The first day of December always calls to me.
Time to sweep the stable clear of any impediments to the entry of the Child. Am I harboring a grudge - unforgiveness towards someone? Have I been judging anyone? Need to ask forgiveness? Hiding some secret sin? Allowing my heart to grow as cold as the bitter winds of winter? Slacking off on the Word? Skipping prayer? Trying to clean myself up instead of bowing before Him and accepting His grace and forgiveness? Allowing fear to rule me instead of faith.?
Someone shared a blurb on the web that brought me up short. It said " Faith is the bridge between where I am and where God is leading me."
I found great wisdom in that little blurb. As one who always seems to fight God's leading, leaving black heel marks on my Christian walk where He has had to drag me from one place to another, trust always seems hard for me. Correction: recognizing God's hand in irritating places is more the problem. Once I know He is in something (which should be recognized all the time!) I can take a deep breath and step off the cliff, trusting in the Everlasting Arms that are underneath me. It's the recognizing part that throws me every time.
Why is it so hard for me to see His hand in the unpleasant/painful/irritating circumstance? While I was still working, God moved my comfortable office to an uncomfortable office, working with a doctor I had difficulty relating to.
Hidden in that office was a Christian sister bereft of friends she trusted, in a hostile office environment. We have been friends for over 20 years now.
Another time I had hurt my back and had to be on light duty. I was moved to a tiny corner of an office worker's small office - and discovered not only another sister, but one who was a kindred spirit as well, and has been as close as an "official" sister to my heart for the last 30 years.
The only situation I recognized was my illness - and that probably because it was so serious I knew it was too big for me to handle! I watched Seas galore part to allow me thru on dry ground, obstacle after obstacle removed from my path, blessing after blessing showered upon me.
So why haven't I learned? Why do I still fret and gnash my teeth and froth at the mouth when something "small" disrupts my daily walk?
And why do I not recognize that with a God as Awesome as ours, they are all small?
This month will be full of hustle and bustle, hither and yon stuff. For once, with my King;s help, I am purposing in my heart to lay it all at His feet - the small stuff as well as the gigantic stuff that immediately drops me face down before Him. To take the irritation to Him. To take the daily hassles and arrows of hurt feelings and dark days to the One Who filtered each hurt feeling and hassle and arrow through loving hands. It seems to me that our Papa loves to teach us through less than comfortable situations. Somehow the pain seems to insure the lesson will be remembered. And it reminds me that Jesus learned obedience "through the things He suffered."
After 20 years delivering babies, the Nativity holds great meaning for me. I often think of the One Who cast aside His crown to be born a baby - to open His eyes for the first time not in a pampered palace nursery but in a cold stone trough, to get His first human-sized view of the world He had come to save. A newborn is a sponge, soaking up every sound, every sight, learning from that first breath on, contrary to popular thought. Newborns mimic facial expressions, begin babbling in vowel, accent and consonant sounds of their particular language, and come complete with behaviors designed to induce bonding: grasping fingers, focusing on black dots on white backgrounds so they establish eye contact immediately. To facilitate this, they instinctively turn their heads to the right, whether they are right or left handed. Since most people are right handed, they will most likely be held in the left arm - and when they turn their faces to the right, they will find eye contact.and, when combined with the rooting reflex, a source of nourishment. All finely tuned behaviors our Father designed for His children. Eye contact and touch are as necessary as food to the newborn, Deprived of them they cannot process foods correctly. and find themselves swallowed by a syndrome known as, simply, " failure to thrive."
I think of how this birth-in-a-stable scenario must have confused Mary and Joseph - how could the Messiah not be born with pomp and fanfare? How they must have wondered what the heck was going on - and felt shamed by how little they could give to this Amazing Child. Did they miss a signal somewhere? Surely God didn't mean for Messiah to be poor! Why was life such a continual struggle when the King of all the earth had been entrusted to their care? Their offering in the temple was two doves - a provision for the very poor to offer. And soon there would be at least 6 more children - four brothers are named in Scripture, plus a mention of "sisters", plural, so there were more than one. At least 7 children, including Jesus, would have to be provided for - plus a hasty trip into Egypt and then a move back to Israel. The visit of the Magi (nowhere does it say three, nor does it call them "kings") provided an easily transported source of funds as well as prophetic gifts to the small family (Jesus is estimated to have been around two years old @ the time of their visit.) I can't imagine how confused they must have been - nothing would have made sense according tot the world's way of doing things.
And somehow, the world's way of doing things had gotten mixed up with the ways of the Israelites - so much so that rich people were considered to be special to God, no doubt holy. By the same reasoning, the poor must be epic sinners or God would bless them with money. So this Child King could not be the Messiah according to their thinking, He must be the child of some pretty horrible sinners (never ending whispers followed Him about how Mary got pregnant before she was married, thus the Pharisees would never lose their condescending attitude towards Jesus).
I have always wondered how the Pharisees could know Jesus had raised several folks from the dead and not recognize Someone with some pretty heavy credentials. They couldn't deny the miracles - even the thugs they sent to arrest Him were thrown to their knees when Jesus answered their identification query with "I am"
And then He picks up the ear Peter chopped off and heals the guy - imagine it! Blood spurting all over his tunic, one second screaming in pain, the next all healed up (I bet there wasn't even a scar!) - and still the guy roughly arrests Jesus!
I sit with open-mouthed amazement when I get to those parts in the Gospel. How is it possible?
And then I look at those black heelmarks on my Christian walk. How I so rarely recognize His hand while something is happening. It's only when I have the distance of time and the Holy Spirit's ministering that I can make sense of what I see, They didn't have the Holy Spirit leading, interpreting, guiding like I do. And even with all that, I still miss the point so often in my life. I truly depend on His mercies being new every morning. I draw great comfort in the fact that underneath are the everlasting Arms, and Romans 8:28 is a word I cling to.
And finally I connect the dots and realize that this is exactly why the Babe had to be born - and die for my sins, and the sins of the world. Because we are so very dense when faced with circumstances not to our liking. Because without the Holy Spirit living in us, leading and teaching us, opening our eyes, we would be without hope.
And hope is what that little Baby signified. "The hopes and fears of all the years." They met in the little town of Bethlehem, one night long ago. And because of that, "whosoever will" may choose to actually meet the Creator of the universe, to be indwelt by the Holy Spirit, and spend eternity in the presence of God.
Just think of it! What an Awesome God we serve!
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Hungry for more of Him
I have been in excruciating pain the last 2 days. There were times when the only thing I could do was to say His Name over and over - and I believe in the power of that Name.
The pain has finally left me - with the knowledge that it will come again. Someday. Prayerfully, not soon.
There is something about physical pain that is exhausting. It finally left me about 1 am - I fell on my bed so exhausted. I could do nothing more than turn out the light - and awoke 3 hours later to find I was on top of the bedcovers, not underneath them. I had thought to only rest for a bit before actually getting into sleeping position.
And yet, if given the choice, I would gladly choose the physical over the mental.
I have dear friends who suffer from the mental part. One has bi-polar disease, and is often tempted by the lie of sweet oblivion with suicide - but His ownership of her body and life prevent that false solution. Another friend battled for years to surface after a lifetime of verbal and physical abuse - the verbal from both of her parents, the combined ferocity of both from her husband. Another is fraught with an uneasy feeling as fall approaches, as SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) causes her to struggle through the depths of winter. She once descibed it as wearing a sack over your head. You know it's there; other people tell you it's there; but there is nothing you can do about it.
And another friend who recently found he could fight the sack no longer, and he ended it himself. The crush of guilt and sadness he left behind for those who loved him is an unimagineable horror.
I have seen their suffering, doubts, pain and sadness up close and personal. They come often to my prayers - and I rejoice to see their victories when they come. But I'll take my physical extremities any day - and thank God He has not called me to mental anguish.
God has had me "stumble onto" a life-changing book recently. It is called "Sitting at the feet of Rabbi Jesus" by Ann Spangler and Lois Tverberg, both gentile. They have studied the background of first century Judaism and place the words of Jesus in that setting - and a light turns on.
I have a great love for the Jewish people. Having been blessed with a trip to Israel, it changed my life in a big way. This book does the same.
To the observant Jew, God is everywhere. Every moment of the day, from awakening to eating to working to sleeping has a blessing attached to it. It makes Paul's admonition to pray without ceasing an interesting thought. He may have been referring to this practice.
Seemingly a plethora of memorized prayers recited rote, it is nothing at all like that. The prayers are memorized because they have seen and heard both mama and papa saying them from the time they can first remember. But they are also taught that saying the blessings without being aware of Whom you are praying to is worse than useless; it is insult.
Each prayer begins with a reminder of Who He is: "Baruch atah Adonai Eluheneu Melech ha'olam.." Blessed Art Thou, Lord God, King of the Universe... and they continue with something like "Who has caused grain to be grown on the Earth" to celebrate having food on their table. The day begins with thanking the Creator for keeping their soul in their body for one more day, and continues with every opportunity.
I fear sometimes that Christianity has made us less aware of the Whom when we pray - the amazing privilege of praying to Someone Who bids us call Him "Papa" is sometimes, I fear, taken as license rather than privilege. I pray I am never doing that.
I am trying to incorporate some of those blessings of every second into my life. Certainly the relief of pain is high on my list - but so is waking up one more day on earth, having a roof over my head, even having flannel sheets as the weather cools is a blessing I don't take lightly.
I hunger for more of Him. I have since the day He first blasted His way into my life. The difference between "before" and "after" in my life was immediately evident. I asked Him then to take me into the depths with Him, a prayer He is continually answering - not thru any holiness on my part - far from it - but through His willingness to answer prayers. And still the hunger for more remains. I expect that hunger will not cease until we are face-to-face with a Being so Immense and Powerful that He created an untold number of galaxies and star factories and planets - and then stooped to Earth to tenderly Hand-create mankind from the dust of the very earth He had created. We have no idea Whom we are dealing with. The "Jesus meek and mild" doesn't exist. He is a Powerful, Omniscient God Who clothed Himself with the dust of the Earth so we could understand what Love is - so we would have a familiar Face, so to speak, on which to base our knowledge of the Father. But Who He is, like the place He has prepared for us, is so far beyond whatever we could think or imagine, is beyond out abilitlies to discern.
And so our Heavenly Papa sent His Son, to help us grasp that Love focuses on the Beloved. Everything Jesus said and did was to show us what Love really is - how much our Papa loves us, how much Love costs, how much we have to learn about Loving. To sit at the feet of the rabbi Yeshua is a privilege granted to each of us that bear His Name - and, speaking for myself, how rarely I do it. My prayers seem too full of requests and too little of thanksgiving. And when I consciously spend time in thanksgiving, as soon as I start there come crowding into my mind those who need prayer - and so the time, inch by inch, is swallowed in petition.
If you, too, are struggling with this, with this hunger that slips from your fingers when you try to cultivate it, join me in emulating the observant Jew and his acknowledgement of his Creator in everything he does. Begin your day with thanksgiving - and seek every opportunity to thank Him for your cup of tea, your favorite pet, your earthly beloved.
Blessed art Thou, Lord God, King of the Universe, Who has given to man the secret of technology and computers, to allow us to praise You and to bring us knowledge and delight. Bless each one who stumbles on this blog today and draw them closer to You.
Amen.
The pain has finally left me - with the knowledge that it will come again. Someday. Prayerfully, not soon.
There is something about physical pain that is exhausting. It finally left me about 1 am - I fell on my bed so exhausted. I could do nothing more than turn out the light - and awoke 3 hours later to find I was on top of the bedcovers, not underneath them. I had thought to only rest for a bit before actually getting into sleeping position.
And yet, if given the choice, I would gladly choose the physical over the mental.
I have dear friends who suffer from the mental part. One has bi-polar disease, and is often tempted by the lie of sweet oblivion with suicide - but His ownership of her body and life prevent that false solution. Another friend battled for years to surface after a lifetime of verbal and physical abuse - the verbal from both of her parents, the combined ferocity of both from her husband. Another is fraught with an uneasy feeling as fall approaches, as SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) causes her to struggle through the depths of winter. She once descibed it as wearing a sack over your head. You know it's there; other people tell you it's there; but there is nothing you can do about it.
And another friend who recently found he could fight the sack no longer, and he ended it himself. The crush of guilt and sadness he left behind for those who loved him is an unimagineable horror.
I have seen their suffering, doubts, pain and sadness up close and personal. They come often to my prayers - and I rejoice to see their victories when they come. But I'll take my physical extremities any day - and thank God He has not called me to mental anguish.
God has had me "stumble onto" a life-changing book recently. It is called "Sitting at the feet of Rabbi Jesus" by Ann Spangler and Lois Tverberg, both gentile. They have studied the background of first century Judaism and place the words of Jesus in that setting - and a light turns on.
I have a great love for the Jewish people. Having been blessed with a trip to Israel, it changed my life in a big way. This book does the same.
To the observant Jew, God is everywhere. Every moment of the day, from awakening to eating to working to sleeping has a blessing attached to it. It makes Paul's admonition to pray without ceasing an interesting thought. He may have been referring to this practice.
Seemingly a plethora of memorized prayers recited rote, it is nothing at all like that. The prayers are memorized because they have seen and heard both mama and papa saying them from the time they can first remember. But they are also taught that saying the blessings without being aware of Whom you are praying to is worse than useless; it is insult.
Each prayer begins with a reminder of Who He is: "Baruch atah Adonai Eluheneu Melech ha'olam.." Blessed Art Thou, Lord God, King of the Universe... and they continue with something like "Who has caused grain to be grown on the Earth" to celebrate having food on their table. The day begins with thanking the Creator for keeping their soul in their body for one more day, and continues with every opportunity.
I fear sometimes that Christianity has made us less aware of the Whom when we pray - the amazing privilege of praying to Someone Who bids us call Him "Papa" is sometimes, I fear, taken as license rather than privilege. I pray I am never doing that.
I am trying to incorporate some of those blessings of every second into my life. Certainly the relief of pain is high on my list - but so is waking up one more day on earth, having a roof over my head, even having flannel sheets as the weather cools is a blessing I don't take lightly.
I hunger for more of Him. I have since the day He first blasted His way into my life. The difference between "before" and "after" in my life was immediately evident. I asked Him then to take me into the depths with Him, a prayer He is continually answering - not thru any holiness on my part - far from it - but through His willingness to answer prayers. And still the hunger for more remains. I expect that hunger will not cease until we are face-to-face with a Being so Immense and Powerful that He created an untold number of galaxies and star factories and planets - and then stooped to Earth to tenderly Hand-create mankind from the dust of the very earth He had created. We have no idea Whom we are dealing with. The "Jesus meek and mild" doesn't exist. He is a Powerful, Omniscient God Who clothed Himself with the dust of the Earth so we could understand what Love is - so we would have a familiar Face, so to speak, on which to base our knowledge of the Father. But Who He is, like the place He has prepared for us, is so far beyond whatever we could think or imagine, is beyond out abilitlies to discern.
And so our Heavenly Papa sent His Son, to help us grasp that Love focuses on the Beloved. Everything Jesus said and did was to show us what Love really is - how much our Papa loves us, how much Love costs, how much we have to learn about Loving. To sit at the feet of the rabbi Yeshua is a privilege granted to each of us that bear His Name - and, speaking for myself, how rarely I do it. My prayers seem too full of requests and too little of thanksgiving. And when I consciously spend time in thanksgiving, as soon as I start there come crowding into my mind those who need prayer - and so the time, inch by inch, is swallowed in petition.
If you, too, are struggling with this, with this hunger that slips from your fingers when you try to cultivate it, join me in emulating the observant Jew and his acknowledgement of his Creator in everything he does. Begin your day with thanksgiving - and seek every opportunity to thank Him for your cup of tea, your favorite pet, your earthly beloved.
Blessed art Thou, Lord God, King of the Universe, Who has given to man the secret of technology and computers, to allow us to praise You and to bring us knowledge and delight. Bless each one who stumbles on this blog today and draw them closer to You.
Amen.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
What I learned from my cat...
I've been up all night again tonight. After tossing and turning I finally got up to see how the new baby was doing http://www.earthcam.com/usa/southcarolina/greenville/ Even she is trying to doze - her mom comes over and kissed her forehead every once in awhile, it's so cute to see them. I never thought giraffes were that cute before - wow, was I wrong!
Last night was a horror. The nausea and vomiting have come back with a vengeance - i spent the night close to the toilet, nauseated to the point of salivation but it wouldn't come up.
At one point I tried to lie down for a bit.
Now, if you've seen this blog before you know about Katrina (her pic at top) She is a Wegie (pronounced Wee-gee) A Norwegian Forest Cat of large proportions - they run 20 to 25 lbs. She is around 20, I've had her since she was a kitten and she has never gotten past the idea that I wanted to kill her. Her flight from Virginia was delayed and she stayed in Atlanta for almost 6 hrs before flying on to me in Nevada. From the first, she avoided me. Came out of the carrier and crawled under the bed - and stayed there for 3 months. I knew she was eating because the food disappeared and the litter box had been used.
After she came out into the world, you could talk to her if you were sitting and she was an inch beyond your farthest reach. If you stood up, she was back under the bed. I still can't catch her which makes vet visits a nightmare, and she despises grooming, so she gets mats and the groomer thinks I neglect her. Of course, she sits perfectly still for the groomer, purrs and cooperates so they don't believe me when I tell them that just trimming her nails is an ordeal because she hates to have her paws touched!
I would complain about her to God, and one day out of the blue He said to me, "She's just like you."
Whaaaaat?
He said" You too hold me at arms length, and are leery of sitting with me in the silence for even a little while. When you have something I know is bad for you in your mouth you run away instead of listening to my prompting to come to me and deal with it. She's just like you."
Well, that made me sit up and take notice.
The one thing that comforted me was that at least she follows me around from one room to another, and has to be in my presence throughout the day. I surely hope that that is how my walk with Him goes.
Now back to Barf, the sequel:
I laid down on the bed on my left side, my left arm stretched out a little, palm up , fingers slightly cupped. I was exhausted and nauseated and on top of everything else I had one of my nuclear strength headaches. I closed my eyes.
All of a sudden I felt the bed move.
Katrina had come up on the bed - and she curled up next to me, leaning against my cupped fingers.
And then, I felt her place her huge, soft furry paw-that-she-hates-to-have-touched gently in the palm of my hand - and leave it there.
Then the tears came.
Partly because that was exceptional behavior from my standoffish cat - but every once in awhile she will do something that will just melt my heart.
And also because I knew God was saying to me, "I love you. I am right here, by your side - and I am using Katrina to show you some tenderness tonight."
And it was enough.
Under neath are the Everlasting Arms.
Selah
Last night was a horror. The nausea and vomiting have come back with a vengeance - i spent the night close to the toilet, nauseated to the point of salivation but it wouldn't come up.
At one point I tried to lie down for a bit.
Now, if you've seen this blog before you know about Katrina (her pic at top) She is a Wegie (pronounced Wee-gee) A Norwegian Forest Cat of large proportions - they run 20 to 25 lbs. She is around 20, I've had her since she was a kitten and she has never gotten past the idea that I wanted to kill her. Her flight from Virginia was delayed and she stayed in Atlanta for almost 6 hrs before flying on to me in Nevada. From the first, she avoided me. Came out of the carrier and crawled under the bed - and stayed there for 3 months. I knew she was eating because the food disappeared and the litter box had been used.
After she came out into the world, you could talk to her if you were sitting and she was an inch beyond your farthest reach. If you stood up, she was back under the bed. I still can't catch her which makes vet visits a nightmare, and she despises grooming, so she gets mats and the groomer thinks I neglect her. Of course, she sits perfectly still for the groomer, purrs and cooperates so they don't believe me when I tell them that just trimming her nails is an ordeal because she hates to have her paws touched!
I would complain about her to God, and one day out of the blue He said to me, "She's just like you."
Whaaaaat?
He said" You too hold me at arms length, and are leery of sitting with me in the silence for even a little while. When you have something I know is bad for you in your mouth you run away instead of listening to my prompting to come to me and deal with it. She's just like you."
Well, that made me sit up and take notice.
The one thing that comforted me was that at least she follows me around from one room to another, and has to be in my presence throughout the day. I surely hope that that is how my walk with Him goes.
Now back to Barf, the sequel:
I laid down on the bed on my left side, my left arm stretched out a little, palm up , fingers slightly cupped. I was exhausted and nauseated and on top of everything else I had one of my nuclear strength headaches. I closed my eyes.
All of a sudden I felt the bed move.
Katrina had come up on the bed - and she curled up next to me, leaning against my cupped fingers.
And then, I felt her place her huge, soft furry paw-that-she-hates-to-have-touched gently in the palm of my hand - and leave it there.
Then the tears came.
Partly because that was exceptional behavior from my standoffish cat - but every once in awhile she will do something that will just melt my heart.
And also because I knew God was saying to me, "I love you. I am right here, by your side - and I am using Katrina to show you some tenderness tonight."
And it was enough.
Under neath are the Everlasting Arms.
Selah
Friday, October 12, 2012
The power of God in microcosim
It is late, I have been lying here thinking deep thoughts as the storm rages around me. How I love living in the desert - I had never seen storms the way they occur here. Tonite the quiet evening suddenly became a potpourri of crashing thunder, flashing magnificent forks of lightning through the night sky.
Oh! How I love thunderstorms.
The desert storms are unlike anything I'd experienced anywhere else. My brother just phoned to tell me his lawn was completely buried under pea sized hail. Ours was smaller, not as much. But the lightning forked and stretched and flashed like electric fingers reaching sideways, not touching the ground. The winds roar, the thunder rattles the house, and the rain beats against the windows like the wings of a gigantic bird. Awesome!
Every thunderstorm displays the tiniest bit of His power - dramatic, dangerous, as if God is flexing His muscles. I love how every aspect is finely controlled, how He releases just so much power and not an iota more. This is how the judgement day will look - roaring thunder, flashes of His mighty arm's power - a display calculated to drop me face down before Him. And it does.
And then, after all the dramatics, comes the pouring rain which slowly softens into a steady rain for a bit. Then all is quiet....until, far off in the distance, a small grumble is heard. Then another, louder this time. Then the flash of light and the thunder happen almost @ the same time, the house shakes rattles and rolls and the sound seems to pass through ever cell in my body.
Awesome.
I read of a woman who, trying to calm her kiddies fears, told them the thunder was only "the angels making their beds." A small voice said, "I don't mind them making the beds - but they keep turning the lights on and off." I like that. To this day, I like to think perhaps the angels are involved in thunderstorms, perhaps even making their beds or, as another mom told me, "the angels are bowling" Both thoughts make me smile. But I'd rather tell a child that God was showing His power so we would never have to doubt that something was too hard for Him - and to watch the displays with awe and wonder.
Like I do. <3 p="p">
So I thought I would share a little of the joy I find in thunder and lightning - of course, a necessary part of that is being safe and warm and have a place to watch, yet be removed from it.
It's how I feel about my CI sometimes - I watch God release His power when I need it, providing helpful parking places by the door or the endurance to last throughout the whole series of art classes and not have to leave early.
For me this most often takes place around the Christmas holidays - our church has an elegant tea for the ladies - and I'm talking a real tea, not a fake box of cookies on a tray.. Each table receives a tray filled with lovely finger sandwiches, the next tier up contains light, lovingly made scones, and last on the tippy top, are fancy schmancy deserts made by a premier chocolatier from one of our fancy hotel/casinos in Las Vegas. All the hubbys and ushers put on black slacks and black bow ties with a white shirt and serve - while the ladies get to sit back and enjoy the keynote speaker while munching. Oh - did I mention there are always several varieties of teas, and the most decadent topping for the scones (creme fresh, lemon curd, and strawberry jam. The gents spend the evening running to and fro getting thermoses of hot water and refill the trays of sandwiches and extra deserts.
The fluorescent lights are dimmed, the candles are lit, and a string quartet of students from UNLV provide background music until the singer begins the worship carols, and later after the keynote speaker, a pianist "tickles the ivories" as we feast on the goodies.
Can anyone explain to me how a deviled egg sandwich you could make at home (but never do) tastes like a Top "Chef delight when it is nestled upon thin white bread with their crusts cut off and are served as a triangle? To me that is a miracle right up there with the water-to-wine of the wedding at Cana!
During this hectic time, I sit in the church office in case some one's name is spelled wrong and calligraph a new one. I also host a table with my sil on one of the 3 nights of the tea. But I must be there every night to fix name tags, and some nights there are many.
Because it is so important to me to be there (to myself, not to the church) and because it touches people to see "actual " calligraphy being done before their eyes - I can count on getting sicker or being in much more pain than usual. Last year I had sciatic nerve damage that lasted down to the wire - I couldn't sit without severe pain that my regular dose of pain medication didn't even touch! It looked impossible. But like the unleashed precision of the lightning, my King had it allllllllll under control.A few hours before I had to leave for church, the pain went away. Poof! Gone! And I could get to the church , get up and down from my chair to receive and return the corrected name tags, then scurry into the room when the carols began, and sit through the whole evening with nary a twinge. And that happened 3 nights in a row!. To me, this is akin to the parting of the Red Sea. I was so full of wonder and joy at His graciousness in allowing me to serve Him, doing something that I dearly love : calligraphy.
And experiencing the storm tonight brought it all back. When things look impossible to me, I now remember seeing His power released in my behalf in (to me) a mighty way - and carry a picture in my heart of lightning striking that obstacle and - POOF! - it is gone. Of course, His timing is a bit different than ours. I want it NOW! Instant gratification is my favorite mode of being answered. But God deals from eternity, where there is no time - and tho He might not be as early as I would like, after 40 years of walking with Him I can tell you truthfully, He is never late.
So the next time you are privileged to view thunder and lightning, imagine each bolt of lightning striking that big obstacle in your way - and remind yourself that His arm is not shortened that He cannot save.
That's why we call Him the Savior!
Oh! How I love thunderstorms.
The desert storms are unlike anything I'd experienced anywhere else. My brother just phoned to tell me his lawn was completely buried under pea sized hail. Ours was smaller, not as much. But the lightning forked and stretched and flashed like electric fingers reaching sideways, not touching the ground. The winds roar, the thunder rattles the house, and the rain beats against the windows like the wings of a gigantic bird. Awesome!
Every thunderstorm displays the tiniest bit of His power - dramatic, dangerous, as if God is flexing His muscles. I love how every aspect is finely controlled, how He releases just so much power and not an iota more. This is how the judgement day will look - roaring thunder, flashes of His mighty arm's power - a display calculated to drop me face down before Him. And it does.
And then, after all the dramatics, comes the pouring rain which slowly softens into a steady rain for a bit. Then all is quiet....until, far off in the distance, a small grumble is heard. Then another, louder this time. Then the flash of light and the thunder happen almost @ the same time, the house shakes rattles and rolls and the sound seems to pass through ever cell in my body.
Awesome.
I read of a woman who, trying to calm her kiddies fears, told them the thunder was only "the angels making their beds." A small voice said, "I don't mind them making the beds - but they keep turning the lights on and off." I like that. To this day, I like to think perhaps the angels are involved in thunderstorms, perhaps even making their beds or, as another mom told me, "the angels are bowling" Both thoughts make me smile. But I'd rather tell a child that God was showing His power so we would never have to doubt that something was too hard for Him - and to watch the displays with awe and wonder.
Like I do. <3 p="p">
So I thought I would share a little of the joy I find in thunder and lightning - of course, a necessary part of that is being safe and warm and have a place to watch, yet be removed from it.
It's how I feel about my CI sometimes - I watch God release His power when I need it, providing helpful parking places by the door or the endurance to last throughout the whole series of art classes and not have to leave early.
Can anyone explain to me how a deviled egg sandwich you could make at home (but never do) tastes like a Top "Chef delight when it is nestled upon thin white bread with their crusts cut off and are served as a triangle? To me that is a miracle right up there with the water-to-wine of the wedding at Cana!
During this hectic time, I sit in the church office in case some one's name is spelled wrong and calligraph a new one. I also host a table with my sil on one of the 3 nights of the tea. But I must be there every night to fix name tags, and some nights there are many.
Because it is so important to me to be there (to myself, not to the church) and because it touches people to see "actual " calligraphy being done before their eyes - I can count on getting sicker or being in much more pain than usual. Last year I had sciatic nerve damage that lasted down to the wire - I couldn't sit without severe pain that my regular dose of pain medication didn't even touch! It looked impossible. But like the unleashed precision of the lightning, my King had it allllllllll under control.A few hours before I had to leave for church, the pain went away. Poof! Gone! And I could get to the church , get up and down from my chair to receive and return the corrected name tags, then scurry into the room when the carols began, and sit through the whole evening with nary a twinge. And that happened 3 nights in a row!. To me, this is akin to the parting of the Red Sea. I was so full of wonder and joy at His graciousness in allowing me to serve Him, doing something that I dearly love : calligraphy.
And experiencing the storm tonight brought it all back. When things look impossible to me, I now remember seeing His power released in my behalf in (to me) a mighty way - and carry a picture in my heart of lightning striking that obstacle and - POOF! - it is gone. Of course, His timing is a bit different than ours. I want it NOW! Instant gratification is my favorite mode of being answered. But God deals from eternity, where there is no time - and tho He might not be as early as I would like, after 40 years of walking with Him I can tell you truthfully, He is never late.
So the next time you are privileged to view thunder and lightning, imagine each bolt of lightning striking that big obstacle in your way - and remind yourself that His arm is not shortened that He cannot save.
That's why we call Him the Savior!
Monday, September 24, 2012
Open heart, open hand
2Chronicles 21:18-30
Here we have the tale of David messing up again (bless his heart)- he wanted the people counted for selfish reasons - to feel like the important king of zillions of people.
God was not amused.
An avenging angel began striking his people - the very ones David had counted to puff himself up - with a plague. Finally, the first real sign of repentance bursts from David's lips "what have these sheep done? It was me, my sin - let your hand be against me and my house, not against the innocent !"(my rendering)
The moment this came from his lips, God stayed the angel's hand.
Right at the threshing floor of Ornan.
In 2 Samuel 24 he is called "Araunah" - the pre-Israelite/Canaanite name for the same thing. Calling him "Ornan" implies that he has put himself under the care of the Hebrew God - perhaps between the writing of 2 Samuel and 1Chonicles.
I like this guy.
His 4 sons are with him threshing grain - when the avenging angel stops, right at his property! The 4 sons hide.
Not Ornan. Our hero goes right on with his threshing. Why wasn't he also afraid?
Perhaps he'd been to the temple that morning and offered sacrifices for himself and his sons, and knew that he was "prayed up". Perhaps he was feeling the joy of the newly forgiven, content to continue his work until a) the angel took him to Abraham's bosom; b) the angel recognized his forgiven status and passed him by; or c) he wanted to model for his sons courage and trust in his new-found God.
Whatever the reason, David comes upon him and wants to buy his land to sacrifice to God.
Now, a little background.
This couldn't be Ornan's ancestral land, or it would go back to him @Jubilee, and this doesn't. In fact, this becomes the land upon which the Temple is built. So it must be part of the city land that Ornan had bought for the express purpose of threshing - the grain was tread upon by oxen, loosening it from its stalks and crushing the outer hard layer. The grain was then tossed into the air and the wind blew away the chaff. This land was on the top of Mt. Moriah, the winds would hit the top of the mount with unimpeded strength: perfect for a threshing floor.
This must have been a major purchase for Ornan - he was not a rich man, or he wouldn't be doing the threshing himself with his four sons. Servants/hirelings would be doing it. So this represented a step up for him, a smart purchase of valuable real estate. Which makes what happens next all the more amazing.
When David tells him he wants the land to sacrifice to God, Ornan doesn't miss a beat: he immediately responds "It's yours. And look! How fortunate! Here's two oxen for the sacrifice - and oh! Wouldn't the yoke make great kindling? Oh! and here is grain to complete the sacrificial offering. Here - take it all. I give it to you, free and clear." (My paraphrase)
In one translation it says, "...and Araunah, like a king, gives all he has to King David..." (2Sam 24:18-24) And God, in His delight over Ornan's open hand (and heart) - over this ordinary, middle class worker bee, just going about his life ( and shining like gold in the eyes of God ) - God thinks so highly of Ornan that He records it for all posterity.
Because Ornan held back not a single, solitary thing - not an ox, not an expensive, custom made-so-they-don't-rub-the-shoulder-raw wooden yoke, not a single grain of wheat: not one thing. I hear excitement in his offer, see shining eyes, a heart full of joy that something of his would be worthy to be offered to God in the name of his king!
But David knows that a sacrifice is not a sacrifice if it's free. He would not offer to his God that which cost him nothing.
Lion heart to lion heart. Deep calling unto deep. Child of God giving to God from his heart, not just his pocket.
Every time I read this section, I am humbled by it.
As a CI, I don't have much. And what little I have, truthfully, I have not always held with an open hand. But if I really think about it, all of it belongs to Him in the first place. What I "hold onto" (tightly) is an illusion - should God choose, like the chaff, He could blow it away with a single puff. He can also choose to provide more.
The challenge this presents to me is to consider this: Here I am, standing in front of my meager little pile of flotsam and jetsam, holding to my heart useless remnants of the world. Do I continue in this stance?
Or do I have the courage to step aside, flinging my arms wide, fists open, palms facing up, in a glorious abandonment of self, and "like a king" give my all to Him, holding nothing back?
Do you?
Just a little something for both of us to ponder....
Here we have the tale of David messing up again (bless his heart)- he wanted the people counted for selfish reasons - to feel like the important king of zillions of people.
God was not amused.
An avenging angel began striking his people - the very ones David had counted to puff himself up - with a plague. Finally, the first real sign of repentance bursts from David's lips "what have these sheep done? It was me, my sin - let your hand be against me and my house, not against the innocent !"(my rendering)
The moment this came from his lips, God stayed the angel's hand.
Right at the threshing floor of Ornan.
In 2 Samuel 24 he is called "Araunah" - the pre-Israelite/Canaanite name for the same thing. Calling him "Ornan" implies that he has put himself under the care of the Hebrew God - perhaps between the writing of 2 Samuel and 1Chonicles.
I like this guy.
His 4 sons are with him threshing grain - when the avenging angel stops, right at his property! The 4 sons hide.
Not Ornan. Our hero goes right on with his threshing. Why wasn't he also afraid?
Perhaps he'd been to the temple that morning and offered sacrifices for himself and his sons, and knew that he was "prayed up". Perhaps he was feeling the joy of the newly forgiven, content to continue his work until a) the angel took him to Abraham's bosom; b) the angel recognized his forgiven status and passed him by; or c) he wanted to model for his sons courage and trust in his new-found God.
Whatever the reason, David comes upon him and wants to buy his land to sacrifice to God.
Now, a little background.
This couldn't be Ornan's ancestral land, or it would go back to him @Jubilee, and this doesn't. In fact, this becomes the land upon which the Temple is built. So it must be part of the city land that Ornan had bought for the express purpose of threshing - the grain was tread upon by oxen, loosening it from its stalks and crushing the outer hard layer. The grain was then tossed into the air and the wind blew away the chaff. This land was on the top of Mt. Moriah, the winds would hit the top of the mount with unimpeded strength: perfect for a threshing floor.
This must have been a major purchase for Ornan - he was not a rich man, or he wouldn't be doing the threshing himself with his four sons. Servants/hirelings would be doing it. So this represented a step up for him, a smart purchase of valuable real estate. Which makes what happens next all the more amazing.
When David tells him he wants the land to sacrifice to God, Ornan doesn't miss a beat: he immediately responds "It's yours. And look! How fortunate! Here's two oxen for the sacrifice - and oh! Wouldn't the yoke make great kindling? Oh! and here is grain to complete the sacrificial offering. Here - take it all. I give it to you, free and clear." (My paraphrase)
In one translation it says, "...and Araunah, like a king, gives all he has to King David..." (2Sam 24:18-24) And God, in His delight over Ornan's open hand (and heart) - over this ordinary, middle class worker bee, just going about his life ( and shining like gold in the eyes of God ) - God thinks so highly of Ornan that He records it for all posterity.
Because Ornan held back not a single, solitary thing - not an ox, not an expensive, custom made-so-they-don't-rub-the-shoulder-raw wooden yoke, not a single grain of wheat: not one thing. I hear excitement in his offer, see shining eyes, a heart full of joy that something of his would be worthy to be offered to God in the name of his king!
But David knows that a sacrifice is not a sacrifice if it's free. He would not offer to his God that which cost him nothing.
Lion heart to lion heart. Deep calling unto deep. Child of God giving to God from his heart, not just his pocket.
Every time I read this section, I am humbled by it.
As a CI, I don't have much. And what little I have, truthfully, I have not always held with an open hand. But if I really think about it, all of it belongs to Him in the first place. What I "hold onto" (tightly) is an illusion - should God choose, like the chaff, He could blow it away with a single puff. He can also choose to provide more.
The challenge this presents to me is to consider this: Here I am, standing in front of my meager little pile of flotsam and jetsam, holding to my heart useless remnants of the world. Do I continue in this stance?
Or do I have the courage to step aside, flinging my arms wide, fists open, palms facing up, in a glorious abandonment of self, and "like a king" give my all to Him, holding nothing back?
Do you?
Just a little something for both of us to ponder....
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The Everlasting Arms
When I was a girl, my uncle had a home in a tiny town on the Wisconsin border. It had 2 churches, 3 saloons and 4 feed stores, and the population was something like 100. Growing up in California, I had yet to be enchanted by fireflies and their magic spell, or the friendly sound of cricket choirs chirping in the soft darkness. I had never heard church bells ringing on a Sunday, or a sky so full of stars it took my breath away. It was the end of summer, and the nights were no longer full of mosquitoes or the oppressive humidity that left you turning over your pillow looking for the cool spot and shifting your position to catch the faintest of breezes through the open windows (no air conditioning in those days!)
I was given the privilege of sleeping on a cot in the basement, which also enchanted me - we didn't have basements or attics in California either, and the earthy smell and cool feel of the cement on my bare feet became the instantly recognizable scent and feel of summers in the Midwest. One whiff in the years to come, and I was instantly back in Stitzer.
I sat out front on the stairs while the adults chatted inside. There were very few houses near the town, and the quiet intrigued me. The air felt as soft as velvet, and all sound had a muted quality, so that when you spoke, you found yourself speaking in hushed, quiet tones. God's cricket choir serenaded the dew; somewhere a back screen door slapped against its wooden frame; a lonely dog gave a single bark as if to remind his owners that he was still there, in case anybody wanted to come and give him a pat. It seemed to me I'd sat there for hours when I first heard it, faintly, in the distance: the aching, lonely sound of a train whistle nearing an intersection (the town only had one). It seemed to capture everything I was feeling; all the pent up emotion that had been stuffed inside for the last year came bubbling to the surface:
For on the previous Christmas Eve morning I had awakened to the sound of my Grandmother's keening, calling my grandfather's name in Swedish (altho he'd been dead for 11 years) and my mother's counterpart crying of my father's name. He was groaning, eyes open, staring into eternity, not conscious. My mother was begging him not to die.
But he did.
I was 16 years old.
I remember nothing else about that day except that nothing seemed real. A neighborhood friend just recently filled in the blanks for me - how I'd come to her house and in a deadpan voice told her my father was dead. It seemed all I wanted to do was walk around in the neighborhood, it didn't matter where, just walking. She was a good enough friend to stay with me and let me talk - mostly about my dad. We wound up eventually in my garage where I showed her the things my father had designed and built for the upcoming mandatory science fair. For me.
I remember none of it.
I had just begun to realize my dad was a man - I mean besides being father to four children and going to work every day. Just beginning to know him as a person. Just beginning to ask for advice - and listening earnestly to the answers.The summer before we had painted my bedroom together, and he had taught me the proper way to move the brush so no streaks showed; how careful to be cutting in, especially on windows; how to clean the brushes with turpentine, again and again and again, until all traces of paint were gone from the brushes.
And then he was gone from my life forever.
Jesus had not yet come into my life and I didn't know where to put my grief. For the longest time I couldn't cry, couldn't put on a show for the relatives who had come from all points to the funeral, only to find the stunned Unfeeling Daughter Who Wouldn't Cry. The sound of the train's long, low, drawn out horn in Stitzer stirred it all up. From that day forward, the sound of the midnight train sounding its horn and its kindred spirit of the single, crooning bass note of the foghorn as it sounded warnings across the bay, settled over my shoulders with a warm sense of melancholy. I felt as if the sky itself had its arms around me, that at last I was understood, and, finally, I could cry.
I still miss him.
And then, in my 20's, I met Jesus, met my Heavenly Father, and the Holy Spirit filled me with the knowledge that He owns me forever, and nothing I can do will change that.
After 15 years of walking with Him I got sick. Really sick.
Then God, in His graciousness, had my doctor go to a continuing education conference the night before I saw him - and could instantly diagnose me and send me on to a specialist, when a host of other CIs with the same illness took years. Both doctors filled out endless paperwork to assure that I was provided benefits when most others were being turned down; God put it into their hearts to fight for me. At one point one of the docs said to me, "I think I lost your benefits - this guy called me and I got into a shouting match with him. I'm so sorry."
The next day I was notified that my claim had been accepted.
From that day forward, God has walked before, behind, and beside me. He provides parking places close to the door on days when I am particularly weak. Parking places in the shade when here in the desert it is over 100 degrees and as dry as an oxen's skull. A doctor I trust who studies whatever information I give her about my disease and frets with me that nothing cures it, and I take a zillion drugs that treat symptoms only - and take other drugs to counteract the side effects of the first ones.
He has carried me through the deaths of 5 of the 7 of us that gathered round the kitchen table of my youth. The latest was the death of my baby brother, 9 years younger. I had changed his diaper, helped him learn how to walk. Kept his spirits up when he had an emergency appendectomy at age 6. Mourned with him through a series of murders he had witnessed and narrowly escaped at age 15. He had grown up to be my caretaker, doing grocery shopping, picking up Rx's, carting me hither and yon. There was no warning.
I was at a retreat I had awaited with great anticipation when the directors found me and told me I needed to call home. I did, and my remaining brother told me he had died.
I thought this blow would be fatal. It felt like my child had died.
For weeks I felt as if I couldn't breathe. I fretted constantly about his eternal address as I knew he hadn't been walking the walk. I found myself crying and weeping as one who had no hope.
Then God said to me, "There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus..."
For that night I was fine. The next day the fear returned, churning up my heart, tearing at my peace. I began to sob, the pain so deep I thought my heart would burst. I remember I tried to muffle the sounds with the pillow, burying my head in it.
And into that furor came a resounding Voice that brooked no opposition.
With the most clarity I have ever heard God speak, He said, "It is impossible for Me to lie."
In the deep silence that followed, finally, I was able to rest - truly rest - in Him.
Why am I telling you this?
Because all of us, CI or AB, act sometimes as if Scripture isn't true. We don't say it, but our actions imply it. And I was one who, not meaning to, had called God a liar by my actions.
That doesn't mean I never cried again, or grieved over his absence; it means I never grieved without hope again. And God is so gracious that He impressed a picture on my heart of my brother with hands upraised praising Him, then turning to me and winking. Weeks later I found He had sent the same picture to my nephew.
It sets me to wondering how many times I have called God a liar in my life - and I'm trying to reduce that number in the future. When I fret over something - although His Word tells me He is in control. When I silently fume that someone is stepping all over "my rights" or when someone "sins" against me and I hold onto anger instead of comparing that "slight" to the mountain of sins I have been forgiven. I am doing it when I have been left out, yet again, and gather the hurt to my heart - instead of choosing, as Amy Carmichael did, to "see in it a chance to die" [to self] and realize I must forgive and let God.
As a CI it is more difficult than ever to relinquish control (even though any control I try to wield is really an illusion). Anything that messes up our carefully planned days is disconcerting, to say the least, when you know that that small thing can possibly have big consequences.
The only way I have found to fight the "fear of the precipice" that lives in every CI, is to trust Him - with gritted teeth, if necessary - and remind myself that when the day comes for me to fall from that precipice (and it will) the Everlasting Arms will be underneath me.
The word I have chosen to characterize this year was "teachable". One thing that I have learned is that trusting Him is the basic, essential ingredient of the Christian walk. For those of you who are joining me on this journey, I pray that your deep knowledge of the eternal Arms underneath you will give you the courage and the joy to face each day - and even the precipice - with Him by your side.
I was given the privilege of sleeping on a cot in the basement, which also enchanted me - we didn't have basements or attics in California either, and the earthy smell and cool feel of the cement on my bare feet became the instantly recognizable scent and feel of summers in the Midwest. One whiff in the years to come, and I was instantly back in Stitzer.
I sat out front on the stairs while the adults chatted inside. There were very few houses near the town, and the quiet intrigued me. The air felt as soft as velvet, and all sound had a muted quality, so that when you spoke, you found yourself speaking in hushed, quiet tones. God's cricket choir serenaded the dew; somewhere a back screen door slapped against its wooden frame; a lonely dog gave a single bark as if to remind his owners that he was still there, in case anybody wanted to come and give him a pat. It seemed to me I'd sat there for hours when I first heard it, faintly, in the distance: the aching, lonely sound of a train whistle nearing an intersection (the town only had one). It seemed to capture everything I was feeling; all the pent up emotion that had been stuffed inside for the last year came bubbling to the surface:
For on the previous Christmas Eve morning I had awakened to the sound of my Grandmother's keening, calling my grandfather's name in Swedish (altho he'd been dead for 11 years) and my mother's counterpart crying of my father's name. He was groaning, eyes open, staring into eternity, not conscious. My mother was begging him not to die.
But he did.
I was 16 years old.
I remember nothing else about that day except that nothing seemed real. A neighborhood friend just recently filled in the blanks for me - how I'd come to her house and in a deadpan voice told her my father was dead. It seemed all I wanted to do was walk around in the neighborhood, it didn't matter where, just walking. She was a good enough friend to stay with me and let me talk - mostly about my dad. We wound up eventually in my garage where I showed her the things my father had designed and built for the upcoming mandatory science fair. For me.
I remember none of it.
I had just begun to realize my dad was a man - I mean besides being father to four children and going to work every day. Just beginning to know him as a person. Just beginning to ask for advice - and listening earnestly to the answers.The summer before we had painted my bedroom together, and he had taught me the proper way to move the brush so no streaks showed; how careful to be cutting in, especially on windows; how to clean the brushes with turpentine, again and again and again, until all traces of paint were gone from the brushes.
And then he was gone from my life forever.
Jesus had not yet come into my life and I didn't know where to put my grief. For the longest time I couldn't cry, couldn't put on a show for the relatives who had come from all points to the funeral, only to find the stunned Unfeeling Daughter Who Wouldn't Cry. The sound of the train's long, low, drawn out horn in Stitzer stirred it all up. From that day forward, the sound of the midnight train sounding its horn and its kindred spirit of the single, crooning bass note of the foghorn as it sounded warnings across the bay, settled over my shoulders with a warm sense of melancholy. I felt as if the sky itself had its arms around me, that at last I was understood, and, finally, I could cry.
I still miss him.
And then, in my 20's, I met Jesus, met my Heavenly Father, and the Holy Spirit filled me with the knowledge that He owns me forever, and nothing I can do will change that.
After 15 years of walking with Him I got sick. Really sick.
Then God, in His graciousness, had my doctor go to a continuing education conference the night before I saw him - and could instantly diagnose me and send me on to a specialist, when a host of other CIs with the same illness took years. Both doctors filled out endless paperwork to assure that I was provided benefits when most others were being turned down; God put it into their hearts to fight for me. At one point one of the docs said to me, "I think I lost your benefits - this guy called me and I got into a shouting match with him. I'm so sorry."
The next day I was notified that my claim had been accepted.
From that day forward, God has walked before, behind, and beside me. He provides parking places close to the door on days when I am particularly weak. Parking places in the shade when here in the desert it is over 100 degrees and as dry as an oxen's skull. A doctor I trust who studies whatever information I give her about my disease and frets with me that nothing cures it, and I take a zillion drugs that treat symptoms only - and take other drugs to counteract the side effects of the first ones.
He has carried me through the deaths of 5 of the 7 of us that gathered round the kitchen table of my youth. The latest was the death of my baby brother, 9 years younger. I had changed his diaper, helped him learn how to walk. Kept his spirits up when he had an emergency appendectomy at age 6. Mourned with him through a series of murders he had witnessed and narrowly escaped at age 15. He had grown up to be my caretaker, doing grocery shopping, picking up Rx's, carting me hither and yon. There was no warning.
I was at a retreat I had awaited with great anticipation when the directors found me and told me I needed to call home. I did, and my remaining brother told me he had died.
I thought this blow would be fatal. It felt like my child had died.
For weeks I felt as if I couldn't breathe. I fretted constantly about his eternal address as I knew he hadn't been walking the walk. I found myself crying and weeping as one who had no hope.
Then God said to me, "There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus..."
For that night I was fine. The next day the fear returned, churning up my heart, tearing at my peace. I began to sob, the pain so deep I thought my heart would burst. I remember I tried to muffle the sounds with the pillow, burying my head in it.
And into that furor came a resounding Voice that brooked no opposition.
With the most clarity I have ever heard God speak, He said, "It is impossible for Me to lie."
In the deep silence that followed, finally, I was able to rest - truly rest - in Him.
Why am I telling you this?
Because all of us, CI or AB, act sometimes as if Scripture isn't true. We don't say it, but our actions imply it. And I was one who, not meaning to, had called God a liar by my actions.
That doesn't mean I never cried again, or grieved over his absence; it means I never grieved without hope again. And God is so gracious that He impressed a picture on my heart of my brother with hands upraised praising Him, then turning to me and winking. Weeks later I found He had sent the same picture to my nephew.
It sets me to wondering how many times I have called God a liar in my life - and I'm trying to reduce that number in the future. When I fret over something - although His Word tells me He is in control. When I silently fume that someone is stepping all over "my rights" or when someone "sins" against me and I hold onto anger instead of comparing that "slight" to the mountain of sins I have been forgiven. I am doing it when I have been left out, yet again, and gather the hurt to my heart - instead of choosing, as Amy Carmichael did, to "see in it a chance to die" [to self] and realize I must forgive and let God.
As a CI it is more difficult than ever to relinquish control (even though any control I try to wield is really an illusion). Anything that messes up our carefully planned days is disconcerting, to say the least, when you know that that small thing can possibly have big consequences.
The only way I have found to fight the "fear of the precipice" that lives in every CI, is to trust Him - with gritted teeth, if necessary - and remind myself that when the day comes for me to fall from that precipice (and it will) the Everlasting Arms will be underneath me.
The word I have chosen to characterize this year was "teachable". One thing that I have learned is that trusting Him is the basic, essential ingredient of the Christian walk. For those of you who are joining me on this journey, I pray that your deep knowledge of the eternal Arms underneath you will give you the courage and the joy to face each day - and even the precipice - with Him by your side.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Oh Danny Boy
Daniel 10:10
"O Daniel, man greatly beloved..."
That is how the angel in Daniel's last vision addressed him.
I'm so jealous.
I can't imagine the honor of being addressed in such a way - obviously this angel had heard God call Daniel this - and in my mind's eye (or mind's ear) I hear tenderness in the voice of God saying " Go tell my greatly beloved and faithful servant Daniel what will happen in the last days..."
I so much want to be a good and faithful servant.
I so rarely am either one.
How is it possible to be privileged to know the King of the universe, the Creator of all things, the One Who died rather than live without me - how is it possible to be distracted from that great Gift? How can I possibly complain about anything in my life when the great mystery of my existence (that God chose me from before the foundation of the world - for reasons only He knows) is there, shining fiercely , radiating eternal Love?
I should be thanking Him for each breath, for the gift of eternal Life, reigning and ruling with Him for 1000 years in Jerusalem, and not going to hell, where I belong.
No, I am not a sinner of "big" sins - just an ordinary, everyday, garden variety sinner. Yet in God's eyes, I was as black as night - or, rather, drenched in scarlet - and He made me white as snow. How can it be that I am not face down before Him, thanking Him every single second of my life for paying my way into the Holy of Holies? [see April, "The Price He Paid"] How is it that I am indifferent to His majesty, going about my grocery shopping in a more intent manner than I "practice the presence of God?" How am I not overwhelmed by the ability to call this Being, this Unfathomable One, "Papa"?
How?
I have no answer.
To my shame.
Papa, please light a torch inside of me, one that blazes through the universe with Love for You. Place a compass inside my heart that always, always points me to You (and as I pray that prayer, I realize He already has: He's called the Holy Spirit.) Teach me Your ways, that I might be always pleasing to You.
I saw a cartoon the other day, with a giant mosquito in it.
The caption read, "I want to be so filled with the Holy Spirit that when a mosquito bites me, he flies away singing "There's power in the Blood..."
Make it so, Papa, oh please, make it so.
Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)