A long time ago, in a land far far away, someone important to me made an insightful observation. He said that I never really thought about something until I wrote it down and I never really felt anything until I painted it out. I took it as a compliment, and I think that he meant it as such, but over the past few days I have been thinking about this part of me that needs to create. The part of me that finds its voice in the written word and painted image.
In truth it is a part of me that has only been expressed in random bits and pieces. Yes, I write this blog and I journal like it is my last life line to sanity, but it has been years since I have given myself the freedom to paint. There was a time in my life when I could pick up a brush and lose days in front of a canvas. I would stand before the clean white surface and answer its challenge with alternating fury and compassion. I would command the colors to bend and blend to my will. I would fight back the elements of chaos that tried to steal the clarity of the image and I would bring a whole new reality in existence with my finger tips.
I would later awaken, soiled brush in hand, to stare at the marvel I had birthed and wonder how I could have ever created such a thing. Sometimes in blissful amazement, at others in grim acceptance, and still at other times with horror.
But there came a season in my life when my painting became the object of scorn. The time I spent lost in this fabulous and terrifying place was resented by another person very important to me, so I stopped. I packed away all my brushes and tried to ignore the paintings that begged to painted. I visited occasionally, but that is all I allowed myself. A visit, a few hours, a carefully doled out period of time when I thought it was safe, when I knew I was in no danger of losing myself to the process. Eventually, I stopped even this. It was far too painful and never satisfying, merely a bleak reminder of what I had left behind.
As life continued, I had to worry about providing for my children. Survival depended on constant vigilance and every drop of energy had to be poured into making a living, going to school, or some pretense of housekeeping. Painting just demanded too much. So my brushes sat in the cabinet, safely out of sight, but never out of mind.
Today, I am wrestling with if it is time to open that door, like the wardrobe that leads to Narnia will I find a way home? Will I want to find a way home? How many years will pass here and there? Will you know me when I return?
Another friend of mine once asked me how I could write about art and its place in Christian theology if I wasn’t doing art. It’s a valid question. At the time, I had resigned myself to the idea that maybe I just had enough of the artistic bent to give me insight into the situation but was really meant to pursue it beyond that. I still have no desire to be an artistic success. The politics of the art world leave me apathetic, not even caring if I am commercial success, but I am learning to admit that I love the process of creating. I love the feel of the brushes in my hand and how they drag across the canvas. I am finding that my love this act is far less intellectual than I had allowed myself to believe.
It is visceral and elemental. A feeling that springs from somewhere so deep in my gut that I can not determine its source. More than a compulsion, and greater than an appetite, it is truly something that defines me as a person. It defines how I perceive this world and my place in it. It is the medium through which I define my reality and experience this life more fully.
And yet, it is the part of me that I fear the most. It is the part of me that I have yet to fully tame, and paces back and forth in my heart and mind like the lion behind steel bars. I worry when I think of releasing it, and I fear what it shall mean for me and my family. Not because I think there is anything “bad” in it, but rather it is probably the most powerful piece of who I am, lending it strength and infusing every other part of me it touches.
But it is the part of me that knows my Creator the best. It is that little bit of who I am knows the majesty and beauty of a God who decided to create a world of wonders with his voice. It when I am lost in this world of being so completely that it leaks out onto a page or canvas that I understand why he needed to speak the words that gave us life. And I am realizing that hiding from this part of me is just another way of hiding from him.
There is a piece of all of us that reflects our creator beautifully and perfectly. Where we know something about him so intimately that no one else may ever share in that revelation. It is the strongest and purest part of who we are, and it is powerful. Often intimidating the bravest of us, but what greater honor can we give him than offering it up to him?
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Just One of Those Days
Well, it has been one of those mornings. The kids have decided their teacher is a cruel taskmaster doling out far too many assignments and not enough grace. And since yelling at the teacher is forbidden, yelling at each other will have to do. Lydia called Lauren a name that I can’t record here. Lauren screamed at Lydia for not doing something right, in all honesty I am not for sure what it is because my ears don’t register screams or whining. It’s a survival skill I picked up years ago and one that drives my girls insane.
I wish I could say that all the drama is pointless and squash it dead in its tracks, but since I haven’t figured out a way to stop it, I look for ways to redeem it. I have learned that when I look at my girls I can see myself, and each day they show me something new in them, I find that that same quality is within me. They just have the guts to let it out.
I realized this morning, as they yelled at each other from across the house, that I am like that. They really aren’t mad at each other, and would probably find a way to entertain themselves, if I had not dared to interfere in their lives. You see, they are really mad at me. Ultimately, at least in this small sphere, I set the terms, control the circumstance, and I have the authority to compel the other one into submission. And since life is being so devastatingly unfair and they cannot persuade me to make it otherwise, they have to spew at something and who better than a sibling?
I wonder if God ever has the urge to lock himself in the bedroom and sneak a cigarette when I behave this way? You know, the days when I could entertain myself just fine but he chooses to make other plans on my behalf, or more specifically, he has something to teach me. The days when I know he is just not being fair and I truly believe my life would be just great if he would make that other person behave.
Because I know that even though my children can throw a fit, my fits are far more dramatic and possess a distinctive flair that they have yet to develop. I have far more ammunition – I mean justification, for seeing myself as the victim. After all, I have been put upon, oppressed, mistreated, and abused. I have witnessed a world full of evil and I know that it is out to get me. I have to stand up for myself, demand that my rights be observed, and fight to make my voice heard. My hurts, my needs, my disappointments, and frustrations need to be vindicated. Evil must be punished, and I . . . uh, I mean, good must prevail.
Wow, that felt good. Too bad it’s all a load of garbage.
The hard truth is I have no rights. Not at the deepest level. No one owes me anything, least of all God. Every bit of goodness, peace, and joy I experience comes as a gracious gift from his love for me. I can’t earn a gift, and I can’t perform well enough to merit his love. It is something I accept with joy and hopefully, at least sometimes, with the proper humility. Any importance or significance I have is found in the fact that he created me in his image and he loves me.
But sometimes, I forget. I look around and the world is not as I would have it and I grow impatient. I see people screwing it up, making mistakes from ignorance or laziness. I can never do what I want to do when I want to do it because there is always someone there making demands, wanting my attention or my time. I get frustrated and I want to scream at them to all go away, leave me alone so that I can just love my God and put on my pretty Christian face. It’s their fault I get ugly. It’s their fault I lose my temper and have to yell, stomp my feet, and make a spectacle of myself.
But deep down in my heart, I know they aren’t the ones I am mad at. They are just people, in the same boat I am in. They don’t control their fate any more than I control mine. We all have to deal with the fact that other people have their own agendas, get in our way, and just generally annoy us. But we all know there is another one who is in control who can change the circumstance, fix the terms, and has the authority to compel everyone into submission. He’s the one I am really mad at, because after all he needs to make things work out for me. And though I may be yelling at the rest of the world, I am also yelling loud enough so I know he will hear.
Thankfully, I now know the other side of that equation. I know he doesn’t take away all the obstacles because he is teaching me something that I will one day appreciate. I know he lets the other person get in my way because he loves them as much as he loves me. He doesn’t always bust my butt when I deserve it, and his ears will hear me again when I can learn to stop screaming. And sometimes, us kids just need to work it out amongst ourselves. He loves me enough to do all this for us simply because we are his children.
I wish I could say that all the drama is pointless and squash it dead in its tracks, but since I haven’t figured out a way to stop it, I look for ways to redeem it. I have learned that when I look at my girls I can see myself, and each day they show me something new in them, I find that that same quality is within me. They just have the guts to let it out.
I realized this morning, as they yelled at each other from across the house, that I am like that. They really aren’t mad at each other, and would probably find a way to entertain themselves, if I had not dared to interfere in their lives. You see, they are really mad at me. Ultimately, at least in this small sphere, I set the terms, control the circumstance, and I have the authority to compel the other one into submission. And since life is being so devastatingly unfair and they cannot persuade me to make it otherwise, they have to spew at something and who better than a sibling?
I wonder if God ever has the urge to lock himself in the bedroom and sneak a cigarette when I behave this way? You know, the days when I could entertain myself just fine but he chooses to make other plans on my behalf, or more specifically, he has something to teach me. The days when I know he is just not being fair and I truly believe my life would be just great if he would make that other person behave.
Because I know that even though my children can throw a fit, my fits are far more dramatic and possess a distinctive flair that they have yet to develop. I have far more ammunition – I mean justification, for seeing myself as the victim. After all, I have been put upon, oppressed, mistreated, and abused. I have witnessed a world full of evil and I know that it is out to get me. I have to stand up for myself, demand that my rights be observed, and fight to make my voice heard. My hurts, my needs, my disappointments, and frustrations need to be vindicated. Evil must be punished, and I . . . uh, I mean, good must prevail.
Wow, that felt good. Too bad it’s all a load of garbage.
The hard truth is I have no rights. Not at the deepest level. No one owes me anything, least of all God. Every bit of goodness, peace, and joy I experience comes as a gracious gift from his love for me. I can’t earn a gift, and I can’t perform well enough to merit his love. It is something I accept with joy and hopefully, at least sometimes, with the proper humility. Any importance or significance I have is found in the fact that he created me in his image and he loves me.
But sometimes, I forget. I look around and the world is not as I would have it and I grow impatient. I see people screwing it up, making mistakes from ignorance or laziness. I can never do what I want to do when I want to do it because there is always someone there making demands, wanting my attention or my time. I get frustrated and I want to scream at them to all go away, leave me alone so that I can just love my God and put on my pretty Christian face. It’s their fault I get ugly. It’s their fault I lose my temper and have to yell, stomp my feet, and make a spectacle of myself.
But deep down in my heart, I know they aren’t the ones I am mad at. They are just people, in the same boat I am in. They don’t control their fate any more than I control mine. We all have to deal with the fact that other people have their own agendas, get in our way, and just generally annoy us. But we all know there is another one who is in control who can change the circumstance, fix the terms, and has the authority to compel everyone into submission. He’s the one I am really mad at, because after all he needs to make things work out for me. And though I may be yelling at the rest of the world, I am also yelling loud enough so I know he will hear.
Thankfully, I now know the other side of that equation. I know he doesn’t take away all the obstacles because he is teaching me something that I will one day appreciate. I know he lets the other person get in my way because he loves them as much as he loves me. He doesn’t always bust my butt when I deserve it, and his ears will hear me again when I can learn to stop screaming. And sometimes, us kids just need to work it out amongst ourselves. He loves me enough to do all this for us simply because we are his children.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Dear Jesus, you are cordially invited . . .
I have never been one of those girls who got all mushy over weddings, but there are two weddings that are particularly noteworthy to me: my own and the one at Cana. Call me, if you want to hear more than you could possible want to know or ever will need to know about my and Ty's wedding. As for the wedding in Cana, if you don’t know the story, dig out your Bible and look up John 2:1-12. Go on, we’ll wait, because the rest of this is going to make a lot more sense, if you know the story.
Now, I don’t know how many favorite Bible stories a person is allowed to have, but put this one on my list, too. First of all, it happens at a party. You have to love that, the creator of the universe at a party! That alone gives me hope for a heaven that is way more exciting than any of my Sunday school teachers made it sound. We know that it couldn’t have been too solemn an affair because they drank up all the wine.
This is a major problem, and there are a ton of writings out there about the expected protocols and proper hospitality so I will spare you those details. Let’s just say, this was a major embarrassment to the host, and Mary tries to handle it discreetly by asking Jesus to help. Again, gallons of ink have been spilled over the significance of their conversation, and there are some good things to learn from it but let’s get to the part that makes this so cool for me – the jars.
The host had six stone jars which John explains are for Jewish purification rituals. These things were big, each one holding twenty to thirty gallons. And Jesus has the servants fill them up, to the brim. Now as modern readers, we think no big deal, the guy had stone jars to hold some water, but these jars are important.
A major part of the Jewish religion was purification. We call this washing up. The Torah records the significance of this act, and how God himself commands that his people purify themselves with water before and after certain activities. (See Leviticus and Deuteronomy for more details). We now know that the homes of the wealthy included private mikvahs, or tubs used to wash in, and pools surrounded the Temple so those who were entering could immerse themselves before doing so. Like I said, it was pretty important, but evidently this guy couldn’t afford a mikvah, so he did the best he could. He provided his family and guests with jars of fresh water so they could do what was right and proper before the Lord.
On this auspicious day something amazing happens.
I think we all get that if Jesus had not been there, there would have been no miracle. And Jesus’ very presence tells us something else about the wedding host, he desired to have relationship with Jesus. He wanted Jesus there for this joyful family event. How many times do we take time to consciously invite our Lord to the party? We are pretty good at sending up the bat signal when we are in trouble, but I think that sometimes he would like to have some fun. You know be in a relationship where he wasn’t just being used.
And when this host's desire for relationship collides with the his obedience, he receives a miracle. Because without his obedience, there would have been no stone jars, no place to put the water, and no means for the miracle. Jesus took what this man offered, a willing spirit and an invitation into another’s life and turned it into something amazing.
It was more than just wine. Jesus saved this man from humiliation and disgrace. He to care of the need before the host even realized he had one, and his obedience brought him greater honor than he could provide for himself. And I am learning that with God, our good enough is never enough for him. He always desires to do and give us more than we could imagine possible.
I think it is fitting that Jesus’ first miracle was one of almost whimsy, something that in the light of the rest of his life seems almost inconsequential. But it is such a bold declaration of who he is and what he desires to bring to our lives. He gives them wine, a symbol of God’s presence, his abundant provision, and his desire to bless us with joy through knowing him. In celebrating his nearness this tiny little act becomes so full of promise.
So my prayer for you today is that you honor the Lord with your obedience, you remember to invite him to the party, and when the wine runs out he will be there to bless you with the joy of his presence and provision.
Now, I don’t know how many favorite Bible stories a person is allowed to have, but put this one on my list, too. First of all, it happens at a party. You have to love that, the creator of the universe at a party! That alone gives me hope for a heaven that is way more exciting than any of my Sunday school teachers made it sound. We know that it couldn’t have been too solemn an affair because they drank up all the wine.
This is a major problem, and there are a ton of writings out there about the expected protocols and proper hospitality so I will spare you those details. Let’s just say, this was a major embarrassment to the host, and Mary tries to handle it discreetly by asking Jesus to help. Again, gallons of ink have been spilled over the significance of their conversation, and there are some good things to learn from it but let’s get to the part that makes this so cool for me – the jars.
The host had six stone jars which John explains are for Jewish purification rituals. These things were big, each one holding twenty to thirty gallons. And Jesus has the servants fill them up, to the brim. Now as modern readers, we think no big deal, the guy had stone jars to hold some water, but these jars are important.
A major part of the Jewish religion was purification. We call this washing up. The Torah records the significance of this act, and how God himself commands that his people purify themselves with water before and after certain activities. (See Leviticus and Deuteronomy for more details). We now know that the homes of the wealthy included private mikvahs, or tubs used to wash in, and pools surrounded the Temple so those who were entering could immerse themselves before doing so. Like I said, it was pretty important, but evidently this guy couldn’t afford a mikvah, so he did the best he could. He provided his family and guests with jars of fresh water so they could do what was right and proper before the Lord.
On this auspicious day something amazing happens.
I think we all get that if Jesus had not been there, there would have been no miracle. And Jesus’ very presence tells us something else about the wedding host, he desired to have relationship with Jesus. He wanted Jesus there for this joyful family event. How many times do we take time to consciously invite our Lord to the party? We are pretty good at sending up the bat signal when we are in trouble, but I think that sometimes he would like to have some fun. You know be in a relationship where he wasn’t just being used.
And when this host's desire for relationship collides with the his obedience, he receives a miracle. Because without his obedience, there would have been no stone jars, no place to put the water, and no means for the miracle. Jesus took what this man offered, a willing spirit and an invitation into another’s life and turned it into something amazing.
It was more than just wine. Jesus saved this man from humiliation and disgrace. He to care of the need before the host even realized he had one, and his obedience brought him greater honor than he could provide for himself. And I am learning that with God, our good enough is never enough for him. He always desires to do and give us more than we could imagine possible.
I think it is fitting that Jesus’ first miracle was one of almost whimsy, something that in the light of the rest of his life seems almost inconsequential. But it is such a bold declaration of who he is and what he desires to bring to our lives. He gives them wine, a symbol of God’s presence, his abundant provision, and his desire to bless us with joy through knowing him. In celebrating his nearness this tiny little act becomes so full of promise.
So my prayer for you today is that you honor the Lord with your obedience, you remember to invite him to the party, and when the wine runs out he will be there to bless you with the joy of his presence and provision.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Learning to Live
Ty started a new job right after Christmas, and he is working regular hours now, as opposed to the weird hours of his previous job. I have been finding that I am a bit at loose ends. It is the first time in my adult life that I have not had a job to get up and get dressed for or a deadline looming over my head. Yet, as I sat here this morning, I found myself asking for more time. Time to get the house cleaned, time to write a few more blog posts, time to organize the kids’ lessons and time to dream.
Mostly time to dream. I tend to spend a lot of time in my head, thinking things through to their ultimate conclusion, working out problems, and just wondering about the great mysteries of life. It is one of my favorite times, pacing around the living room, speaking my thoughts out loud and letting them drift where they may. It gives me energy and keeps me awake both mentally and physically.
This past week I haven’t been able to shake this groggy feeling, like my brain is only functioning at minimum capacity, refusing to do anything beyond basic life sustaining operations. I feel like a decade of being on survival mode has left me unable to cope without some sort of crisis demanding my attention, every cell super charged with adrenaline. Now it seems as if all the big issues of my life either have been or are being addressed, all without any apparent effort by me. It is a strange lulling security that seems to be dulling my edges.
This is a strange new role I have stepped into, full time wife and mother, good but strange. I look back over my life and I place them alongside my former job titles and I wonder how the tool-and-paint-sales person, art instructor, berry farm foreman, bartender, restaurant manager, college instructor, field hand, green house worker, hay hauler, floor layer, and shelf stocker got here. I had always hoped, but I don’t think I have ever believed that it could happen.
There is a big difference in hope and belief. Hope is dandelion fluff that floats through our vision, catching the sunlight, but impossible to grab. Belief is the foundation stones of something greater than you. Solid and strong, never failing to bear you up when you need the support.
I find now that this hope has solidified, and no longer am I chasing it across a field of broken glass. It’s here and I am learning to live with it. I am trying to understand how to accept it as a reality and keep reminding myself it is real. I am not going to wake up only to find that it has all been a pretty figment of my imagination.
So I am left with the question – Now, what?
Before Ty, so many of my hopes and dreams were bound up in the idea of being in love and being loved. I planned the ways I would care for the man who was willing to share in this life I desired, and I dreamt of the days when I would no longer feel that crushing weight of being alone. It took up so much time, kept me from going mad from the harsh facts of my existence. It was a beautiful place to retreat, to hide when the world got too scary, but now I live there. I don’t need to hide in my head. It is a good and frightening feeling all at once. One that leaves me blissful and sappy while filling me with a rare dread–what shall I dream of now?
Is it possible to be still and enjoy the moments that flow one right into the next? It is so new to me, so very strange and foreign, I often find myself holding my breath as if it were an exotic bird that I dare not startle or frighten away. I tip toe around this new life, careful lest I awaken myself and not all together sure that I like this new feeling of peace. Wondering how insane is that?
My father once said ignorant people are scared of what they don’t understand and even if something is better, they will do everything in their power to destroy it or remove it. I think that is where I am. This place, this feeling, is something I don’t understand but thankfully, I don’t believe that I am ignorant. So I am going through the process, learning to accept this blessing with grace and joy. It isn’t always easy, and I don’t think we acknowledge this part of the journey enough.
In this fallen world, marked with pain and suffering, doing without and just surviving, we have forgotten how to receive. We have forgotten how to experience the good things that the Father has chosen to bless us with. We have found that it is far easier to destroy or remove the blessing before we truly allow ourselves to experience it. It just seems so out of place when measured against our past experience, so we sabotage it, we deny it, or we run from it.
So look around, what is the Father bringing into your life? Is it a blessing? A special provision of grace? Your heart’s desire? Can you embrace it, acknowledge that it may not feel right just, yet is a good thing? Embrace it, protect it, and I promise you it will be worth all the awkward moments, every new and uncomfortable feeling. He only gives good gifts.
Mostly time to dream. I tend to spend a lot of time in my head, thinking things through to their ultimate conclusion, working out problems, and just wondering about the great mysteries of life. It is one of my favorite times, pacing around the living room, speaking my thoughts out loud and letting them drift where they may. It gives me energy and keeps me awake both mentally and physically.
This past week I haven’t been able to shake this groggy feeling, like my brain is only functioning at minimum capacity, refusing to do anything beyond basic life sustaining operations. I feel like a decade of being on survival mode has left me unable to cope without some sort of crisis demanding my attention, every cell super charged with adrenaline. Now it seems as if all the big issues of my life either have been or are being addressed, all without any apparent effort by me. It is a strange lulling security that seems to be dulling my edges.
This is a strange new role I have stepped into, full time wife and mother, good but strange. I look back over my life and I place them alongside my former job titles and I wonder how the tool-and-paint-sales person, art instructor, berry farm foreman, bartender, restaurant manager, college instructor, field hand, green house worker, hay hauler, floor layer, and shelf stocker got here. I had always hoped, but I don’t think I have ever believed that it could happen.
There is a big difference in hope and belief. Hope is dandelion fluff that floats through our vision, catching the sunlight, but impossible to grab. Belief is the foundation stones of something greater than you. Solid and strong, never failing to bear you up when you need the support.
I find now that this hope has solidified, and no longer am I chasing it across a field of broken glass. It’s here and I am learning to live with it. I am trying to understand how to accept it as a reality and keep reminding myself it is real. I am not going to wake up only to find that it has all been a pretty figment of my imagination.
So I am left with the question – Now, what?
Before Ty, so many of my hopes and dreams were bound up in the idea of being in love and being loved. I planned the ways I would care for the man who was willing to share in this life I desired, and I dreamt of the days when I would no longer feel that crushing weight of being alone. It took up so much time, kept me from going mad from the harsh facts of my existence. It was a beautiful place to retreat, to hide when the world got too scary, but now I live there. I don’t need to hide in my head. It is a good and frightening feeling all at once. One that leaves me blissful and sappy while filling me with a rare dread–what shall I dream of now?
Is it possible to be still and enjoy the moments that flow one right into the next? It is so new to me, so very strange and foreign, I often find myself holding my breath as if it were an exotic bird that I dare not startle or frighten away. I tip toe around this new life, careful lest I awaken myself and not all together sure that I like this new feeling of peace. Wondering how insane is that?
My father once said ignorant people are scared of what they don’t understand and even if something is better, they will do everything in their power to destroy it or remove it. I think that is where I am. This place, this feeling, is something I don’t understand but thankfully, I don’t believe that I am ignorant. So I am going through the process, learning to accept this blessing with grace and joy. It isn’t always easy, and I don’t think we acknowledge this part of the journey enough.
In this fallen world, marked with pain and suffering, doing without and just surviving, we have forgotten how to receive. We have forgotten how to experience the good things that the Father has chosen to bless us with. We have found that it is far easier to destroy or remove the blessing before we truly allow ourselves to experience it. It just seems so out of place when measured against our past experience, so we sabotage it, we deny it, or we run from it.
So look around, what is the Father bringing into your life? Is it a blessing? A special provision of grace? Your heart’s desire? Can you embrace it, acknowledge that it may not feel right just, yet is a good thing? Embrace it, protect it, and I promise you it will be worth all the awkward moments, every new and uncomfortable feeling. He only gives good gifts.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Don’t Flinch – Part 2
In the last post I retold the story of the Woman at the Well from my perspective. As I said, I love this story because I know it all too well.
Once upon a time, I was well versed in the faith of my family and culture. I knew the proper forms of worship, the hope of the return of the Messiah, and I thought I knew all the right Bible answers. But once upon a time, I got married to a man who renounced his faith shortly after the ceremony and our marriage crumbled into a game of survivor. One I had to win if I was going to save my children and myself. I got out and tried to make a life for me and my girls, but it was a rough go.
Many people could not grasp how a good Christian girl could get a divorce or how I could wind up married to such a man that would make divorce the only option. I must not have prayed enough or I wasn’t submissive enough. There was sin in my life or I didn’t have enough faith. Not many were brave enough to speak these words aloud, but they didn’t have to. It was there in their eyes, in their offers to pray with me, and in the quiet way they would ignore the ugly facts of my existence.
I learned you don’t go to the well in the morning. Everyone was there ready with that pitying but condemning look. The whispers were low, but not low enough. So I learned to avoid the crowds, draw into myself, take comfort where I could find it, even in a few relationships that were less than holy.
When I would meet a new Christian, someone who did not know my story, I learned to tell it with a note of defiance and an unspoken dare to condemn if they must, but get it over with. I learned to accept the fact I was too far gone to be of any use to God or his people. Like the Samaritan woman I had too many strikes against me.
Worship was hard, my faith seemed as stagnant and dead as the water in that seep of a well but it was all I had. So I learned to make do. Fake it. Act like it was enough, all the while I was dying.
I hated the Holy Flinch, that involuntary reaction that good Christian people have when they are in the presence of sinners. The one we are taught is a gauge of our holiness. Oh, we are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, but too often we fail to recognize there is no sin separate apart from the person. So often the sin has become the definition of who they are – as in, “Oh, you mean the divorced woman who sits in the back at church.” We begin to shy away from that person, as if their sin was going to rub off on us, like God wouldn’t like it if we came home smelling of divorce. Our kindness is marked with that boundary of “I will give you this, but don’t come any closer.” In the end, that type of kindness is crippling to the receiver.
My perception of God began to shift over time. I mean, if his people flinched then surely he flinched. And if he flinched, it had to mean one of two things, my sin was that great or he was that small. Either way, it meant there was no hope for me. I was lost, endlessly and miserably lost, and there was not a God who loved me enough or was great enough to save me from my reality. My façade was crumbling and my faith was a tattered rag too full of holes and too worn to be warm in the coldness of life.
But then came the day, when I went to the well and stared into its depths and wondered why even bother to lower the bucket. I would just be thirsty again, why prolong the inevitable? So I sat waiting my demise, wondering how long it would take to kill off those last vestiges of faith, and he showed up. I didn’t believe him at first. My ability to hope, to dream of great things for myself and my girls was dead, but somewhere in the deepest part of who I was I knew that when the Messiah came he would explain everything. And when he sat beside me on the edge of that well, that is exactly what he did.
He explained how there is plan and purpose for us all. He told me how there is not one moment of my heartache and pain that would be wasted. He told me he was big enough and great enough to redeem it all to his glory. He said his holiness could never be sullied by my sin and shame. He shared how his heart’s desire was to resurrect all this world had killed within me, and called me back to life. He shared a drink with a disreputable woman who had given up hope, until he saw me and didn’t flinch.
Once upon a time, I was well versed in the faith of my family and culture. I knew the proper forms of worship, the hope of the return of the Messiah, and I thought I knew all the right Bible answers. But once upon a time, I got married to a man who renounced his faith shortly after the ceremony and our marriage crumbled into a game of survivor. One I had to win if I was going to save my children and myself. I got out and tried to make a life for me and my girls, but it was a rough go.
Many people could not grasp how a good Christian girl could get a divorce or how I could wind up married to such a man that would make divorce the only option. I must not have prayed enough or I wasn’t submissive enough. There was sin in my life or I didn’t have enough faith. Not many were brave enough to speak these words aloud, but they didn’t have to. It was there in their eyes, in their offers to pray with me, and in the quiet way they would ignore the ugly facts of my existence.
I learned you don’t go to the well in the morning. Everyone was there ready with that pitying but condemning look. The whispers were low, but not low enough. So I learned to avoid the crowds, draw into myself, take comfort where I could find it, even in a few relationships that were less than holy.
When I would meet a new Christian, someone who did not know my story, I learned to tell it with a note of defiance and an unspoken dare to condemn if they must, but get it over with. I learned to accept the fact I was too far gone to be of any use to God or his people. Like the Samaritan woman I had too many strikes against me.
Worship was hard, my faith seemed as stagnant and dead as the water in that seep of a well but it was all I had. So I learned to make do. Fake it. Act like it was enough, all the while I was dying.
I hated the Holy Flinch, that involuntary reaction that good Christian people have when they are in the presence of sinners. The one we are taught is a gauge of our holiness. Oh, we are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, but too often we fail to recognize there is no sin separate apart from the person. So often the sin has become the definition of who they are – as in, “Oh, you mean the divorced woman who sits in the back at church.” We begin to shy away from that person, as if their sin was going to rub off on us, like God wouldn’t like it if we came home smelling of divorce. Our kindness is marked with that boundary of “I will give you this, but don’t come any closer.” In the end, that type of kindness is crippling to the receiver.
My perception of God began to shift over time. I mean, if his people flinched then surely he flinched. And if he flinched, it had to mean one of two things, my sin was that great or he was that small. Either way, it meant there was no hope for me. I was lost, endlessly and miserably lost, and there was not a God who loved me enough or was great enough to save me from my reality. My façade was crumbling and my faith was a tattered rag too full of holes and too worn to be warm in the coldness of life.
But then came the day, when I went to the well and stared into its depths and wondered why even bother to lower the bucket. I would just be thirsty again, why prolong the inevitable? So I sat waiting my demise, wondering how long it would take to kill off those last vestiges of faith, and he showed up. I didn’t believe him at first. My ability to hope, to dream of great things for myself and my girls was dead, but somewhere in the deepest part of who I was I knew that when the Messiah came he would explain everything. And when he sat beside me on the edge of that well, that is exactly what he did.
He explained how there is plan and purpose for us all. He told me how there is not one moment of my heartache and pain that would be wasted. He told me he was big enough and great enough to redeem it all to his glory. He said his holiness could never be sullied by my sin and shame. He shared how his heart’s desire was to resurrect all this world had killed within me, and called me back to life. He shared a drink with a disreputable woman who had given up hope, until he saw me and didn’t flinch.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
New Marriages, Mirrors, and Stilettos
Hello everyone, I would like to reiterate the apology already given by David. I am so sorry that there haven’t been any new posts for a while. As many of you already know, I have recently acquired a husband after over a decade of being single and I am having to learn to balance my new responsibilities with my old ones.
The good news is that I am learning why marriage is God’s favorite metaphor for our relationship to him, and that means lots of material for new posts.
Ty and I are at day 53 of married life and are off to a good start. Sure there have had to be some adjustments, and yes, we are still learning how to live with each other – what things we need to change in ourselves and simply accept this other person who has become such an important part of our lives, and okay, we both have some habits that drive the other one up the wall, but knowing that you are loved allows you to move through the process with some grace.
In some ways, I feel sorry for my new husband. He married a slob. Now, I never mean to be a slob, but when I get focused on something, (like writing, researching for one of my lectures, painting, or putting together the next Pagus event), housework ceases to exist. Unfortunately, while I don’t notice things like dishes piling up in the sink or the mound of books and papers growing on the couch, he does. And even more than that, there are things that you do when you live alone that another person might not appreciate, like make-up exploded all over the bathroom counter, notes written in marker on the dresser mirror, or using the car as a place to store extra shoes and such.
When you are by yourself stuff like that doesn’t matter, but suddenly now it does. Until now, I wasn’t even fully aware of the path of chaos I left in my wake, leaving books, papers, clothes, and half empty coffee cups behind me as a testament to my progress. I did not think anything about skipping meals just so I wouldn’t have to interrupt my flow of work or staying up all night to work on a project. It was how I lived, and as a single person it worked.
Adding Ty to my life was like someone holding up a giant magnifying mirror to it. Not that he complains (that much) or gets angry about my shortcomings as a homemaker. (No, domestic skills don’t come pre-installed with the ovaries.) Suddenly there is this person in my life who is affected by the way I live, by the priorities that dictate my activities, and I am having to learn how to accommodate him.
(And yes, I have kids, but they were like lion cubs raised on the Serengeti plains. They were acclimated to the chaos and believed it was perfectly normal to forage for food on their own, avoid natural disasters like book avalanches, and that coffee was needed for adult respiration.)
It took a relationship. It took a deeply intimate relationship for me to care enough to change some of my habits. No longer can I shove all the things I want to be hidden into my bedroom when company comes over. I can’t close that door to him. No longer can I put off grocery shopping until there is nothing but rice and steak sauce in the refrigerator, and when I do shop I have buy more than just coffee. Falling into bed at three in the morning isn’t an option; neither is leaving my stilettos in the middle of the floor.
Knowing God is like that. He comes into your life and for a lot of us we fine as long as we can entertain him in the living room, or simply serving him a special meal at the dining room table. It is when we truly let him in, all the way in to those intimate parts of our lives that we are shown how we are living, how habits and routines need to be changed if there is to be a place for him.
And no matter how much you love him, it isn’t always easy. It takes some work, and you are probably going to forget that plates need to be rinsed when you put them in the sink instead of leaving them on the coffee table, but the good news is he loves you enough not to go storming out the first or fifth time you screw it up. He doesn’t forget that he loves you just because he impaled his foot on a four inch high heel, and he isn’t out to change who you are. He simply wants you to have the best life possible, and usually that means change.
The question is how much do we trust him? Can we look at that mirror he shows us and know that it isn’t out of spite or malice that he presents us this image? Can we hold on to the love that desires only the best for us even when it is painful? Can we accept that we get things wrong, that we make mistakes, or that simply to move into our destiny we have to live a life where there is room for him and all things that come with him?
Marriage is one of God’s favorite images for his relationship with us because he wants to be that intimate. He wants to move out of the living room and see the bedroom that needs to be dusted. He wants a place to hang his shirts in your closet, and he has to have spot for his toothbrush by yours. And when you give him that you get so much more than you can ever imagine.
The good news is that I am learning why marriage is God’s favorite metaphor for our relationship to him, and that means lots of material for new posts.
Ty and I are at day 53 of married life and are off to a good start. Sure there have had to be some adjustments, and yes, we are still learning how to live with each other – what things we need to change in ourselves and simply accept this other person who has become such an important part of our lives, and okay, we both have some habits that drive the other one up the wall, but knowing that you are loved allows you to move through the process with some grace.
In some ways, I feel sorry for my new husband. He married a slob. Now, I never mean to be a slob, but when I get focused on something, (like writing, researching for one of my lectures, painting, or putting together the next Pagus event), housework ceases to exist. Unfortunately, while I don’t notice things like dishes piling up in the sink or the mound of books and papers growing on the couch, he does. And even more than that, there are things that you do when you live alone that another person might not appreciate, like make-up exploded all over the bathroom counter, notes written in marker on the dresser mirror, or using the car as a place to store extra shoes and such.
When you are by yourself stuff like that doesn’t matter, but suddenly now it does. Until now, I wasn’t even fully aware of the path of chaos I left in my wake, leaving books, papers, clothes, and half empty coffee cups behind me as a testament to my progress. I did not think anything about skipping meals just so I wouldn’t have to interrupt my flow of work or staying up all night to work on a project. It was how I lived, and as a single person it worked.
Adding Ty to my life was like someone holding up a giant magnifying mirror to it. Not that he complains (that much) or gets angry about my shortcomings as a homemaker. (No, domestic skills don’t come pre-installed with the ovaries.) Suddenly there is this person in my life who is affected by the way I live, by the priorities that dictate my activities, and I am having to learn how to accommodate him.
(And yes, I have kids, but they were like lion cubs raised on the Serengeti plains. They were acclimated to the chaos and believed it was perfectly normal to forage for food on their own, avoid natural disasters like book avalanches, and that coffee was needed for adult respiration.)
It took a relationship. It took a deeply intimate relationship for me to care enough to change some of my habits. No longer can I shove all the things I want to be hidden into my bedroom when company comes over. I can’t close that door to him. No longer can I put off grocery shopping until there is nothing but rice and steak sauce in the refrigerator, and when I do shop I have buy more than just coffee. Falling into bed at three in the morning isn’t an option; neither is leaving my stilettos in the middle of the floor.
Knowing God is like that. He comes into your life and for a lot of us we fine as long as we can entertain him in the living room, or simply serving him a special meal at the dining room table. It is when we truly let him in, all the way in to those intimate parts of our lives that we are shown how we are living, how habits and routines need to be changed if there is to be a place for him.
And no matter how much you love him, it isn’t always easy. It takes some work, and you are probably going to forget that plates need to be rinsed when you put them in the sink instead of leaving them on the coffee table, but the good news is he loves you enough not to go storming out the first or fifth time you screw it up. He doesn’t forget that he loves you just because he impaled his foot on a four inch high heel, and he isn’t out to change who you are. He simply wants you to have the best life possible, and usually that means change.
The question is how much do we trust him? Can we look at that mirror he shows us and know that it isn’t out of spite or malice that he presents us this image? Can we hold on to the love that desires only the best for us even when it is painful? Can we accept that we get things wrong, that we make mistakes, or that simply to move into our destiny we have to live a life where there is room for him and all things that come with him?
Marriage is one of God’s favorite images for his relationship with us because he wants to be that intimate. He wants to move out of the living room and see the bedroom that needs to be dusted. He wants a place to hang his shirts in your closet, and he has to have spot for his toothbrush by yours. And when you give him that you get so much more than you can ever imagine.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Steps, Leaping, and Surrender
In my adult life I have had three significant love relationships. The first one was to the man I married, a man I dated, and the man to whom I will be married in forty days. I haven’t always been wise when it comes to matters of the heart. It would be easy to blame society, television, Walt Disney, or a million other factors. The truth is I was pretty mixed up when it came to the who to the whole love thing, but I didn’t know it and as I talk to other girls who hope to one day find love I see that it isn’t just me that had a problem sorting all this out.
We get a lot of mixed signals when it comes to romance. Most of us come from broken homes, so we believe that love is something that goes away and can’t be trusted. Many of us see the dysfunctional relationships portrayed in popular media and we think that love can be had in rapid succession with a number of partners. We are told that love is a commitment by so many people in the church. Walt Disney says love is forever and once we find it we are guaranteed a happily ever after.
We don’t know if love is something we pursue or finds us. We can’t figure out if it is something that we feel or decide. We just don’t know if we are destined to be the lucky ones or if love is a matter of intense effort. It is not easy to sift through all the information out there about this phenomenon.
As the date draws closer to my wedding, I am finding myself reflecting on the past. The events that shaped my perceptions, recognizing some of my mistakes, and things that I have endured in order to understand what makes this relationship so different from the last ones. Yes, definitely the man is different, but I am different too.
I was twenty years old when I was married the first time. I knew I wanted a husband and a family so I got married to the first man who seemed to fit my check list. I took all the proper steps in choosing this man. He looked good on paper, and I believed that as long as I kept following the formulas, did things by the book, we would be able to build a marriage that would be okay. There was no passion for him, and as it turned out, he had none for me. We were both looking of partners who fit certain criteria and we thought we had found them. It was not long before it was obvious that our marriage was based on misinformation and more than a few lies, but I still believed that if I took all the proper steps I could make it better. I told myself that I loved him, and if I just kept trying everything would work out.
I had every relationship book in print, worked the formula, and went through counseling all in hopes that I would find the right set of steps to our save us from destruction. The thing is love is a bit of a dance, but if it is really love, your partner doesn’t hate you if you step on their toes from time to time. In the end, I was unable to keep up, do the right things, or be the right person to keep him happy and all I was doing was killing myself trying to make it work. It wasn’t easy to admit that the marriage failed, but looking back, I realize that my biggest mistake happened when I believed that love could be a formula to be mastered.
The next relationship was comedy or tragedy of mistakes, depending on your point of view. I leapt into love, blindly, stupidly. For the first time I knew what it was to want someone in my life, not just try to have someone because it is expected. There was fire and passion, but it was fanned by the flames of uncertainty and doubt. The constant strain of whether he was going to be there for me or not, rearranging my life so that I would be acceptable and appealing to him, all in the hopes that he would one day wake up and realize he loved me as much as I did him. I held on through so much chaos and confusion thinking my leap of faith would be enough to sustain us. In the end, it takes two to believe for great things and both have to leap together. The last time I leapt, he stood firmly on the edge of that abyss and watched me fall, and I realized that I could never do that again.
I was a little lost for awhile after that. I didn’t know what to do. Love wasn’t working for me or I couldn’t make it work for me. I had tried taking the steps. I had made the leaps, what else could I do? It seemed so out of my hands, so far beyond anything I could possibly do that I felt hopeless. I didn’t like being out of control. I didn’t like feeling like I could do nothing to bring about the one thing that I have wanted since the first time I saw Cinderella, but I was helpless.
Then I met Ty, and I was too weary to take the steps. I was too scared to make another leap, but he never asked me to. Instead, he sat there one night and told me about the things in his heart, his hopes, his fears, and why I belonged in his life. He told me about how who I was, not what I did, fascinated and captivated him. There was no formula to master or ability to prove, and I found myself confronted by something so completely new, it scared me to death. He loved me, and all I had to do was surrender to it. I had to be okay with just being. I had to trust him, and it is hard not do with those beseeching blue eyes promising so much if you do. I had to turn loose of all my attempts to control the situation, and surrender to this man.
For the first time, I understood why so many people can’t figure Christianity out, why a God who offers grace is so difficult to understand and accept. When you spend your whole life thinking that love is something you have to perform to receive, being confronted by a love that demands only your presence is overwhelming. I almost walked away from Ty. He seemed too good to be true, but I decided I could be okay with this new type of love, the kind where I am beautiful even when my hairs a mess and my feet are covered in dirt from the garden.
I have to believe that God is like that. That he sees our dirty feet and smiles every time we turn our faces towards him, because its not about the steps we take or the leaps we attempt. It is about realizing he loves us and trusting his love enough to surrender to him.
We get a lot of mixed signals when it comes to romance. Most of us come from broken homes, so we believe that love is something that goes away and can’t be trusted. Many of us see the dysfunctional relationships portrayed in popular media and we think that love can be had in rapid succession with a number of partners. We are told that love is a commitment by so many people in the church. Walt Disney says love is forever and once we find it we are guaranteed a happily ever after.
We don’t know if love is something we pursue or finds us. We can’t figure out if it is something that we feel or decide. We just don’t know if we are destined to be the lucky ones or if love is a matter of intense effort. It is not easy to sift through all the information out there about this phenomenon.
As the date draws closer to my wedding, I am finding myself reflecting on the past. The events that shaped my perceptions, recognizing some of my mistakes, and things that I have endured in order to understand what makes this relationship so different from the last ones. Yes, definitely the man is different, but I am different too.
I was twenty years old when I was married the first time. I knew I wanted a husband and a family so I got married to the first man who seemed to fit my check list. I took all the proper steps in choosing this man. He looked good on paper, and I believed that as long as I kept following the formulas, did things by the book, we would be able to build a marriage that would be okay. There was no passion for him, and as it turned out, he had none for me. We were both looking of partners who fit certain criteria and we thought we had found them. It was not long before it was obvious that our marriage was based on misinformation and more than a few lies, but I still believed that if I took all the proper steps I could make it better. I told myself that I loved him, and if I just kept trying everything would work out.
I had every relationship book in print, worked the formula, and went through counseling all in hopes that I would find the right set of steps to our save us from destruction. The thing is love is a bit of a dance, but if it is really love, your partner doesn’t hate you if you step on their toes from time to time. In the end, I was unable to keep up, do the right things, or be the right person to keep him happy and all I was doing was killing myself trying to make it work. It wasn’t easy to admit that the marriage failed, but looking back, I realize that my biggest mistake happened when I believed that love could be a formula to be mastered.
The next relationship was comedy or tragedy of mistakes, depending on your point of view. I leapt into love, blindly, stupidly. For the first time I knew what it was to want someone in my life, not just try to have someone because it is expected. There was fire and passion, but it was fanned by the flames of uncertainty and doubt. The constant strain of whether he was going to be there for me or not, rearranging my life so that I would be acceptable and appealing to him, all in the hopes that he would one day wake up and realize he loved me as much as I did him. I held on through so much chaos and confusion thinking my leap of faith would be enough to sustain us. In the end, it takes two to believe for great things and both have to leap together. The last time I leapt, he stood firmly on the edge of that abyss and watched me fall, and I realized that I could never do that again.
I was a little lost for awhile after that. I didn’t know what to do. Love wasn’t working for me or I couldn’t make it work for me. I had tried taking the steps. I had made the leaps, what else could I do? It seemed so out of my hands, so far beyond anything I could possibly do that I felt hopeless. I didn’t like being out of control. I didn’t like feeling like I could do nothing to bring about the one thing that I have wanted since the first time I saw Cinderella, but I was helpless.
Then I met Ty, and I was too weary to take the steps. I was too scared to make another leap, but he never asked me to. Instead, he sat there one night and told me about the things in his heart, his hopes, his fears, and why I belonged in his life. He told me about how who I was, not what I did, fascinated and captivated him. There was no formula to master or ability to prove, and I found myself confronted by something so completely new, it scared me to death. He loved me, and all I had to do was surrender to it. I had to be okay with just being. I had to trust him, and it is hard not do with those beseeching blue eyes promising so much if you do. I had to turn loose of all my attempts to control the situation, and surrender to this man.
For the first time, I understood why so many people can’t figure Christianity out, why a God who offers grace is so difficult to understand and accept. When you spend your whole life thinking that love is something you have to perform to receive, being confronted by a love that demands only your presence is overwhelming. I almost walked away from Ty. He seemed too good to be true, but I decided I could be okay with this new type of love, the kind where I am beautiful even when my hairs a mess and my feet are covered in dirt from the garden.
I have to believe that God is like that. That he sees our dirty feet and smiles every time we turn our faces towards him, because its not about the steps we take or the leaps we attempt. It is about realizing he loves us and trusting his love enough to surrender to him.
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