In the last six months I've heard more about change than I've ever had before. But just as a Christian from China once said: the longest journey is the one that truth makes, as it makes its way from the mind to the heart.
So tonight I realize that in six months' time, I've been introduced to several books that have brought me much truth and knowledge, much joy--and much discomfort also.
Let me name just two for now.
There is Destined to Reign, whose devotional entries are sometimes truly difficult to embrace, as I have been unused to focusing on God's gifts and blessings when I am being made acutely aware of personal failures and moments of weakness. And yet in some of the toughest situations I have faced so far this past half-year, it was precisely the love of God that kept me going, plodding and hacking away at thorny self-pity, past roaring pride, through dark irrational fear, breaking free from entangling self-imposed limitations, through the jungle of personal failure and human folly.
It has been His presence in prayer, His protection in battle, His grace under fire, His word and truth during uncertainties, His peace in conflict, and His miracle in impossible situations that have been with me.
Did the thought of discipline and, yes, even punishment, ever come to my mind?
Yes. God, as in an African proverb, speaks softly but carries a big stick. But the crucial thing is, the discipline is a tool and not an end in itself. It is His tool, His chisel, His pruning knife. My beautifully-sculpted character and life story, my flourishing relationships and abundant resources are His ends. And so, trembling, I trust.
I trust even when He thrusts me into a new season where I have to confront the question: why am I a leader in this area but not in that? Why must I not turn my back on the calling for leadership? What has held me back from serving others more excellently? What has kept me from daring to envision, and casting that vision on to others and making them catch fire as well?
John Maxwell's Developing the Leader Within You, Developing the Leaders Around You is not for the faint of heart (but don't ask me why I'm endangering myself).
As he says his piece about all of us being leaders -- that is, exerting influence upon others in some way, in some areas -- I tremble some more and demand from God a clear explanation as to why He is allowing me to go through this.
And all I have been getting so far is this cryptic reply: I have plans for you.
In the New International Version of the Bible, He says to the young prophet Jeremiah:
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
But this same declaration, expressed in the King James Version, resounds with more power and yet echoes with more tenderness...
"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end."
That phrase--an expected end--speaks volumes to me. Here is a God who is not caught off-guard by evil schemes. Here is a Master Planner whose calendar for me spans Eternity, whose daily entries are set in stone, whose Project Evaluation has already been prepared: "Fearfully and wonderfully made....It is finished...It is done..."
How could I not trust this One?
So in roughly four months, as He ushers me into yet another season on this Earth, preparing me to bid farewell to 39 summers, and gently turning my head back to look forward, towards all the remaining summers in the road ahead, I may very well find myself somehow different from who and what and where I am now.
And naysayers may laugh and declare me to be an old dog--surely, I cannot expect to learn to swim or bike or drive or effectively yet humbly lead a team, or travel in and out of the country, or become a songwriter, at MY age...
But I will just simply have to tell them the truth: I am not a dog. Never was, never will be. I am a woman created, saved, and still being transformed by God.
And I am not after learning new tricks, anyway.
Climbing personal mountains of unbelief, yes. Running the race of life, yes. Diving into deeper connections with God, yes. Walking ever closer in unison with the people I love, yes. But tricks? I'll have to pass.
This life is a serious yet joy-filled journey, where the travelling process is every bit as important as the destination, and where forked roads always carry the same two road signs.
One reads: To Stay the Same. The other reads: To Change.
From what I've heard, the first road tends to lead you around in circles; it's the second one that gets you progressively closer to the destination.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Because God is holy He cannot dismiss your sin, Max Lucado reminds us...
...and often, that is all we remember, and tragically, all we can manage to bring into our relationships.
"Because I was hurt, I cannot forgive that sin."
"Because you laughed at me, I only feel sorrow when I see you."
"Because I think I am better, you will always seem worse in my eyes."
We humans can become extremely adept at these games.
After all, when our concept of God hews more closely to the Japanese anime figure Uchuu Keiji Shaider ("Space Sheriff Shaider") than, say, Jehovah Roi ("The LORD is my Shepherd"), there can be an inordinate discomfort at the sheer thought of His 24/7 surveillance in the background, and our 24/7 sinfulness in the foreground.
And, as a balm to relieve that, there is the inescapable temptation to commit some kind of spiritual prestidigitation...Voila! The sinner is gone; lo and behold, in his place now stands a Little Sheriff.
And where is the sinner? Naturally, any man, woman or child unfortunate enought to be in the proximity of the Little Sheriff.
The truth is, though, that Max Lucado's complete statement includes a disclaimer of sorts: "...Yet because God is loving, He cannot dismiss you."
Now this is the part many of us fail to understand. Indeed, if only doctorate degrees could be conferred upon those who fail to understand this, I believe I shall be among the ranks of the most erudite and eminent. For alas, the only degrees I now have in my hand are degrees of intellectual unbelief and degrees of relational unkindness.
How can God really love...me? I don't even like myself half the time. Okay, most of the time. But then again, as many wise men have quietly whispered to our performance-weary, pretense-numbed hearts: He does not take into account our performance. Our mere existence is validation enough for him.
It's as if His hand were a weighing scale, and our weight, our calculated value is forever fixed: somewhere in a depth we cannot fathom, a height we cannot scale, a veritable continuum we cannot begin to see the end of either way.
Whether we choose to stay in His hands, or scamper off to some darknesses, the weight is constant. The moment we return to the scale, the weight is the same as when we were there, as when we left, and as when we run off again.
Because God is loving, I can imitate Him. Where gaps exist to make me an imitation of the most inferior kind, He can step in to bridge the divides. Where I am ready to give up, He gives more grace. Where I feel I have been dealt humanity's most colossal injustice, He kneels down low beside me and quietly opens His hand to show me where the nails went through, once upon a time, to become God's tool for humanity's justification.
He looks into my eyes and says,
"Because I am loving, and I am in you, then so are you:
capable of loving."
Nothing here of the galactic Sheriff.
But everything of the genuine Shepherd.
"Because I was hurt, I cannot forgive that sin."
"Because you laughed at me, I only feel sorrow when I see you."
"Because I think I am better, you will always seem worse in my eyes."
We humans can become extremely adept at these games.
After all, when our concept of God hews more closely to the Japanese anime figure Uchuu Keiji Shaider ("Space Sheriff Shaider") than, say, Jehovah Roi ("The LORD is my Shepherd"), there can be an inordinate discomfort at the sheer thought of His 24/7 surveillance in the background, and our 24/7 sinfulness in the foreground.
And, as a balm to relieve that, there is the inescapable temptation to commit some kind of spiritual prestidigitation...Voila! The sinner is gone; lo and behold, in his place now stands a Little Sheriff.
And where is the sinner? Naturally, any man, woman or child unfortunate enought to be in the proximity of the Little Sheriff.
The truth is, though, that Max Lucado's complete statement includes a disclaimer of sorts: "...Yet because God is loving, He cannot dismiss you."
Now this is the part many of us fail to understand. Indeed, if only doctorate degrees could be conferred upon those who fail to understand this, I believe I shall be among the ranks of the most erudite and eminent. For alas, the only degrees I now have in my hand are degrees of intellectual unbelief and degrees of relational unkindness.
How can God really love...me? I don't even like myself half the time. Okay, most of the time. But then again, as many wise men have quietly whispered to our performance-weary, pretense-numbed hearts: He does not take into account our performance. Our mere existence is validation enough for him.
It's as if His hand were a weighing scale, and our weight, our calculated value is forever fixed: somewhere in a depth we cannot fathom, a height we cannot scale, a veritable continuum we cannot begin to see the end of either way.
Whether we choose to stay in His hands, or scamper off to some darknesses, the weight is constant. The moment we return to the scale, the weight is the same as when we were there, as when we left, and as when we run off again.
Because God is loving, I can imitate Him. Where gaps exist to make me an imitation of the most inferior kind, He can step in to bridge the divides. Where I am ready to give up, He gives more grace. Where I feel I have been dealt humanity's most colossal injustice, He kneels down low beside me and quietly opens His hand to show me where the nails went through, once upon a time, to become God's tool for humanity's justification.
He looks into my eyes and says,
"Because I am loving, and I am in you, then so are you:
capable of loving."
Nothing here of the galactic Sheriff.
But everything of the genuine Shepherd.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Lessons from a little rolled-up plastic bag...
Tied neatly, compactly with a nondescript rubber band.
The kind of rolled-up bags I often saw my Mom, Lulu Molina,
put in the deep pockets of her thick A-line skirts,
the kind she always wore as we went to the public market
to buy produce.
There was a time I would shake my head at her incomprehensible
to me, at least) thoroughness in rolling up those used
plastic bags. And wonder why she always seemed to regard them
as palm-sized treasures.
Then as I began to come with her to the market more often,
I got to see more and more of her wisdom, and the unassuming
kindness that underpinned her wisdom; as women laden with bags
would panic whenever a flimsy bag handle would break,
spilling rolling potatoes, bouncing onions and other
unruly vegetables all over the jeepney floor, or across
the crowded sidewalks.
Mommy would immediately set down her own bags, help the women
gather their goods, and offer those precious little rolls
to replace their tattered bags.
There were other lessons, as well.
How, contrary to some conventional wisdom on social hierarchies,
she would invite our house helpers, or the occasional laundry woman,
to dine with us. Or attend birthday parties and weddings and
Christmases and every conceivable celebration with us.
How her dear friend's packages and parcels from the US would be
opened excitedly in the middle of the living or dining room,
and she would be in the midst of all our hubbub, dividing each bag
of chocolates, each bundle of clothes, each set of soap bars
between siblings, or relatives. in other households.
She defied economic theories as traditionally finite resources--
think Mars candy bars, old Levis jeans and so-pure-it-floats-on-water
Ivory Soap bars--could mysteriously multiply and assume
seemingly unlimited proportions as she managed, somehow, some way,
always, to ensure that no one was ever left empty-handed.
But most profound are the lessons she taught by not teaching.
She did not teach us to lie. She never taught us to covet.
Or to be vain. Or ungrateful.
She did not teach us to forget one another, or to distance
ourselves from friends.
Decades before Facebook, Twitter, Multiply, etc., she was busily
logging entries in her thick, nubby-edged notebook--her hard copy
version of a database. It was (and still is) a marketer's dream list--
names of old/newfound/rediscovered relatives, friends, their spouses
and children and parents and siblings; wedding anniversaries,
Catholic patron saints/feast days, birthdays, death anniversaries,
and sundry other data.
She faithfully updated that; and long before Facebook's friend suggestions functionality, she would find ways to link up friends with some
common denominators that she always managed to dig up.
A network marketer par excellance, without any help from Randy Gage,
Zig Ziglar, et al. (If she ever chooses to make them into downlines,
she could give MLMIA veterans a run for their dollars.)
And, oh, how Al Gore would love to have a chat with her!
I remember distinctly, in the late 70s and early 80s, part of her
daily refrains were admonitions about conserving water ("Time will
come when you will have to pay more for water to drink," decades
before the bottled water industry took off), energy, and caring,
not just for environmental sanitation, but the frontliners as well:
garbage collectors.
Shards of broken glass, cut-off tin can tops were always carefully
wrapped in scrap cardboard, "so the garbage collector doesn't get hurt
from handling them."
Scrap paper, bits of thread, empty jars, tin cans, beverage bottles,
used boxes: there was always just room for a little more in the house.
Even flour sacks would be cut up and re-sewn into blankets for us.
If I didn't know any better, I would have thought myself to be adopted,
and her real surname to be Recycle.
Now into her 80s, Mommy is alive and well.
Not as active in her social pursuits as she would like--grappling with
the realities of frail bones and lifestyle diseases--but despite
forgetting to take her cardio or diabetes medicines, she never forgets
a birthday in the family, the extended rosters of relatives,
or her still-growing network of friends.
And so we learn from her, still.
And in her thoughtful silences, it is her voice, her outstretched
helping hand, her faithful greeting cards that continue to
speak volumes about kindness, friendliness, thoughtfulness,
frugality, stewardship of resources...
And the kindness and wisdom of always having a spare little
rolled-up plastic bag in your pocket.
The kind of rolled-up bags I often saw my Mom, Lulu Molina,
put in the deep pockets of her thick A-line skirts,
the kind she always wore as we went to the public market
to buy produce.
There was a time I would shake my head at her incomprehensible
to me, at least) thoroughness in rolling up those used
plastic bags. And wonder why she always seemed to regard them
as palm-sized treasures.
Then as I began to come with her to the market more often,
I got to see more and more of her wisdom, and the unassuming
kindness that underpinned her wisdom; as women laden with bags
would panic whenever a flimsy bag handle would break,
spilling rolling potatoes, bouncing onions and other
unruly vegetables all over the jeepney floor, or across
the crowded sidewalks.
Mommy would immediately set down her own bags, help the women
gather their goods, and offer those precious little rolls
to replace their tattered bags.
There were other lessons, as well.
How, contrary to some conventional wisdom on social hierarchies,
she would invite our house helpers, or the occasional laundry woman,
to dine with us. Or attend birthday parties and weddings and
Christmases and every conceivable celebration with us.
How her dear friend's packages and parcels from the US would be
opened excitedly in the middle of the living or dining room,
and she would be in the midst of all our hubbub, dividing each bag
of chocolates, each bundle of clothes, each set of soap bars
between siblings, or relatives. in other households.
She defied economic theories as traditionally finite resources--
think Mars candy bars, old Levis jeans and so-pure-it-floats-on-water
Ivory Soap bars--could mysteriously multiply and assume
seemingly unlimited proportions as she managed, somehow, some way,
always, to ensure that no one was ever left empty-handed.
But most profound are the lessons she taught by not teaching.
She did not teach us to lie. She never taught us to covet.
Or to be vain. Or ungrateful.
She did not teach us to forget one another, or to distance
ourselves from friends.
Decades before Facebook, Twitter, Multiply, etc., she was busily
logging entries in her thick, nubby-edged notebook--her hard copy
version of a database. It was (and still is) a marketer's dream list--
names of old/newfound/rediscovered relatives, friends, their spouses
and children and parents and siblings; wedding anniversaries,
Catholic patron saints/feast days, birthdays, death anniversaries,
and sundry other data.
She faithfully updated that; and long before Facebook's friend suggestions functionality, she would find ways to link up friends with some
common denominators that she always managed to dig up.
A network marketer par excellance, without any help from Randy Gage,
Zig Ziglar, et al. (If she ever chooses to make them into downlines,
she could give MLMIA veterans a run for their dollars.)
And, oh, how Al Gore would love to have a chat with her!
I remember distinctly, in the late 70s and early 80s, part of her
daily refrains were admonitions about conserving water ("Time will
come when you will have to pay more for water to drink," decades
before the bottled water industry took off), energy, and caring,
not just for environmental sanitation, but the frontliners as well:
garbage collectors.
Shards of broken glass, cut-off tin can tops were always carefully
wrapped in scrap cardboard, "so the garbage collector doesn't get hurt
from handling them."
Scrap paper, bits of thread, empty jars, tin cans, beverage bottles,
used boxes: there was always just room for a little more in the house.
Even flour sacks would be cut up and re-sewn into blankets for us.
If I didn't know any better, I would have thought myself to be adopted,
and her real surname to be Recycle.
Now into her 80s, Mommy is alive and well.
Not as active in her social pursuits as she would like--grappling with
the realities of frail bones and lifestyle diseases--but despite
forgetting to take her cardio or diabetes medicines, she never forgets
a birthday in the family, the extended rosters of relatives,
or her still-growing network of friends.
And so we learn from her, still.
And in her thoughtful silences, it is her voice, her outstretched
helping hand, her faithful greeting cards that continue to
speak volumes about kindness, friendliness, thoughtfulness,
frugality, stewardship of resources...
And the kindness and wisdom of always having a spare little
rolled-up plastic bag in your pocket.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Thank God He isn't Zeus...
Dropping in uninvited into people's homes and giving rise to his demigod progeny. Or maybe like Athena: someone's after you, you get shamed and hurt, and you run into the temple asking for help. Next thing you know, you have snakes hissing where your hair used to be, and you're dragging your scaly belly and twenty-foot reticulated tail around.
For the price of movie tickets (and with my husband right next beside me, to boot), I got fresh insight into just a few of the things that make God, well...God.
For instance, this uninvited thing.
Jesus talked about knocking. Calling out. And being given the chance to decide, upon hearing His voice, whether we want to let Him in or not.
And in His perfect Holiness, God would never, ever want -- or could -- defile you with the slightest blemish. In fact, this is what He specializes in...
Dealing with our sinning, shameful selves. And making sure we end up spotless in the end.
The woman who was caught in adultery caused the Holy Hand of God's own Son to write on the sand. Perhaps, conjectures one Bible scholar: a list of sins of each member of the angry mob? But most telling äre His own words:
"...neither do I condemn you..go now and leave your life of sin."
Instead of turning her into a scaly horror, He lets her undergo a spiritual molting like no other. She starts out as a serpent-like creature, the object of scorn, wrath and a death sentence. With His declaration, she sheds the life of sin, and becomes a new creation alive in the Son.
And let us not forget the sacrifice thing.
While most other beliefs, such as those of the ancient Greeks and Romans, usually involve the concept of deities demanding human sacrifice, true Christianity is founded upon the concept of God sacrificing His own Son to redeem us.
When I first learned that Ralph Fiennes and Liam Neeson would be in Clash of the Titans, I knew then that I wanted to watch. The effects, the story, the action, the actors, the acting!
Instead I came home extremely, indescribably grateful that it's just another Hollywood moneymaker. And that the Real God isn't hungry for our worship (deserving, yes; lusting after, no), or up to some mischief, or capable of being baffled, beaten or deceived.
So go ahead, release the Kraken.
But remember to grab hold of the Truth.
For the price of movie tickets (and with my husband right next beside me, to boot), I got fresh insight into just a few of the things that make God, well...God.
For instance, this uninvited thing.
Jesus talked about knocking. Calling out. And being given the chance to decide, upon hearing His voice, whether we want to let Him in or not.
And in His perfect Holiness, God would never, ever want -- or could -- defile you with the slightest blemish. In fact, this is what He specializes in...
Dealing with our sinning, shameful selves. And making sure we end up spotless in the end.
The woman who was caught in adultery caused the Holy Hand of God's own Son to write on the sand. Perhaps, conjectures one Bible scholar: a list of sins of each member of the angry mob? But most telling äre His own words:
"...neither do I condemn you..go now and leave your life of sin."
Instead of turning her into a scaly horror, He lets her undergo a spiritual molting like no other. She starts out as a serpent-like creature, the object of scorn, wrath and a death sentence. With His declaration, she sheds the life of sin, and becomes a new creation alive in the Son.
And let us not forget the sacrifice thing.
While most other beliefs, such as those of the ancient Greeks and Romans, usually involve the concept of deities demanding human sacrifice, true Christianity is founded upon the concept of God sacrificing His own Son to redeem us.
When I first learned that Ralph Fiennes and Liam Neeson would be in Clash of the Titans, I knew then that I wanted to watch. The effects, the story, the action, the actors, the acting!
Instead I came home extremely, indescribably grateful that it's just another Hollywood moneymaker. And that the Real God isn't hungry for our worship (deserving, yes; lusting after, no), or up to some mischief, or capable of being baffled, beaten or deceived.
So go ahead, release the Kraken.
But remember to grab hold of the Truth.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Some ten-foot poles just aren't long enough...
...Especially when it comes to sleeping dogs such as relationships laid to rest, sins you've turned your back on already, and things you promised yourself (or, more crucially, God and another person) you'd never think, say or do.
Learned this lesson the hard way just a while ago.
An erstwhile suitor who quietly faded into the background over two decades ago somehow faded into my Facebook list of Friend Requests. Quickly assessing the former situation (brief, seemingly harmless, nipped-in-the-bud attempt at teenage courtship), I reckoned it would be fine to click Confirm. This isn't so-and-so with whom I got really serious; nor such-and-such whom I considered my first real love; thus went my internal ethics committee and auditors.
However, once I actually responded to the perfunctory hellos on FB chat...the thread took on an increasingly tangled direction. As in, tangled around his thinly-veiled attempts to awaken the sleeping dog, and resurrect a relationship that never was.
I cut the connection right there and rued the day I dared use the ten-foot pole.
Just last week the same thing happened: a phrase I vowed never to use with someone very close to me, just seemed to slip over my tongue and slide right out of my mouth. I hurt someone terribly, and though things between us have taken a turn for the better, still......That weight, that sigh keeps cropping up every now and then.
For some things, even 20-foot poles aren't up to the job. When you touch something with a pole, there's just no way of telling beforehand if the thing cannot manage to grab hold of the pole, shake it loose from your grasp, and eradicate the safe distance between you.
If you're even thinking of touching that sleeping dog...DON'T. It doesn't respect poles, no matter what their length. Sleeping dogs are meant to lie.
Drop the pole, turn your back, and keep walking towards the future God has for you. That's the safest way to go.
So what am I thankful for?
Uhm, this time, I guess, it would have to be that lovely little link called Log Out.
Learned this lesson the hard way just a while ago.
An erstwhile suitor who quietly faded into the background over two decades ago somehow faded into my Facebook list of Friend Requests. Quickly assessing the former situation (brief, seemingly harmless, nipped-in-the-bud attempt at teenage courtship), I reckoned it would be fine to click Confirm. This isn't so-and-so with whom I got really serious; nor such-and-such whom I considered my first real love; thus went my internal ethics committee and auditors.
However, once I actually responded to the perfunctory hellos on FB chat...the thread took on an increasingly tangled direction. As in, tangled around his thinly-veiled attempts to awaken the sleeping dog, and resurrect a relationship that never was.
I cut the connection right there and rued the day I dared use the ten-foot pole.
Just last week the same thing happened: a phrase I vowed never to use with someone very close to me, just seemed to slip over my tongue and slide right out of my mouth. I hurt someone terribly, and though things between us have taken a turn for the better, still......That weight, that sigh keeps cropping up every now and then.
For some things, even 20-foot poles aren't up to the job. When you touch something with a pole, there's just no way of telling beforehand if the thing cannot manage to grab hold of the pole, shake it loose from your grasp, and eradicate the safe distance between you.
If you're even thinking of touching that sleeping dog...DON'T. It doesn't respect poles, no matter what their length. Sleeping dogs are meant to lie.
Drop the pole, turn your back, and keep walking towards the future God has for you. That's the safest way to go.
So what am I thankful for?
Uhm, this time, I guess, it would have to be that lovely little link called Log Out.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
What, me pursue God?
In the hairsprayed mists of New Wave's Golden Era, I pursued radio stations where I could listen nonstop to Siouxsie & the Banshees, the Lotus Eaters, The Clash, The Cure, The Ramones, the-what-have-yous.
In college I pursued flat ones (in my Literature subjects, at least) and the poetic muse. Soon thereafter, in the labor force, I pursued good pay, fun officemates, creative environments, dollar-compensated consultancies, good books, sidelines.
Once married, I pursued the obstetrician, the pediatrician, the toddler ambling towards the gate, the same toddler about to pop a toy into his mouth, and another squishy, squirming infant trying to wriggle from his bath.
So why not pursue God this time, indeed?
It took a 62-year-old book to nudge me onto this track.
Aiden W. Tozer's "The Pursuit of God: The Human Thirst for the Divine" has been my midnight companion for three nights now (though unfortunately, not three consecutive nights). Still, each time I finished a chapter--vaguely anticipatory, barely conscious of a rising hope and excitement within me--I had the strangest, most delightful sensation that God was just getting started with me.
So here I am, getting ready for the fourth chapter tomorrow.
And all this running after has driven me to thirst for more. But this thirst, while enlivening me and egging me on, does not carry with it the sour edge of envy, nor the bitter aftertaste of regret, and not even the utter blandness of self-pity, nor any of the negative emotions that accompany unhealthy thirsts.
The spirit within me knows--this thirst is good. The pursuit of its quenching, better. The One who alone can quench: the best.
Let's drink up this Holy Week, shall we?
In college I pursued flat ones (in my Literature subjects, at least) and the poetic muse. Soon thereafter, in the labor force, I pursued good pay, fun officemates, creative environments, dollar-compensated consultancies, good books, sidelines.
Once married, I pursued the obstetrician, the pediatrician, the toddler ambling towards the gate, the same toddler about to pop a toy into his mouth, and another squishy, squirming infant trying to wriggle from his bath.
So why not pursue God this time, indeed?
It took a 62-year-old book to nudge me onto this track.
Aiden W. Tozer's "The Pursuit of God: The Human Thirst for the Divine" has been my midnight companion for three nights now (though unfortunately, not three consecutive nights). Still, each time I finished a chapter--vaguely anticipatory, barely conscious of a rising hope and excitement within me--I had the strangest, most delightful sensation that God was just getting started with me.
So here I am, getting ready for the fourth chapter tomorrow.
And all this running after has driven me to thirst for more. But this thirst, while enlivening me and egging me on, does not carry with it the sour edge of envy, nor the bitter aftertaste of regret, and not even the utter blandness of self-pity, nor any of the negative emotions that accompany unhealthy thirsts.
The spirit within me knows--this thirst is good. The pursuit of its quenching, better. The One who alone can quench: the best.
Let's drink up this Holy Week, shall we?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Good thing God let David rant almost as much as he raved...
...because otherwise, we might end up being scared of basic, heart-deep honesty before the God of truth, who doesn't change His mind and can never lie.
Times when we're flat-out scared. Or trying to hide our flaming hot red faces after realizing we have done something that a kind or wise person would not do. Or simply feeling low and needing a Father to say, Come here, child, sit beside me and rest your head on My shoulder. I have all the time that Eternity can hold.
Then, too, honesty is just as important when we're in foot-stomping, fist-clenching mode.
"This is just so unfair!"
"You did what???"
"I was first in line. Three hours ago. And this guy's trying to butt in."
And then there are times when our most eloquent speech is distilled into a sigh and a defeated shoulder shrug. Or into a worldess cry that echoes painfully from the depths of our souls.
He would understand. Because He sighed when He saw His Son tired. Divine eyes wept holy tears as His Son drew final breaths.
Then again, because David did rave, too, we can confidently eschew false dignity and bloated self-importance and simply jump and dance when heaven has given us reason to do so.
Such as when, after a with-bated-breath look, a pregnancy test stick finally shows the shy pink second line. Or a relative stranger looks you straight in the eye and shakes your clammy hand as she says, "Congratulations, you're hired!". Or with sheer abandon you give a totally unselfconscious hug to someone you've hurt before, and with whom you have now made peace.
Look for those moments this week.
Whether you feel like sighing, stamping or singing, know that your most intimate audience of One is never shocked or surprised, just all eyes and ears. Always.
Times when we're flat-out scared. Or trying to hide our flaming hot red faces after realizing we have done something that a kind or wise person would not do. Or simply feeling low and needing a Father to say, Come here, child, sit beside me and rest your head on My shoulder. I have all the time that Eternity can hold.
Then, too, honesty is just as important when we're in foot-stomping, fist-clenching mode.
"This is just so unfair!"
"You did what???"
"I was first in line. Three hours ago. And this guy's trying to butt in."
And then there are times when our most eloquent speech is distilled into a sigh and a defeated shoulder shrug. Or into a worldess cry that echoes painfully from the depths of our souls.
He would understand. Because He sighed when He saw His Son tired. Divine eyes wept holy tears as His Son drew final breaths.
Then again, because David did rave, too, we can confidently eschew false dignity and bloated self-importance and simply jump and dance when heaven has given us reason to do so.
Such as when, after a with-bated-breath look, a pregnancy test stick finally shows the shy pink second line. Or a relative stranger looks you straight in the eye and shakes your clammy hand as she says, "Congratulations, you're hired!". Or with sheer abandon you give a totally unselfconscious hug to someone you've hurt before, and with whom you have now made peace.
Look for those moments this week.
Whether you feel like sighing, stamping or singing, know that your most intimate audience of One is never shocked or surprised, just all eyes and ears. Always.
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