapped around her body, hands moving up and down her arms. And yet, she couldn't seem to get warm. Perhaps the chill wasn't an effect of the weather.
She shook her bangs out of her eyes so they could slowly roam around the entryway. The fan overhead took turns obstructing and permitting streams of light from the lantern above it. The effect was something of strobe, causing objects to flicker here and there along the walls.
"How odd," she thought, "to have a fan running in such dreadful weather." Yet, the thought fled from her as quickly as it had entered, as quickly as the rotating slats sliced through each luminous ray. Somewhere in the distance she heard the distinct rattle and click of a doorknob turning, the almost inaudible creak of an old door sliding on a well-oiled hinge. Soon, she knew, the professorial click and clack of heel and toe against meticulous hardwoods would follow.
She jumped as something brushed against her ankles. Looking down her eyes met the golden-hazel of a lean, but well-fed calico. It wended its way in a few, determined figure eights between and around her legs, frozen in place by fear of the impending meeting. Then, quite unexpectedly, it looked her straight in the face and gave one quick lash of the tail, as if to say 'shame on you for coming'.
A bit unnerved at feeling chastised by a mere house cat, she watched it slink across the foyer only to be met with another surprise. There, just feet away, the feline met a new set of feet around which to entangle itself. They were not, however, clad in angular, well-polished loafers, as she had expected, but slim, overly-worn ballet slippers. This, she quickly realized was why she hadn't heard anyone approach.
"The mistress is not yet ready for you," explained the young maid whom she noticed, though seemly draped in the wearing rags of servitude both physically and emotionally, was not without charm. "She's asked for you to sit in the parlor while you wait."
Without another word her guide turned on her heels and padded swiftly and quietly down the corridor, opening a door just beyond the stairwell, but on the opposite side of the hall. There the maid waited until her charge passed beneath the ornate frame and found a seat in the interior of the museum-like parlor. Once she sat down, however, the maid, suddenly remembering her training, asked to take the guest's coat, offering refreshments of some sort while she waited.
"No thank you," she replied gratefully, "I'm still a bit chilled from the walk over. I think I'll keep my coat for the time being." Slightly abashed, the maid took the dismissal with a small curtsy and an even smaller sigh of relief. Truth be told, she would have liked a hot cup of tea, the chill was lingering in her bones longer than she had expected. But she could tell the young maid was uncomfortable and eager to part her company.
Now that she was once again alone, the chill seemed to set in even more. She hadn't expected to have to wait to see the mistress of the house. In fact, she had hoped the meeting, as much as she dreaded it, would be quick and concise, sending her back into the blustery day whose presence felt more welcoming than these foreboding walls. But, here she was, waiting once again in uncomfortable silence with nothing left to distract her but her over-active, over-curious imagination.
I've been working on a short story. I could put everything I've written so far here at once, but I'm going to give them to you section by section over the next couple of weeks... you know, just for fun. Enjoy! (or don't... but then you kind of stink.) ;^)
ONE
She crossed the threshold with a mixture of relief and trepidation. Outside the wind brushed stiffened leaves across blades of withering grass crisp with frozen dew. A shiver ran up her spine causing her to quiver involuntarily. It was colder than she remembered. Drawing her coat even closer to her body, she hugged herself tightly, arms wrapped around her body, hands moving up and down her arms. And yet, she couldn't seem to get warm. Perhaps the chill wasn't an effect of the weather.
She shook her bangs out of her eyes so they could slowly roam around the entryway. The fan overhead took turns obstructing and permitting streams of light from the lantern above it. The effect was something of strobe, causing objects to flicker here and there along the walls.
"How odd," she thought, "to have a fan running in such dreadful weather." Yet, the thought fled from her as quickly as it had entered, as quickly as the rotating slats sliced through each luminous ray. Somewhere in the distance she heard the distinct rattle and click of a doorknob turning, the almost inaudible creak of an old door sliding on a well-oiled hinge. Soon, she knew, the professorial click and clack of heel and toe against meticulous hardwoods would follow.
She jumped as something brushed against her ankles. Looking down her eyes met the golden-hazel of a lean, but well-fed calico. It wended its way in a few, determined figure eights between and around her legs, frozen in place by fear of the impending meeting. Then, quite unexpectedly, it looked her straight in the face and gave one quick lash of the tail, as if to say 'shame on you for coming'.
A bit unnerved at feeling chastised by a mere house cat, she watched it slink across the foyer only to be met with another surprise. There, just feet away, the feline met a new set of feet around which to entangle itself. They were not, however, clad in angular, well-polished loafers, as she had expected, but slim, overly-worn ballet slippers. This, she quickly realized was why she hadn't heard anyone approach.
"The mistress is not yet ready for you," explained the young maid whom she noticed, though seemly draped in the wearing rags of servitude both physically and emotionally, was not without charm. "She's asked for you to sit in the parlor while you wait."
Without another word her guide turned on her heels and padded swiftly and quietly down the corridor, opening a door just beyond the stairwell, but on the opposite side of the hall. There the maid waited until her charge passed beneath the ornate frame and found a seat in the interior of the museum-like parlor. Once she sat down, however, the maid, suddenly remembering her training, asked to take the guest's coat, offering refreshments of some sort while she waited.
"No thank you," she replied gratefully, "I'm still a bit chilled from the walk over. I think I'll keep my coat for the time being." Slightly abashed, the maid took the dismissal with a small curtsy and an even smaller sigh of relief. Truth be told, she would have liked a hot cup of tea, the chill was lingering in her bones longer than she had expected. But she could tell the young maid was uncomfortable and eager to part her company.
Now that she was once again alone, the chill seemed to set in even more. She hadn't expected to have to wait to see the mistress of the house. In fact, she had hoped the meeting, as much as she dreaded it, would be quick and concise, sending her back into the blustery day whose presence felt more welcoming than these foreboding walls. But, here she was, waiting once again in uncomfortable silence with nothing left to distract her but her over-active, over-curious imagination.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Bueller? Bueller?
I don't know what I expected when I opened this page. Maybe I thought clicking the "post new blog" button was like magic. "Abracadabra! Now you have thoughts and wise ones, at that; things the blogosphere needs to know.
In reality, signing back in to this account is like climbing up into an old, dingy attic. I pull the string to the light, but it only breaks in two, eroded after what seems like eons of neglect. I try again, but the bulb was burnt out any way. So I look around at the inhabitants, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkest, helped a little by a sliver of light streaming through a cracked window. There are cobwebs in the corners, inches of dust blanket the sheet-covered mounds of relics and trinkets; boxes filled with treasures, some worth millions, some worth more but only to a certain person's heart. They loom in the diminutive room like ghosts of old, squatters of a time gone by.
I'm not sure what this all means. I'm not sure if I should dig in and explore, or if it's all too much work. Maybe I should let the attic be. Maybe I should let the past stay in the past. But maybe, just maybe, something from the past can help the future. Maybe there's more reasons than I know to keep all of these things packed away for so long. Maybe I ought to explore them, drinking in each beautifully intricate detail.
I don't know the answers to this yet. I can't promise I'll stay. I can't promise I'll dig in. But I can tell you that, for the moment at least, I am here.
I don't know what I expected when I opened this page. Maybe I thought clicking the "post new blog" button was like magic. "Abracadabra! Now you have thoughts and wise ones, at that; things the blogosphere needs to know.
In reality, signing back in to this account is like climbing up into an old, dingy attic. I pull the string to the light, but it only breaks in two, eroded after what seems like eons of neglect. I try again, but the bulb was burnt out any way. So I look around at the inhabitants, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkest, helped a little by a sliver of light streaming through a cracked window. There are cobwebs in the corners, inches of dust blanket the sheet-covered mounds of relics and trinkets; boxes filled with treasures, some worth millions, some worth more but only to a certain person's heart. They loom in the diminutive room like ghosts of old, squatters of a time gone by.
I'm not sure what this all means. I'm not sure if I should dig in and explore, or if it's all too much work. Maybe I should let the attic be. Maybe I should let the past stay in the past. But maybe, just maybe, something from the past can help the future. Maybe there's more reasons than I know to keep all of these things packed away for so long. Maybe I ought to explore them, drinking in each beautifully intricate detail.
I don't know the answers to this yet. I can't promise I'll stay. I can't promise I'll dig in. But I can tell you that, for the moment at least, I am here.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
I'm so tired, I can't sleep
Those who have read my previous writings, or know me to any degree at all, shouldn't be surprised at the difficulty I found in getting out of bed Tuesday. As a matter of fact, I was so incapacitated that I called into work sick and stayed in bed until about two in the afternoon. Then I spent the rest of the day loafing around the apartment, setting foot outside only to retrieve the mail or put out the garbage. What might surprise you, however, is that I found the whole day quite annoying.
You see, there are several things in life at which I excel: resting is not one of them. (and yes, you are probably thinking right now that humility isn't too high on the list, either...) Even though sleeping is one of my favorite activities in the world, as funny as it sounds, resting is not. In fact, "resting" actually represents the absence of activity, wherein we will find my annoyance.
I have always been a rather active person. I schedule out my life to a fault (as several roommates have pointed out to me over the years). Growing up I participated in several after-school activities. Heck, I even signed up for intramural activities during the summers, ranging from voice lessons and theatre workshops to diving clubs and softball leagues-- most of which required riding my bike to and from until I turned 16 and got my license since both of my parents worked.
In college my schedule hardly loosened up. Juggling class, homework, a job and extra-curriculars came second-hand to me by then. Sometimes, this even meant getting up to be at the gym by six a.m. I know, it's sick.
The summer before my senior year of college, some friends and I planned a random mission trip to the Dominican Republic. Latino cultures are much more laid back than Americans and the best advice I received before I left was to use my waiting time wisely. Boy did I ever.
Those seventeen days were some of the longest, hardest and most blessed days I have ever experienced in my life since becoming a Christian. Most of the trip was plagued with the "hurry up and wait" mentality, which, as a scheduling-type person, tried my nerves more than once. Remembering the advice to use my waiting time wisely, however, I spent a lot of time journaling and praying.
My journals from that trip drip with homesickness and frustration, but also a fear of returning home to situations left undone. They also reflect my time in the Word and what God was teaching me through it all. One passage stands out among them all. "Be still and know that I am God."
In the Old Testament, God gives His people many commands. However, there are two specific commands He declares more frequently than any: "Rise up and to" and "be still." Both carry a great significance and we need both in our lives. Unfortunately, I am much better at one than the other.
This past weekend I heard two consecutive sermons about resting in the Lord. Both speakers stressed the importance of rest, especially a rest that says, "I can't do this, God, but you can. I give it all to You." It's a rest that says, "I can be still because I know that YOU are God, not me."
The significance was not lost on me. Sunday afternoon I said, "ok God, I get it, I need to rest. I will schedule some time to rest." Apparently this wasn't good enough for God. Instead, He took away the temptation to "do" with an incapacitating exhaustion. Sure, we could blame poor air quality and the hazards of adult asthma in hundred degree heat... but something tells me there's more to it all.
Perhaps Ill just have to "rest and see."
Those who have read my previous writings, or know me to any degree at all, shouldn't be surprised at the difficulty I found in getting out of bed Tuesday. As a matter of fact, I was so incapacitated that I called into work sick and stayed in bed until about two in the afternoon. Then I spent the rest of the day loafing around the apartment, setting foot outside only to retrieve the mail or put out the garbage. What might surprise you, however, is that I found the whole day quite annoying.
You see, there are several things in life at which I excel: resting is not one of them. (and yes, you are probably thinking right now that humility isn't too high on the list, either...) Even though sleeping is one of my favorite activities in the world, as funny as it sounds, resting is not. In fact, "resting" actually represents the absence of activity, wherein we will find my annoyance.
I have always been a rather active person. I schedule out my life to a fault (as several roommates have pointed out to me over the years). Growing up I participated in several after-school activities. Heck, I even signed up for intramural activities during the summers, ranging from voice lessons and theatre workshops to diving clubs and softball leagues-- most of which required riding my bike to and from until I turned 16 and got my license since both of my parents worked.
In college my schedule hardly loosened up. Juggling class, homework, a job and extra-curriculars came second-hand to me by then. Sometimes, this even meant getting up to be at the gym by six a.m. I know, it's sick.
The summer before my senior year of college, some friends and I planned a random mission trip to the Dominican Republic. Latino cultures are much more laid back than Americans and the best advice I received before I left was to use my waiting time wisely. Boy did I ever.
Those seventeen days were some of the longest, hardest and most blessed days I have ever experienced in my life since becoming a Christian. Most of the trip was plagued with the "hurry up and wait" mentality, which, as a scheduling-type person, tried my nerves more than once. Remembering the advice to use my waiting time wisely, however, I spent a lot of time journaling and praying.
My journals from that trip drip with homesickness and frustration, but also a fear of returning home to situations left undone. They also reflect my time in the Word and what God was teaching me through it all. One passage stands out among them all. "Be still and know that I am God."
In the Old Testament, God gives His people many commands. However, there are two specific commands He declares more frequently than any: "Rise up and to" and "be still." Both carry a great significance and we need both in our lives. Unfortunately, I am much better at one than the other.
This past weekend I heard two consecutive sermons about resting in the Lord. Both speakers stressed the importance of rest, especially a rest that says, "I can't do this, God, but you can. I give it all to You." It's a rest that says, "I can be still because I know that YOU are God, not me."
The significance was not lost on me. Sunday afternoon I said, "ok God, I get it, I need to rest. I will schedule some time to rest." Apparently this wasn't good enough for God. Instead, He took away the temptation to "do" with an incapacitating exhaustion. Sure, we could blame poor air quality and the hazards of adult asthma in hundred degree heat... but something tells me there's more to it all.
Perhaps Ill just have to "rest and see."
Friday, April 21, 2006
hmmm... I nearly forgot my password. Guess it *has* been a while, huh?
To be honest, I'm not even sure what to write here any more. I could write that the air is humid and the humidity makes it harder for me to breathe, which in turn makes me more sleepy than ever. But you probably don't care about that.
I could write about how I love driving during that time of day where you need to have both your headlights and your sunglasses on. It's just such an interesting time of day to me. The sun has sunken far enough toward the horizon that long shadows cast across the terra, requiring the use of headlights here and there. And yet, that same sun, not yet breaching the horizon, is so large and real and close that you have to put on your sunglasses and lower your visor lest your retinas char. I imagine it's a funny picture, headlights and sunglasses.
I like when things seem somewhat out of place like that. It's like seeing the moon in the middle of sky in the middle of the day. It doesn't make sense and yet it does. It's out of place, like a beggar clad in silk and pearls. Diamonds in the rough. Thorns on roses. Sunglasses and headlights. It's these sorts of things, these interesting juxtapositions, that really catch my eyes and make me think. I appreciate that.
To be honest, I'm not even sure what to write here any more. I could write that the air is humid and the humidity makes it harder for me to breathe, which in turn makes me more sleepy than ever. But you probably don't care about that.
I could write about how I love driving during that time of day where you need to have both your headlights and your sunglasses on. It's just such an interesting time of day to me. The sun has sunken far enough toward the horizon that long shadows cast across the terra, requiring the use of headlights here and there. And yet, that same sun, not yet breaching the horizon, is so large and real and close that you have to put on your sunglasses and lower your visor lest your retinas char. I imagine it's a funny picture, headlights and sunglasses.
I like when things seem somewhat out of place like that. It's like seeing the moon in the middle of sky in the middle of the day. It doesn't make sense and yet it does. It's out of place, like a beggar clad in silk and pearls. Diamonds in the rough. Thorns on roses. Sunglasses and headlights. It's these sorts of things, these interesting juxtapositions, that really catch my eyes and make me think. I appreciate that.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Long time no write...
So, it's been a while. I haven't written much here, but it's not due to an absence of whirled and mottled thoughts in my head. I've just begun to view this space as a medium for thoughts of a certain vein and those thoughts have either found another forum in which to unwind or have yet to find a form through which they might be expressed here.
All that to say, I am alive and kicking and my mind is still ticking, I'm just not necessarily in the mood for whimsy or debate.
So, it's been a while. I haven't written much here, but it's not due to an absence of whirled and mottled thoughts in my head. I've just begun to view this space as a medium for thoughts of a certain vein and those thoughts have either found another forum in which to unwind or have yet to find a form through which they might be expressed here.
All that to say, I am alive and kicking and my mind is still ticking, I'm just not necessarily in the mood for whimsy or debate.
Friday, January 27, 2006
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.
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.
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