So, six weeks ago lent began and I felt I should participate, I should flex my faith muscles, as it were, and let go of something for six weeks. But my faith, like every other area of my life, is woefully out of shape and jumping into a lenten sacrifice was the equivalent of running a marathon when I haven't been running for six months. You fall almost before you start.
I have tried lent in the past and have failed. Every time. One year it was coffee, one year carbs. This year? Facebook.... Thank God my salvation isn't conditional to my ability to practice lent.
What a sticky web facebook is. I didn't realize until I tried to drop it and couldn't. I could blame it on the fact that there are a number of people that I am only able to access through facebook, so it was a challenge to send a message and not look at the goings on in facebook land. It's a kin to someone trying to give up coffee and has to pick up their friend working at starbucks. But, in reality, I am weak.
So while I checked the happenings on facebook when I was supposed to be off it I eased my conscience by not commenting on anyone's posts. And I must say, doing that gave me a great perspective on what people do comment, or post, or what I used to comment or post.
Do you know what I did these last six weeks while I was "off" facbook?
I lived my life! Just Like I used to 10 years ago before I was on facebook. And do you know what? I don't miss it. I don't miss the excess postings or off the cuff comments, or selfie posts or, this is what my kid is not doing...
So, I am back on facebook, but only sort of. I won't be posting all the time, I won't commenting on every thread that passes my way, and I will keep my opinions on issues to myself. Because, while I appreciate what facebook has to offer, it for me, comes with caveats. And I need to me mindful of that. I guess my attempt at a lenten observation wasn't a total write off. Thank God for his grace.
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Monday, 30 March 2015
How do you die?
We have been swimming it it... death. It has overwhelmed our church, my husband. Even my six year old is talking about it. That part is ok, we need to talk about death, it is a part of our life after all. I was just a few weeks shy of six years old when my maternal grandfather died, and I couldn't grasp it. I remember sitting on the couch with my sisters and my parents standing in front of us telling us that grampa had died. And I asked, "Is he coming back?" I remember it as clear as if it happened yesterday. I couldn't process a life ending. Of course as we get older we understand that life ends...everything on this earth has an ending. We can thank our greatest grandparents for that. Physical death is an experience no one can escape. So there it is, in front of us but we don't want to dwell on it. It must be the uncertainty of it, the alone-ness, the unknowing of what's behind the veil. Even for Christians, trusting God does not mean peace with death. It is hard to think of saying good-bye... cutting ties to this rock.
My son asked me why we have to go to heaven when we die.....
He doesn't want to die...
For him, heaven is scary, it is not home, we are not there with him...
Big thoughts for a little boy.
It provides me a window into his heart though, and if I'm going to be transparent here, I had the same fears when I was six... and 16... and 26... geez... even at 38 I still tense up at the thought of "what if?" and my man and babies are left with out me. I weep when I read or hear of a mommy with littles and shes's losing her battle, or has been abruptly taken without warning. It rips me.
Small thoughts coming from someone who believes in a big God.
And yet, still it is there. Like that piece of lint, or hair, or bug or 'what on earth is that?' stuck in the corner of the floor half under the baseboard and your vacuum just can't quite get it. You don't even really see it until you are forced to confront it because you're having company over and god forbid they see the real you... messy... vulnerable... broken.
Like I said, our church has been overwhelmed with death. Something like seven funerals happened in a span of six months.. exhausting. Not even people that were active members, but they were connected to the families in our in our little community. Then last month my gramma passed away. After two years of giving up on her life her body finally gave in. And then we have a lady from our church that is on the precipice of her death. She is standing on the edge of an endless canyon. (but really, aren't we all?) Only, she knows it is just a step and she knows it is coming for her in a matter of months. Multiple myloma will do that. It is actively stealing her life away but it isn't stealing her light. If anything, the absconding of her life has only intensified her light. She is a beautiful woman, a mother, grandmother, sister, auntie, friend. She is loved by so many and she has been blessed with a deep care for all. It pains her to not be able to physically be present with her church community. She feels she is letting us down.
She has become deeply contemplative in these days, death will do that I guess. She is lamenting her failures as a mom, as a child of Christ. you can see the strong fragility in her turmoil. Like a birch tree being pushed around by the wind. It sways and bends but then almost seems to push back at the gust.
"I trust that my God is bigger than my regrets!" it seems to shout at the wind
She weeps for her mistakes but she knows God has it all. That we all have our own personal torture chambers. Some of us visit them more frequently than others, some of us never leave them. And some of us have learned to use the key God has given us to lock it up and set it to never be opened again. Blessed are those who do not linger in the trap of regret.
We know that it is our lives, our sins, our hurts, our joys, our triumphs and failures that have shaped us to who we are, and if we are in Christ then those things are shaping us to be even more like Him.
I visited my gramma two years ago and I saw despair, hopelessness, depression
I visited our friend last week and was bathed in grace, hope, tears, laughter
how do we die?
My son asked me why we have to go to heaven when we die.....
He doesn't want to die...
For him, heaven is scary, it is not home, we are not there with him...
Big thoughts for a little boy.
It provides me a window into his heart though, and if I'm going to be transparent here, I had the same fears when I was six... and 16... and 26... geez... even at 38 I still tense up at the thought of "what if?" and my man and babies are left with out me. I weep when I read or hear of a mommy with littles and shes's losing her battle, or has been abruptly taken without warning. It rips me.
Small thoughts coming from someone who believes in a big God.
And yet, still it is there. Like that piece of lint, or hair, or bug or 'what on earth is that?' stuck in the corner of the floor half under the baseboard and your vacuum just can't quite get it. You don't even really see it until you are forced to confront it because you're having company over and god forbid they see the real you... messy... vulnerable... broken.
Like I said, our church has been overwhelmed with death. Something like seven funerals happened in a span of six months.. exhausting. Not even people that were active members, but they were connected to the families in our in our little community. Then last month my gramma passed away. After two years of giving up on her life her body finally gave in. And then we have a lady from our church that is on the precipice of her death. She is standing on the edge of an endless canyon. (but really, aren't we all?) Only, she knows it is just a step and she knows it is coming for her in a matter of months. Multiple myloma will do that. It is actively stealing her life away but it isn't stealing her light. If anything, the absconding of her life has only intensified her light. She is a beautiful woman, a mother, grandmother, sister, auntie, friend. She is loved by so many and she has been blessed with a deep care for all. It pains her to not be able to physically be present with her church community. She feels she is letting us down.
She has become deeply contemplative in these days, death will do that I guess. She is lamenting her failures as a mom, as a child of Christ. you can see the strong fragility in her turmoil. Like a birch tree being pushed around by the wind. It sways and bends but then almost seems to push back at the gust.
"I trust that my God is bigger than my regrets!" it seems to shout at the wind
She weeps for her mistakes but she knows God has it all. That we all have our own personal torture chambers. Some of us visit them more frequently than others, some of us never leave them. And some of us have learned to use the key God has given us to lock it up and set it to never be opened again. Blessed are those who do not linger in the trap of regret.
We know that it is our lives, our sins, our hurts, our joys, our triumphs and failures that have shaped us to who we are, and if we are in Christ then those things are shaping us to be even more like Him.
I visited my gramma two years ago and I saw despair, hopelessness, depression
I visited our friend last week and was bathed in grace, hope, tears, laughter
how do we die?
Wednesday, 25 February 2015
Good bye Gramma -an ode to Alice Ruth
My first
real memory of you is at your house, in your kitchen. I was 4 or 5 and I would
give you a big hug and you’d pat my bum. You’d call it a spank and said “good
kids get a spank on the bum” I laughed and thought you were funny. I loved your
voice, and your smile and your laugh. You knew you were being silly and I was
at the perfect age for it. You always smelled like Oscar de la Renta and your house
was quiet and made funny creak sounds. Your clock that had to be wound and
would jingle every 15 minutes and bong every hour, our old toys that were kept in
your basement, and you always had homemade chocolate ice cream in your freezer…
always.
You were a
gramma, and you had a gramma house. But, I know you were not always a gramma.
You were once Alice Ruth Plummer, a young girl with a Dad who traveled and a
mom who loved to treat your sweet tooth. At least, that’s what I’ve been told by my mom.
You never shared much about your childhood or your own life. I don’t know if it
was because I never asked or because you were just private or you could never
see me as more than that good little girl. But if I can imagine what your life
was like I feel sad for you.
You grew up
sort of in the south. Kentucky, or Tennesse I think. I could never remember. I
know your dad did travel a lot and you eventually moved to Illinois.
Not having a
dad around much must have been hard, although I don’t know what Grandpa Plummer
was like. Maybe it was good he wasn’t around, you never talked about him and I
never asked.
You were a
smart cookie. You went to university, which, in the 30’s was a big deal. You wanted
to be a librarian. You had your life and career planned. Then Grampa happened.
You met him and that was it. He didn’t want you working, which, is not a big
deal in the 30’s. You turned in your plans for someone else’s and you made new
plans.
I imagine
you didn’t realize you were marrying a drunk….
I imagine
you didn’t know he was boorish…
I imagine
you didn’t know he would go on a bender for a night… or two…
I imagine
when you had your first child, a girl, and then your second child, my mom – less than a year later, that you didn’t know you would out live 2 of your four children...
I imagine
you hated grampa sometimes….
I imagine
you wished you had said no to him instead of yes…
I imagine
that living with a drunk was hard…
I imagine
burying your first born when she was in her thirties but never matured past 15
was harder…
I imagine
watching your son succumb to the same disease that tortured your husband was
infuriating and made you feel helpless…
I imagine
knowing your youngest was suffering the same rare genetic disorder that your
daughter suffered and that you would be burying him in his thirties was rage
inducing…
“no parent should outlive their child” you said
I imagine the day grampa collapsed at the kitchen table you
finally had peace…
I imagine
watching your healthy daughter have surgeries for benign tumours was defeating….
I imagine
watching your son’s divorce was heartbreaking….
I imagine
you had enough in one life Alice Ruth…
But all I
saw was you living nothing more than passivity…
Maybe because
some of this stuff happened before I was born, maybe because some of this stuff
happened when I was a kid, maybe because you are just from that time, or your
mother taught you to keep it inside. But here I come to the end of your life,
the end of your 97 years and I realize I know so little about you. What made
you tick? How do I mourn someone I feel like I didn’t really know? Our
relationship never really broke the gramma-child barrier. Even as a 20 year
old, I felt like you still saw me as that 5 year old.
You would
stay with us at Christmas and we would bake together and laugh at silly things
but none of it had meat… you and mom would sit and talk and do crossword puzzle
books. You had a history and you understood each other, I watched and didn’t get
it.
I think I
get it now though. I have had my hurts, my plans have been changed,
I have out lived a child, I have felt helpless, I have had my rage. But I won’t
keep it to myself. When it is my time I won’t just be a gramma to the littles…"spanking" their bums for being good. I will be a gramma to the big kids too, telling them
my life, my experience, my stories of defeat, and God’s grace, my plans, my
loves, my hurts.
Your river
ran deep gramma, but you kept it cordoned off.. on a small level I can
understand why, but you and I… we missed out on so much. But missing out has
taught me too, so, thank you gramma for keeping it to yourself and teaching me
that relationships are about pursuing. You didn’t pursue me and I didn’t pursue
you and we were the poorer for it.
So I will
pursue my grandchildren, if I am so blessed to have, and I pray that they will
pursue me and I will tell them so because of Alice Ruth….
Wednesday, 21 January 2015
I mitts the point....
Mittens. Mitts. Hand warmers. Snowball makers. Whatever you call them, they get lost. And if you have young children, they get lost a lot. And if you have more than one child and you are overwhelmed and feel like you are woefully ill equipped at mothering then you lose your perspective at lost mittens. That's it. Apparently, lost mitts are the threshold for sanity in my world.
Well, yesterday the threshold was lost mittens.
Today it's a whiny 2 year old.
Tomorrow...? who knows. Maybe something else completely predictable like a potty accident, or burnt toast.
Back in November I bought Carlon a pair of gloves and a pair of mitts. $20 in total. one month in the gloves were lost. Two days ago then go the mitts. Brad decided to let Carlon use Noah's mitts, which are 30% smaller, and I made a big deal about it.
"These belong to your brother.... DO NOT take them off outside"
Then back to arguing with Brad about what to do about it and Carlon, fighting tears, says, "it's ok, I won't use his mitts"
Cut to mom feeling like a jerk.
and she cried about it most of the day.
I don't remember my mom having these moments. Is is because she had three girls? Is it a gender issue? Or was she just better equipped at handling such attrocities? Or maybe she did have them and I don't remember, I hope for the last of those three. It gives me comfort to think my mom found mothering to be as hard as I do. And even more comforting to think that if I can't remember her losing it then hopefully my kids won't remember either.
But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I don't think that is the point. I mean to say that my reaction to the mitts has more to do with me and where I am at than how Carlon takes care of his belongings.
The reality is we have had a hard week here in superhero land. Brad has been carrying around a mountain of stress on his shoulders and it is wearing him down. He managed to take two days off this week which is good for him. I, on the other hand, have been an emotional train wreck since Christmas time, and have not found the pressure release valve.
90 percent of the time I feel like I have screwed up because I let my emotions get in the way of rational parenting. And lately, my emotions are about as stable as a souffle during an earthquake.
I have prayed. Believe me. I can see myself losing it and I say "God help!" and sometimes it works and sometimes it delays and sometimes it does nothing. This morning I was still burying myself in guilt over it that my day was trashed before it even started. And my two year old, Iain, is losing it. Like LOHOOHOOHOOSING IT. It was 10 am and I asked him if he wanted a nap? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! What's the colour of scream?
So, by 10:30, I was losing it. I tried shoving food in him, I tried carrying him around, I tried everything but he wanted it all and nothing at the same time. He was inconsolable. And I was ready to run.
But, I'm the adult here. I should be able to get a grip. shouldn't I?
.... I'm out of words. Maybe I'll be able to accept God's grace tomorrow and we'll have a better day.
Well, yesterday the threshold was lost mittens.
Today it's a whiny 2 year old.
Tomorrow...? who knows. Maybe something else completely predictable like a potty accident, or burnt toast.
Back in November I bought Carlon a pair of gloves and a pair of mitts. $20 in total. one month in the gloves were lost. Two days ago then go the mitts. Brad decided to let Carlon use Noah's mitts, which are 30% smaller, and I made a big deal about it.
"These belong to your brother.... DO NOT take them off outside"
Then back to arguing with Brad about what to do about it and Carlon, fighting tears, says, "it's ok, I won't use his mitts"
Cut to mom feeling like a jerk.
and she cried about it most of the day.
I don't remember my mom having these moments. Is is because she had three girls? Is it a gender issue? Or was she just better equipped at handling such attrocities? Or maybe she did have them and I don't remember, I hope for the last of those three. It gives me comfort to think my mom found mothering to be as hard as I do. And even more comforting to think that if I can't remember her losing it then hopefully my kids won't remember either.
But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I don't think that is the point. I mean to say that my reaction to the mitts has more to do with me and where I am at than how Carlon takes care of his belongings.
The reality is we have had a hard week here in superhero land. Brad has been carrying around a mountain of stress on his shoulders and it is wearing him down. He managed to take two days off this week which is good for him. I, on the other hand, have been an emotional train wreck since Christmas time, and have not found the pressure release valve.
90 percent of the time I feel like I have screwed up because I let my emotions get in the way of rational parenting. And lately, my emotions are about as stable as a souffle during an earthquake.
I have prayed. Believe me. I can see myself losing it and I say "God help!" and sometimes it works and sometimes it delays and sometimes it does nothing. This morning I was still burying myself in guilt over it that my day was trashed before it even started. And my two year old, Iain, is losing it. Like LOHOOHOOHOOSING IT. It was 10 am and I asked him if he wanted a nap? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! What's the colour of scream?
So, by 10:30, I was losing it. I tried shoving food in him, I tried carrying him around, I tried everything but he wanted it all and nothing at the same time. He was inconsolable. And I was ready to run.
But, I'm the adult here. I should be able to get a grip. shouldn't I?
.... I'm out of words. Maybe I'll be able to accept God's grace tomorrow and we'll have a better day.
Wednesday, 14 January 2015
selfish protection
Have you ever had that moment when you realize you are selfish? I think we are all selfish, but we don't like to admit it or accept it. But then there is that event that happens and it smacks you in the face and you look at yourself and say "dammit, what a selfish jerk I am"
Well, today... sucked. The night with the boys was hard, the morning was hard and as the day wore on, I was blind sided by a depression/lonliness/homesickness. It was overwhelming. Like, crying at nothing. laying on my bed trying to convince myself that the boys need me. It was not good.
Cut to me and the boys picking up a friend at the airport and being late to boot... Then the hammer falls... Brad has to go to the hospital because a former member is dying. This is the seventh person in three months. My husband is tired. Really tired. So much so, that when he told me about this new person he was fighting the tears. My husband is getting a crash course in death ministry. So let me add my selfish voice in here. Ministry is hard. Don't kid yourself, don't romanticize it. It is beat your ass hard. It is heavy yoke hard, people broken hard. And being married to ministry is even harder. You would probably take issue with that statement. Let me remind you, this is my selfish voice coming through but let me also explain. I can't take any of that burden from him. I can't visit those people dying, I can't run those funerals. I can't meet with those broken people. I can only watch. Watch as his shoulders droop, as he loses sleep... so my default is to protect him but keeping him to myself.
It doesn't always work... in fact, it never works.
If you don't like sharing then don't marry a pastor.
I have to share him with everybody and I hate it. His heart is big and he loves the people he serves and sometimes... all times his job comes first. We don't like to admit it but it's true. His job pays the bills and is a big part of our lives. As much as we would like to think that our family, or I come first, it's really not the case.
So here we are. This afternoon, We have our friend staying with us, it's the chaos of post school, pre-supper and Brad gets the call that death has come and he needs to go care for the family.
What?! No, They can wait. You are tired, you need rest. I need you to stay. My day was crap and our friend is here and the boys are crazy and I need you here. I need you here.
He looked at me and looked at his phone, and looked at me. He looks worn. He doesn't want to have to go but he's pulled. And instead of marrying a wife who would take him in her arms and pray God's strength over him and send him off commissioned and loved, he married a crazy lady who pulls on him to stay home. And she harbours jealousy towards these people that take them away from her.
And she hates herself for it.
And he comes home and tells her that the next of kin has mental issues and was rude to him. The family is broken and I was mad because I had a bad day and wanted my man home.... ..... geez
Where is the line? how do I support and protect my husband. And how do do that without being a selfish "B"?
So I pulled him aside. My Hawkeye, my straight shooter, cheeky, honest, big hearted love. I looked in his soft blue eyes and told him I was sorry, I was selfish, and I was wrong.
I love him and I love that he has the pastor's heart I just wish sometimes that he wasn't always so giving with that heart.
Selfish, protect, hard, burden, weary, tired....
Not romantic
Well, today... sucked. The night with the boys was hard, the morning was hard and as the day wore on, I was blind sided by a depression/lonliness/homesickness. It was overwhelming. Like, crying at nothing. laying on my bed trying to convince myself that the boys need me. It was not good.
Cut to me and the boys picking up a friend at the airport and being late to boot... Then the hammer falls... Brad has to go to the hospital because a former member is dying. This is the seventh person in three months. My husband is tired. Really tired. So much so, that when he told me about this new person he was fighting the tears. My husband is getting a crash course in death ministry. So let me add my selfish voice in here. Ministry is hard. Don't kid yourself, don't romanticize it. It is beat your ass hard. It is heavy yoke hard, people broken hard. And being married to ministry is even harder. You would probably take issue with that statement. Let me remind you, this is my selfish voice coming through but let me also explain. I can't take any of that burden from him. I can't visit those people dying, I can't run those funerals. I can't meet with those broken people. I can only watch. Watch as his shoulders droop, as he loses sleep... so my default is to protect him but keeping him to myself.
It doesn't always work... in fact, it never works.
If you don't like sharing then don't marry a pastor.
I have to share him with everybody and I hate it. His heart is big and he loves the people he serves and sometimes... all times his job comes first. We don't like to admit it but it's true. His job pays the bills and is a big part of our lives. As much as we would like to think that our family, or I come first, it's really not the case.
So here we are. This afternoon, We have our friend staying with us, it's the chaos of post school, pre-supper and Brad gets the call that death has come and he needs to go care for the family.
What?! No, They can wait. You are tired, you need rest. I need you to stay. My day was crap and our friend is here and the boys are crazy and I need you here. I need you here.
He looked at me and looked at his phone, and looked at me. He looks worn. He doesn't want to have to go but he's pulled. And instead of marrying a wife who would take him in her arms and pray God's strength over him and send him off commissioned and loved, he married a crazy lady who pulls on him to stay home. And she harbours jealousy towards these people that take them away from her.
And she hates herself for it.
And he comes home and tells her that the next of kin has mental issues and was rude to him. The family is broken and I was mad because I had a bad day and wanted my man home.... ..... geez
Where is the line? how do I support and protect my husband. And how do do that without being a selfish "B"?
So I pulled him aside. My Hawkeye, my straight shooter, cheeky, honest, big hearted love. I looked in his soft blue eyes and told him I was sorry, I was selfish, and I was wrong.
I love him and I love that he has the pastor's heart I just wish sometimes that he wasn't always so giving with that heart.
Selfish, protect, hard, burden, weary, tired....
Not romantic
Friday, 2 January 2015
Hard Grace..
So, I was on facebook a couple days ago, feeling sorry for myself as I had suffered the fate all iphone users fear; my phone fell in the toilet, and as it sat in a bowl of rice on the top of the fridge, and as I held my breath at the hope of it's rescue it all seemed like the appropriate final close to my year. 2014.
On December 30 I went to bed seething at myself at the stupidity of it all. I know you shouldn't keep your phone in your back pocket, I know people have dropped their phones in the toilet. I knew better but figured it wouldn't happen to me because I was aware of the risks. So, I didn't sleep well that night, and the next morning I had no interest in doing what Brad and I had planned, which was a romantic dinner at home after the boys had gone to bed. I wanted to crawl under a rock and stay there. My day went on and as I was having a shower the boys coloured each other with red marker *sigh* and it just furthered my disgust with myself over this dumb phone and the stupid toilet and just everything else that had gone wrong for me this year.
Getting back to being on facebook... I was on my newsfeed and a question came up from an author I follow. "What word or phrase would you use to describe your 2014?"
Now I don't normally respond to people I don't know. I follow this author because she wrote an amazing book and it's the easiest way for me to access her blog. But this time, for whatever reason, I was compelled, or rather, propelled - as if I was being pushed to do it. And I responded that if I could take two words I'd say 2014 was hard grace. And not just 2014. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have had three hard years. Part of this roots in the fact that I am easily affected by the trials of the people I love and so things that were happening to my close friends and family were deeply affecting me to the point were frustration took hold, and weariness bore deep, my faith was thin and my patience short. I felt I was not given the opportunity to breathe and so frustrations from one day bled into the next and so on... Three years of feeling like I was barely keeping my head above water. From two near deaths, to cancer, to a best friend moving away, to undetermined tumours, and paralyzing anxiety attacks, high risk pregnancy, infections, eye surgery, unemployment... Everyone That was close to me was dealing with something intense and we were right in the thick of our own steaming pile.
Tell me, how would you find breath? When you start attacking each other, and your love for your children feels thread bare? You are so overwhelmed with it all that when you see that text come in from someone you just can't bear to look at it because you just can't handle one more thing. And you find yourself praying for just six months of peace. Please God, just six months where everything is ok.
On go the days, and weeks, and months, and years and people are recovering. No more near deaths, surgeries have happened and been successful, no more infections, the battle over anxiety is won. The people closest to me are healing, being repaired, and being restored. But me. Here I sit, still reeling from the years. These have been hard years. And yes, I know, there are harder times for other people, but this is where I am at. Still questioning why, still doubting myself, still refusing to let any roots dig in.
Hard grace seems like such a strange concept, it's an oxymoron isn't it? This author I wrote to responded to my comment recalling a book she'd read called Severe Mercy. Another oxymoron but in the lives of the faithful it is not so strange.
God hath not promised skies always blue,
flower strewn pathways all our lives through;
God hath not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain
But God hath promised strength for the day
Rest for the labour, light for the way
Grace for the trials help from above
Unfailing sympathy undying love
(Annie Johnson Flint)
So, Yes. I know this, like KNOW it. However, when you are drowning... when you can't breathe. In coming up with those two words I was forced to look back at those years and try to find God in the midst of it all. He was there. I know it. But truly seeing him, or at least admitting that he was there because when you are angry and resentful and regretful, you don't want to admit God was with you. It feels better to tell yourself that you had to do it on your own. But how heretical is that? We know he is with us He came to earth to DIE so he could be with us. Immanuel - God with us. That is his name.
So, he was with me the whole time. I know it, but I couldn't feel it the way I wanted, because I wanted to not have to feel anything. I wanted things to go smooth. It hurts to be torn up, it hurts to not be able to breathe. I shake my head when I think back to my days as a single woman and the group of people I would spend time with. Once a month I would gather with these people for a devotional, singing, fellowship time and one song we almost always sang was "Refiner's fire" When I think about those lyrics now I want to shout at my younger self. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SINGING!?" If we could all understand what that meant, being refined, knowing it would hurt, knowing it would tear and burn, even though we would know it means being closer to God, would we sing it? Would we?
So, I look back on these years and see God. And how do I see him? I see him as patient, sooo patient, and forgiving, and loving. I have been a total jerk. I know this. I have been a big baby. I know this too. And yet he is still there. I am thinking of Paul and the Romans and being more than conquerors, and if God is for us, and nothing can separate us... except maybe ourselves. I got in the way of my relationship with him and it's not the first time and I'm sure it won't be the last time. Continuing to die to self. It takes hard grace to learn this I guess. And God knows I have a lot to learn and maybe I'm the kind of person that needs to be hit over the head with it, or put in the corner to stew about it. Hard grace, severe mercy. The faithful take them both and praise God with them. I believe I will get there, I have to because I can't imagine my life without him.
On December 30 I went to bed seething at myself at the stupidity of it all. I know you shouldn't keep your phone in your back pocket, I know people have dropped their phones in the toilet. I knew better but figured it wouldn't happen to me because I was aware of the risks. So, I didn't sleep well that night, and the next morning I had no interest in doing what Brad and I had planned, which was a romantic dinner at home after the boys had gone to bed. I wanted to crawl under a rock and stay there. My day went on and as I was having a shower the boys coloured each other with red marker *sigh* and it just furthered my disgust with myself over this dumb phone and the stupid toilet and just everything else that had gone wrong for me this year.
Getting back to being on facebook... I was on my newsfeed and a question came up from an author I follow. "What word or phrase would you use to describe your 2014?"
Now I don't normally respond to people I don't know. I follow this author because she wrote an amazing book and it's the easiest way for me to access her blog. But this time, for whatever reason, I was compelled, or rather, propelled - as if I was being pushed to do it. And I responded that if I could take two words I'd say 2014 was hard grace. And not just 2014. Anyone who knows me well knows that I have had three hard years. Part of this roots in the fact that I am easily affected by the trials of the people I love and so things that were happening to my close friends and family were deeply affecting me to the point were frustration took hold, and weariness bore deep, my faith was thin and my patience short. I felt I was not given the opportunity to breathe and so frustrations from one day bled into the next and so on... Three years of feeling like I was barely keeping my head above water. From two near deaths, to cancer, to a best friend moving away, to undetermined tumours, and paralyzing anxiety attacks, high risk pregnancy, infections, eye surgery, unemployment... Everyone That was close to me was dealing with something intense and we were right in the thick of our own steaming pile.
Tell me, how would you find breath? When you start attacking each other, and your love for your children feels thread bare? You are so overwhelmed with it all that when you see that text come in from someone you just can't bear to look at it because you just can't handle one more thing. And you find yourself praying for just six months of peace. Please God, just six months where everything is ok.
On go the days, and weeks, and months, and years and people are recovering. No more near deaths, surgeries have happened and been successful, no more infections, the battle over anxiety is won. The people closest to me are healing, being repaired, and being restored. But me. Here I sit, still reeling from the years. These have been hard years. And yes, I know, there are harder times for other people, but this is where I am at. Still questioning why, still doubting myself, still refusing to let any roots dig in.
Hard grace seems like such a strange concept, it's an oxymoron isn't it? This author I wrote to responded to my comment recalling a book she'd read called Severe Mercy. Another oxymoron but in the lives of the faithful it is not so strange.
God hath not promised skies always blue,
flower strewn pathways all our lives through;
God hath not promised sun without rain,
Joy without sorrow, peace without pain
But God hath promised strength for the day
Rest for the labour, light for the way
Grace for the trials help from above
Unfailing sympathy undying love
(Annie Johnson Flint)
So, Yes. I know this, like KNOW it. However, when you are drowning... when you can't breathe. In coming up with those two words I was forced to look back at those years and try to find God in the midst of it all. He was there. I know it. But truly seeing him, or at least admitting that he was there because when you are angry and resentful and regretful, you don't want to admit God was with you. It feels better to tell yourself that you had to do it on your own. But how heretical is that? We know he is with us He came to earth to DIE so he could be with us. Immanuel - God with us. That is his name.
So, he was with me the whole time. I know it, but I couldn't feel it the way I wanted, because I wanted to not have to feel anything. I wanted things to go smooth. It hurts to be torn up, it hurts to not be able to breathe. I shake my head when I think back to my days as a single woman and the group of people I would spend time with. Once a month I would gather with these people for a devotional, singing, fellowship time and one song we almost always sang was "Refiner's fire" When I think about those lyrics now I want to shout at my younger self. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SINGING!?" If we could all understand what that meant, being refined, knowing it would hurt, knowing it would tear and burn, even though we would know it means being closer to God, would we sing it? Would we?
So, I look back on these years and see God. And how do I see him? I see him as patient, sooo patient, and forgiving, and loving. I have been a total jerk. I know this. I have been a big baby. I know this too. And yet he is still there. I am thinking of Paul and the Romans and being more than conquerors, and if God is for us, and nothing can separate us... except maybe ourselves. I got in the way of my relationship with him and it's not the first time and I'm sure it won't be the last time. Continuing to die to self. It takes hard grace to learn this I guess. And God knows I have a lot to learn and maybe I'm the kind of person that needs to be hit over the head with it, or put in the corner to stew about it. Hard grace, severe mercy. The faithful take them both and praise God with them. I believe I will get there, I have to because I can't imagine my life without him.
Wednesday, 22 October 2014
when you pray for joy...
Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives. It's cheesy, I know. It is from a soap opera after all. I mean, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't know which soap opera that is from. I was a big fan of soaps for a time. There was a point where I was watching 3-4 different shows and even knew what was going on in many of the other shows because I read the soap magazines. In my early teens Days of our Lives and Another World were my faves. So much drama. Perfect for a teenage girl right? And I was so unhappy with my real life that living vicariously through the characters on the soaps was so much better. Oh the teen years, the angst, the sweat, the hormones, not fitting in, not understanding life, awkward relationships, failing at generally everything. And I didn't care because most the people close to me didn't seem to care much either. I wasn't aware of it at the time but, looking back at my high school years I should have been diagnosed with depression.
It wasn't until I got out from the trap of high school that I really started to learn who I was. Even now, I'm still learning about myself. My mom always said I was a late bloomer. she's not wrong about that. Just like dahlias don't bloom until the heat from the summer sun has waned, the pressure and confusion and loneliness of school was gone and I could breathe and move.
I was always amazed at the girls that "got it". They seemed to have it all figured out. A guy on one arm and "A's" or "B's" on their tests and papers in their other arm. Ready to shoot off to UBC or SFU or TWU and here I was, barely getting "P's" and as for boys?? forget it. They were nice to me but I certainly was not the girl boys were into.
And I hated my teachers. None of them, except one, seemed to really give a damn about my education and I went to a private school so it's not like they were burdened with high needs students. No FAS, no ADHD, no Autism or anything undiagnosed. So instead of trying to help me learn algebra I was shunted off to stupid math. And instead of helping me conjugate my french verbs I was told in French 10 "well, you don't have to take french in gr. 11". We had a head teacher who cared more about what the kids were wearing (fyi: we had school uniforms) than helping students to succeed. And a gym teacher who acted more like a high schooler than a teacher. Not the most positive experience a girl can have.
When I graduated, I came within inches of burning my uniform and yearbooks. High school left nothing but a bitter caustic taste in the back of my mouth. And I left it there for anytime the subject of high school came up. I was glad to voice my distaste. frustrated. challenged. abandoned.
So how is it that 20 years later I am excited to go to my reunion? To see some of the teachers, to walk through the doors that held such a bad experience for me?
You know, I still haven't figured out why I was so excited. I have had the opportunity to connect with a few classmates over facebook and that has been rewarding and so I was glad to be seeing those people. But to revisit the place and the memories.... I was a little paralyzed in the car in the school parking lot. Anxiety overtook me. I made it in though and was the better for it.
God is good
It was as though it had never happened, yet it did. Those horrible five years were washed clean. I was finally able to fold them up and put them away. The bitterness in my mouth was gone, the caustic spirit fled. I mean.... 20 years is a frickin long time. How do you carry that torture with you? I've got better things to do with my time.
A friend recently told me how much she appreciates how real I am. I said "are you kidding me? I don't have time for phony bull shit". Give me real. Don't insult me with an act.
When the reunion evening was over and we were all leaving I felt free. Free from the burden of hate, the burden of regret. God had given me his spirit of forgiveness. His spirit of peace. It is beautiful and it is helping me to look upon other times in my life where I carry regret and work towards letting them go too.
If there is any advice I could pass on from my life to this point is this:
Let go of your burdens. They are like slow poison leaching your joy. You don't have time for that crap. Set it aside and stomp it into the dirt where it belongs. Let God replace it with His spirit of joy, fruitfulness, peace, light, love, forgiveness, compassion.
Keep on asking and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find it. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Matt 7:7-8
Over the summer I was begging God to give me his joy. I did not think that this would be the avenue it would come but, I'll take it. To be in joy with the Lord rather than burdened with dismay... what is better?
It wasn't until I got out from the trap of high school that I really started to learn who I was. Even now, I'm still learning about myself. My mom always said I was a late bloomer. she's not wrong about that. Just like dahlias don't bloom until the heat from the summer sun has waned, the pressure and confusion and loneliness of school was gone and I could breathe and move.
I was always amazed at the girls that "got it". They seemed to have it all figured out. A guy on one arm and "A's" or "B's" on their tests and papers in their other arm. Ready to shoot off to UBC or SFU or TWU and here I was, barely getting "P's" and as for boys?? forget it. They were nice to me but I certainly was not the girl boys were into.
And I hated my teachers. None of them, except one, seemed to really give a damn about my education and I went to a private school so it's not like they were burdened with high needs students. No FAS, no ADHD, no Autism or anything undiagnosed. So instead of trying to help me learn algebra I was shunted off to stupid math. And instead of helping me conjugate my french verbs I was told in French 10 "well, you don't have to take french in gr. 11". We had a head teacher who cared more about what the kids were wearing (fyi: we had school uniforms) than helping students to succeed. And a gym teacher who acted more like a high schooler than a teacher. Not the most positive experience a girl can have.
When I graduated, I came within inches of burning my uniform and yearbooks. High school left nothing but a bitter caustic taste in the back of my mouth. And I left it there for anytime the subject of high school came up. I was glad to voice my distaste. frustrated. challenged. abandoned.
So how is it that 20 years later I am excited to go to my reunion? To see some of the teachers, to walk through the doors that held such a bad experience for me?
You know, I still haven't figured out why I was so excited. I have had the opportunity to connect with a few classmates over facebook and that has been rewarding and so I was glad to be seeing those people. But to revisit the place and the memories.... I was a little paralyzed in the car in the school parking lot. Anxiety overtook me. I made it in though and was the better for it.
God is good
It was as though it had never happened, yet it did. Those horrible five years were washed clean. I was finally able to fold them up and put them away. The bitterness in my mouth was gone, the caustic spirit fled. I mean.... 20 years is a frickin long time. How do you carry that torture with you? I've got better things to do with my time.
A friend recently told me how much she appreciates how real I am. I said "are you kidding me? I don't have time for phony bull shit". Give me real. Don't insult me with an act.
When the reunion evening was over and we were all leaving I felt free. Free from the burden of hate, the burden of regret. God had given me his spirit of forgiveness. His spirit of peace. It is beautiful and it is helping me to look upon other times in my life where I carry regret and work towards letting them go too.
If there is any advice I could pass on from my life to this point is this:
Let go of your burdens. They are like slow poison leaching your joy. You don't have time for that crap. Set it aside and stomp it into the dirt where it belongs. Let God replace it with His spirit of joy, fruitfulness, peace, light, love, forgiveness, compassion.
Keep on asking and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find it. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Matt 7:7-8
Over the summer I was begging God to give me his joy. I did not think that this would be the avenue it would come but, I'll take it. To be in joy with the Lord rather than burdened with dismay... what is better?
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