In the seventh grade, my family moved to Los Alamos, NM. It was a bit of a culture shock for a southern family to move West.
We immediately began going to the only church of Christ in town, and there we met the most amazing and beautiful woman I think I've ever known. Her name was Ruth Harrington. She was the preacher's wife, and she lived in the house right next to the church building. She was soft spoken, always smiling, and she baked. Oh, man, she baked.
Each year, she'd have a holiday open house, and we LOVED going. The food was incredible, but it was also just fun to get to hang out with our friends in a place we all cherished.
I remember at least once that I got to stay with them when Mom and Dad were out of town. I don't remember where the other girls stayed, but I was at the Harringtons' home all by myself. And I loved it.
I had the privilege of staying in Elynn's bedroom. Elynn was their daughter, and she was already grown and out of the house. In my imagination, she has always been this perfect, beautiful woman, just like her mother.
Just being in Mrs. Harrington's home made me feel refreshed and at peace. It was like vacation. I helped bake cookies and sat in the little living room off the kitchen and read back issues of Reader's Digest. I don't remember a single conversation we had.
As a matter of fact, whenever I think of her, I can't really remember her voice. I think that's because she let others talk. I'm sure she had plenty of wisdom to share. But I love that she knew how to listen. That's a rare gift, I think. Most of us can hear, but few of us actually listen.
I'll never forget the Harringtons' last Sunday at that little church. I cried and cried and cried. I remember standing upstairs in the hallway, sobbing, my dad nearly crying with me. It was one of the hardest good-byes I've ever had to say. She captured my young heart, and I miss her to this day.
Even though I can't remember her voice, her smile is forever etched in my memory. I will never be that quiet and sweet. God just didn't design me to be quiet. (Ask anyone who knows me.) But from Mrs. Harrington, I learned that listening and smiling is more important than talking. And that baking the perfect dinner rolls is a love language all its own.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
It's not my problem
This has been an emotional week or two. The kind of emotional that drains you and makes you wish you could stay in bed for a week. But Christmas is just around the corner, and I have too much to do to stay in bed. And for that, I'm kind of grateful.
Last weekend, a friend called to ask for help. She wanted me to help make Christmas happen for her daughter. She's about to be evicted from her apartment, she can't pay her utility bill, and they're barely eating. But all she wanted was for me to make sure her little girl had a Christmas.
I've never even been close to homeless. We've been nearly broke before. But nearly broke for us meant transferring some money from our savings account to the checking account before we paid some bills. I am blessed beyond what I deserve. I grew up in a family that took money management very seriously. And I am married to a man who is very good with money.
And I totally take it for granted.
I've always viewed homelessness as someone else's problem. I know how that sounds, but I'm just being honest. And if you're honest, most people reading this have felt the same way.
When I see a man on the street corner holding a sign, I'm hesitant to give. What if he uses the money I give him to buy alcohol or cigarettes? Then haven't I just enabled him? I think to myself, "Why doesn't he just get a job?" Or "Doesn't he know that if he just stopped buying cigarettes, he could afford an apartment?"
But I don't know his story. I don't know why he's standing there. I don't know the (probably heartbreaking) circumstances that led him to the miserable place where he must beg just to eat. And what I'm learning is that everyone has a story. Every homeless person has a story.
So when my friend called to ask for help, I was honored and humbled. I know it took a ton of courage for her to make that call. But she swallowed her pride and did it out of love for her daughter. And my mother's heart can understand that much.
I made some calls, and a few Godly friends helped make her Christmas a little more bearable. But what she'll never know is the impact she's had on my life. She asked for help. And in asking for help, she made me part of her story.
I will never see another homeless person without thinking of her and her daughter. I don't know what God has planned for me ministry-wise, but I can't help but believe that He has a role for me in some sort of homelessness prevention ministry. He's priming me for it.
He's touched my heart through her, and I'm coming to understand that when the proverb says "the righteous care about justice for the poor", it means that He intends for us to make it our problem.
Last weekend, a friend called to ask for help. She wanted me to help make Christmas happen for her daughter. She's about to be evicted from her apartment, she can't pay her utility bill, and they're barely eating. But all she wanted was for me to make sure her little girl had a Christmas.
I've never even been close to homeless. We've been nearly broke before. But nearly broke for us meant transferring some money from our savings account to the checking account before we paid some bills. I am blessed beyond what I deserve. I grew up in a family that took money management very seriously. And I am married to a man who is very good with money.
And I totally take it for granted.
I've always viewed homelessness as someone else's problem. I know how that sounds, but I'm just being honest. And if you're honest, most people reading this have felt the same way.
When I see a man on the street corner holding a sign, I'm hesitant to give. What if he uses the money I give him to buy alcohol or cigarettes? Then haven't I just enabled him? I think to myself, "Why doesn't he just get a job?" Or "Doesn't he know that if he just stopped buying cigarettes, he could afford an apartment?"
But I don't know his story. I don't know why he's standing there. I don't know the (probably heartbreaking) circumstances that led him to the miserable place where he must beg just to eat. And what I'm learning is that everyone has a story. Every homeless person has a story.
So when my friend called to ask for help, I was honored and humbled. I know it took a ton of courage for her to make that call. But she swallowed her pride and did it out of love for her daughter. And my mother's heart can understand that much.
I made some calls, and a few Godly friends helped make her Christmas a little more bearable. But what she'll never know is the impact she's had on my life. She asked for help. And in asking for help, she made me part of her story.
I will never see another homeless person without thinking of her and her daughter. I don't know what God has planned for me ministry-wise, but I can't help but believe that He has a role for me in some sort of homelessness prevention ministry. He's priming me for it.
He's touched my heart through her, and I'm coming to understand that when the proverb says "the righteous care about justice for the poor", it means that He intends for us to make it our problem.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday Women: Edition 3
Where did this week go? There has been so much going on that I'm doing well to shower each day, let alone check email or (heaven forbid) blog. I have three or four different posts started, but nothing finished, and here it is Wednesday again. Not that anyone but my dad actually reads this (Hi, Dad), but here's hoping I can catch up a bit in the next week.
I do want to take time out to honor this week's Wednesday Woman. Since I'm doing this in chronological order, these are still childhood memories, and they are not always very clear, so bear with me.
When I was a child, I attended a private school (Knoxville Christian School). I cannot remember half of my college professors' names, but I remember my teachers' names for grades 1, 2 and 3 (mainly because the teacher for 1 and 2 was the same woman, just with a different last name because she married one of the student's fathers the summer in between...but that's another story). Today, I'd like to tell you about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mattie Lou Robinson.
Mrs. Robinson seemed so old to me (and I think she actually was). She was tall and very thin and wore her gray hair teased into a beehive of sorts. She always wore a very sweet smile, even when she was reprimanding us, which she did frequently. One of my most vivid memories of her is the daily reminder to wash our hands after using the bathroom because if we didn't, we might as well eat poo-poo. In my mind's eye, I can see her sweet smile and the shape of her mouth as she said the word "poo-poo". Even today, I think of her nearly every time I wash my hands. But I digress...
Mrs. Robinson dedicated an entire semester to the study of the book of Acts. She told us the stories in vivid detail of the gift of the Holy Spirit and the stoning of Stephen. She made the Bible come alive for us. She made the men and women in that book tangible and easy to understand. Each day, when we opened our Bibles together, we went on an adventure. There were maps and pictures all over the classroom, and we understood the places that Paul walked to be real places that we longed to see for ourselves. From infancy, I went to church and had my own Bible. But Mrs. Robinson showed me that it was more than just a book with cool stories. It is the living, breathing word of God.
Years later, when I was at Harding University, Mrs. Robinson showed up at a recital I was scheduled to sing for. I think she was attending one of those classes for retired people. And I'm not kidding you, she looked EXACTLY the same. And she remembered me. I was honored to have the opportunity to thank her in person for the impact she'd had on my personal hygiene and, more importantly, my love of God's book.
Each year, when my children start school, I pray they will have teachers who impact their lives for Christ like Mrs. Robinson did mine. What an awesome gift to a child. And what an amazing gift to a parent, to help mentor a child like she did.
Now, I think I would be shocked to find out she is still living here on earth. If she is, I'm sure she's been on a Smucker's label on Willard Scott's weather report (which is code for REALLY old). But assuming she's passed on, I have no doubt that she's with her Father, the ultimate storyteller.
So here's to you, Mrs. Robinson (you know I couldn't resist), I imagine you're enjoying washing your hands in that heavenly sink.
I do want to take time out to honor this week's Wednesday Woman. Since I'm doing this in chronological order, these are still childhood memories, and they are not always very clear, so bear with me.
When I was a child, I attended a private school (Knoxville Christian School). I cannot remember half of my college professors' names, but I remember my teachers' names for grades 1, 2 and 3 (mainly because the teacher for 1 and 2 was the same woman, just with a different last name because she married one of the student's fathers the summer in between...but that's another story). Today, I'd like to tell you about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mattie Lou Robinson.
Mrs. Robinson seemed so old to me (and I think she actually was). She was tall and very thin and wore her gray hair teased into a beehive of sorts. She always wore a very sweet smile, even when she was reprimanding us, which she did frequently. One of my most vivid memories of her is the daily reminder to wash our hands after using the bathroom because if we didn't, we might as well eat poo-poo. In my mind's eye, I can see her sweet smile and the shape of her mouth as she said the word "poo-poo". Even today, I think of her nearly every time I wash my hands. But I digress...
Mrs. Robinson dedicated an entire semester to the study of the book of Acts. She told us the stories in vivid detail of the gift of the Holy Spirit and the stoning of Stephen. She made the Bible come alive for us. She made the men and women in that book tangible and easy to understand. Each day, when we opened our Bibles together, we went on an adventure. There were maps and pictures all over the classroom, and we understood the places that Paul walked to be real places that we longed to see for ourselves. From infancy, I went to church and had my own Bible. But Mrs. Robinson showed me that it was more than just a book with cool stories. It is the living, breathing word of God.
Years later, when I was at Harding University, Mrs. Robinson showed up at a recital I was scheduled to sing for. I think she was attending one of those classes for retired people. And I'm not kidding you, she looked EXACTLY the same. And she remembered me. I was honored to have the opportunity to thank her in person for the impact she'd had on my personal hygiene and, more importantly, my love of God's book.
Each year, when my children start school, I pray they will have teachers who impact their lives for Christ like Mrs. Robinson did mine. What an awesome gift to a child. And what an amazing gift to a parent, to help mentor a child like she did.
Now, I think I would be shocked to find out she is still living here on earth. If she is, I'm sure she's been on a Smucker's label on Willard Scott's weather report (which is code for REALLY old). But assuming she's passed on, I have no doubt that she's with her Father, the ultimate storyteller.
So here's to you, Mrs. Robinson (you know I couldn't resist), I imagine you're enjoying washing your hands in that heavenly sink.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday Women: Edition 2
What I'm about to say is from my childhood memory. And it is not always reliable. Just ask my family. The things I remember are totally random and often completely insignificant. But these "memories" are tools the Lord has used to mold me into the woman I am today, and I want to honor that.
When I was a little girl living in Tennessee, we lived very close to my mom's best friend, Gina. I don't have a lot of experience with Gina as grown-up Amy, but in Amy Jill's little memory, she lives as this amazing, outgoing, hilarious woman who made life full of bright colors for anyone who knew her.
My sisters and I often played at her house. She had kids my little sisters' ages, and her next door neighbor had a little girl that I loved to play with. Gina had rules and boundaries, and we were expected to obey her as if she were our mother. We all feared disappointing her, not because she was heavy-handed with discipline, but because we adored her and couldn't stand to grieve her.
On snow days, we would trudge through the snow to her house for s'mores on the wood stove in her basement. We did little plays and shows in that same basement. We ran laps around her house and played badminton on the "court" set up between her house and the neighbor's.
Sometimes, the neighbor girl wasn't home and I would get the privilege of drying dishes in Gina's kitchen while she washed. It was in those moments that she asked me questions and showed interest in my little life. For all I remember, this may have happened only once, but if so, it must have been a pretty powerful afternoon for my little heart.
The day we moved away to New Mexico is a day I'll never forget (although I'm not sure I remember it accurately). We said good-bye to Gina and her sweet family last, and driving away in our Chevy Astro, we all cried.
In my memory, she smiles all the time. She has a thick southern accent and uses the word "girl" a lot. ("Girl, it's been forever since...." "Girl, I'm so happy to see you...") She loves fiercely and passionately. Yet she is quiet in spirit. She has a confidence in the Lord that produces joy. She is not mousy, but she is meek.
Gina taught me that loving Christ is not boring. She taught me that when the Lord gives you personality, you use it.
And she taught me that when I let my Lord's heart be the heart of my home, I make my home a sweet memory for anyone who enters it.
When I was a little girl living in Tennessee, we lived very close to my mom's best friend, Gina. I don't have a lot of experience with Gina as grown-up Amy, but in Amy Jill's little memory, she lives as this amazing, outgoing, hilarious woman who made life full of bright colors for anyone who knew her.
My sisters and I often played at her house. She had kids my little sisters' ages, and her next door neighbor had a little girl that I loved to play with. Gina had rules and boundaries, and we were expected to obey her as if she were our mother. We all feared disappointing her, not because she was heavy-handed with discipline, but because we adored her and couldn't stand to grieve her.
On snow days, we would trudge through the snow to her house for s'mores on the wood stove in her basement. We did little plays and shows in that same basement. We ran laps around her house and played badminton on the "court" set up between her house and the neighbor's.
Sometimes, the neighbor girl wasn't home and I would get the privilege of drying dishes in Gina's kitchen while she washed. It was in those moments that she asked me questions and showed interest in my little life. For all I remember, this may have happened only once, but if so, it must have been a pretty powerful afternoon for my little heart.
The day we moved away to New Mexico is a day I'll never forget (although I'm not sure I remember it accurately). We said good-bye to Gina and her sweet family last, and driving away in our Chevy Astro, we all cried.
In my memory, she smiles all the time. She has a thick southern accent and uses the word "girl" a lot. ("Girl, it's been forever since...." "Girl, I'm so happy to see you...") She loves fiercely and passionately. Yet she is quiet in spirit. She has a confidence in the Lord that produces joy. She is not mousy, but she is meek.
Gina taught me that loving Christ is not boring. She taught me that when the Lord gives you personality, you use it.
And she taught me that when I let my Lord's heart be the heart of my home, I make my home a sweet memory for anyone who enters it.
Plum worn out
Today is the first day since I started this whole journey toward a more disciplined life that I'm really having trouble even getting started.
I'm tired. It's cold. I'm hungry, but too lazy to make anything good for me. I know I need to work out, but I'd rather stay in my pj's all day and pretend like I don't pay $100 a month for a gym membership. I didn't quite finish all my shopping yesterday, so I can't move forward with some of the things on my to do list today. There's folded laundry everywhere, and I lack the motivation to put it away.
So here's where I have to "be transformed by the renewing of my mind" (Romans 12).
I can take a quick nap with the boys this afternoon. I have a jacket. I have instant oatmeal, and that's going to have to do for breakfast this morning. The gym and a quick shopping trip are the perfect morning outing for the boys. And laundry - ugh - Thank you, Jesus, that you gave me the energy to actually FOLD the laundry yesterday.
I have a feeling this is going to be a fake-it-'till-you-feel-it kind of day. Pray much?
I'm tired. It's cold. I'm hungry, but too lazy to make anything good for me. I know I need to work out, but I'd rather stay in my pj's all day and pretend like I don't pay $100 a month for a gym membership. I didn't quite finish all my shopping yesterday, so I can't move forward with some of the things on my to do list today. There's folded laundry everywhere, and I lack the motivation to put it away.
So here's where I have to "be transformed by the renewing of my mind" (Romans 12).
I can take a quick nap with the boys this afternoon. I have a jacket. I have instant oatmeal, and that's going to have to do for breakfast this morning. The gym and a quick shopping trip are the perfect morning outing for the boys. And laundry - ugh - Thank you, Jesus, that you gave me the energy to actually FOLD the laundry yesterday.
I have a feeling this is going to be a fake-it-'till-you-feel-it kind of day. Pray much?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
On my knees
As I write this, my dear friend Kendyl sits in a waiting room in Little Rock while her father has surgery. Surgery to remove the cursed cancer. If you're reading this, won't you join me in praying for her father, his surgeon, and his sweet family?
Monday, December 7, 2009
The promise of happiness
I am not always a happy person. Sometimes I am angry or sad. And according to my husband, those are really the only three emotions possible. (And I just let him believe it because who really has time to explain to the men the complicated colors of a woman's heart?)
For years, I thought it was my husband's job to make me happy. I mean, that's what marriage is all about, right?
Note: If you really believe that it's your husband's (or wife's) job to make you happy, you've got big problems. Get some help. Professional help.
When I realized that no man was going to be able to fill the God-shaped hole inside me, I began pursuing God more relentlessly because I then knew that it's God's job to make me happy.
Yeah, right.
Nowhere in the Bible does it say ANYTHING about God promising us happiness. As a matter of fact, any time there's a word that might be translated "happy", it is accompanied by things we think of as miserable, like "Happy are the poor in spirit..." or "Happy are those who mourn..." (Mt. 5)
I often think that God has a responsibility to answer my prayers. And I think that just because I ask for something, He should make it happen. And I forget that he's not a genie, there to cater to my every whim. I think that just because I pray fervently and ask in a "spiritual" way, I can believe that He will deliver.
I'm not saying that He doesn't answer prayer. I think He absolutely does. And I think He's longing to give us our heart's desire. But when we ask the Lord to give us our heart's desire, we'd better make sure we've examined our hearts and found them to be turned toward Him.
Yesterday at OHC, Randy spoke from James 4. This particular verse caught my attention: "You do not have, because you do not ask God. When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures."
Ouch.
Maybe one of the reasons God doesn't answer some of my prayers is because I'm asking with "wrong motives". And maybe the discomfort that comes from some of those unanswered prayers is God's way of molding me.
If there is a single theme that God has been screaming at me for the past year, it is this: "I've promised to make you HOLY, not HAPPY."
Now that doesn't mean that He wants me to be miserable. It just means that He doesn't promise that I'll feel at ease and "happy" all the time down here on earth. After all, I am not made for this earth. My citizenship is in heaven. Why should I love it here? (More on my crazy obsession with heaven later.)
So while I generally wear a smile and enjoy my daily life, I am beginning to quell that constant need for happiness.
I'm finally coming to believe that holy WITH Him is way better than happy without Him.
For years, I thought it was my husband's job to make me happy. I mean, that's what marriage is all about, right?
Note: If you really believe that it's your husband's (or wife's) job to make you happy, you've got big problems. Get some help. Professional help.
When I realized that no man was going to be able to fill the God-shaped hole inside me, I began pursuing God more relentlessly because I then knew that it's God's job to make me happy.
Yeah, right.
Nowhere in the Bible does it say ANYTHING about God promising us happiness. As a matter of fact, any time there's a word that might be translated "happy", it is accompanied by things we think of as miserable, like "Happy are the poor in spirit..." or "Happy are those who mourn..." (Mt. 5)
I often think that God has a responsibility to answer my prayers. And I think that just because I ask for something, He should make it happen. And I forget that he's not a genie, there to cater to my every whim. I think that just because I pray fervently and ask in a "spiritual" way, I can believe that He will deliver.
I'm not saying that He doesn't answer prayer. I think He absolutely does. And I think He's longing to give us our heart's desire. But when we ask the Lord to give us our heart's desire, we'd better make sure we've examined our hearts and found them to be turned toward Him.
Yesterday at OHC, Randy spoke from James 4. This particular verse caught my attention: "You do not have, because you do not ask God. When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures."
Ouch.
Maybe one of the reasons God doesn't answer some of my prayers is because I'm asking with "wrong motives". And maybe the discomfort that comes from some of those unanswered prayers is God's way of molding me.
If there is a single theme that God has been screaming at me for the past year, it is this: "I've promised to make you HOLY, not HAPPY."
Now that doesn't mean that He wants me to be miserable. It just means that He doesn't promise that I'll feel at ease and "happy" all the time down here on earth. After all, I am not made for this earth. My citizenship is in heaven. Why should I love it here? (More on my crazy obsession with heaven later.)
So while I generally wear a smile and enjoy my daily life, I am beginning to quell that constant need for happiness.
I'm finally coming to believe that holy WITH Him is way better than happy without Him.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Real moms multi-task.
And if that's true, I'm in big trouble.
Half the time, I think I have ADD. I'm like that babysitter kid on The Incredibles who says she wishes someone had played Mozart for her as a baby while she was sleeping because "half the time, I don't know what anybody's talking about".
But I really have to get it together. There's a lot to do, and only a little bit of time.
I gave up list-making a long time ago. Lists are supposed to make you feel like you've accomplished something. But I always focus on the things I haven't checked off, and end up feeling like a failure.
Yet tonight, I'm making an extensive list (and it will be HUGE). And then I will sit down with my calendar and figure out what goes where. I'm making a commitment to work hard to get my to-do list done, but I'm also going to try not to make myself crazy when I don't quite get it all done.
You can bet I'll let you know how it goes.
Half the time, I think I have ADD. I'm like that babysitter kid on The Incredibles who says she wishes someone had played Mozart for her as a baby while she was sleeping because "half the time, I don't know what anybody's talking about".
But I really have to get it together. There's a lot to do, and only a little bit of time.
I gave up list-making a long time ago. Lists are supposed to make you feel like you've accomplished something. But I always focus on the things I haven't checked off, and end up feeling like a failure.
Yet tonight, I'm making an extensive list (and it will be HUGE). And then I will sit down with my calendar and figure out what goes where. I'm making a commitment to work hard to get my to-do list done, but I'm also going to try not to make myself crazy when I don't quite get it all done.
You can bet I'll let you know how it goes.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Just how still are we talking about here?
"Be still and know that I am God."
All my life I've heard lessons and sermons and series on this topic. All these people telling me to learn to carve out a time to be still before the Lord without distraction so I can really focus on His greatness and His message for me.
Just this week, I heard a lesson from Chip Ingram (by video) in which he recommended stepping back every 6 or 8 weeks to regroup and refocus. (Great lesson, by the way.)
But here's the deal: I am wife to a man who travels with some frequency and mom to four kids, ranging in age from 2 to 10. Stillness is not had easily around here.
So I've really struggled as to how to make this stillness thing work. This morning, I looked up the passage because frankly, even though I'd heard it my whole life, I didn't know exactly where it was. And do you know where it is? Among the commandments in the Torah? Wrong. In some important New Testament speech where Jesus is inspiring His followers? Wrong again.
It's in a Psalm. Psalm 46:10, to be exact. (But I'm guessing you already knew that.)
Since when did any commandment come from a book of poetry? And why are we all riled up about one single little line? I say we should just throw this one out as a little something David said to make the song rhyme, but didn't really mean for us to take so seriously.
But I guess I know better.
If you read the whole Psalm, it's all about how the Lord defends us. He is the fortress protecting us from our enemies.
He is fighting off satan and his nasty demons, and all He wants is for us to be quiet? Doesn't He want some help? How can He expect us to just sit back and watch while He fights?
Funny, huh? The Creator of the Universe would actually need our help. But if I'm being honest, I have this attitude a lot. We've all thought we should be DOING more and BEING more.
But what He desires from us is relationship. He wants us to sit at His feet and let the chaos fade into the background as we drink in His words and catch a glimpse of who He really is. And how much He really loves us.
I don't always have hours to be still and listen. But I catch little moments. Like when I'm up in the middle of the night holding a sick baby. Or when I'm in the car and my babies have fallen asleep. Or when Andy's out of town and I've managed to get all the kids down by eight and there's nothing good on TV to distract me.
Stillness does happen. I just have to learn to recognize the moments and take full advantage of them. I have to train my mind to carve out as many of these moments as I can. And I have to let the Lord teach my heart to crave them.
All my life I've heard lessons and sermons and series on this topic. All these people telling me to learn to carve out a time to be still before the Lord without distraction so I can really focus on His greatness and His message for me.
Just this week, I heard a lesson from Chip Ingram (by video) in which he recommended stepping back every 6 or 8 weeks to regroup and refocus. (Great lesson, by the way.)
But here's the deal: I am wife to a man who travels with some frequency and mom to four kids, ranging in age from 2 to 10. Stillness is not had easily around here.
So I've really struggled as to how to make this stillness thing work. This morning, I looked up the passage because frankly, even though I'd heard it my whole life, I didn't know exactly where it was. And do you know where it is? Among the commandments in the Torah? Wrong. In some important New Testament speech where Jesus is inspiring His followers? Wrong again.
It's in a Psalm. Psalm 46:10, to be exact. (But I'm guessing you already knew that.)
Since when did any commandment come from a book of poetry? And why are we all riled up about one single little line? I say we should just throw this one out as a little something David said to make the song rhyme, but didn't really mean for us to take so seriously.
But I guess I know better.
If you read the whole Psalm, it's all about how the Lord defends us. He is the fortress protecting us from our enemies.
He is fighting off satan and his nasty demons, and all He wants is for us to be quiet? Doesn't He want some help? How can He expect us to just sit back and watch while He fights?
Funny, huh? The Creator of the Universe would actually need our help. But if I'm being honest, I have this attitude a lot. We've all thought we should be DOING more and BEING more.
But what He desires from us is relationship. He wants us to sit at His feet and let the chaos fade into the background as we drink in His words and catch a glimpse of who He really is. And how much He really loves us.
I don't always have hours to be still and listen. But I catch little moments. Like when I'm up in the middle of the night holding a sick baby. Or when I'm in the car and my babies have fallen asleep. Or when Andy's out of town and I've managed to get all the kids down by eight and there's nothing good on TV to distract me.
Stillness does happen. I just have to learn to recognize the moments and take full advantage of them. I have to train my mind to carve out as many of these moments as I can. And I have to let the Lord teach my heart to crave them.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Side Effects
I'm really enjoying this journey toward discipline.
I love that I'm beginning to talk to God more intimately and freely. My home is mostly neater (is that even a word?), and when it's not, I nag myself less. I'm beginning to see the value in daily exercise and food management. I love that the relationships with my husband and kids are so much richer. I love that my life's colors seem less gray and more brilliant in color.
I'm really enjoying this journey. Mostly.
But there is something I could do without. Sorrow. It seems that the more in love with Christ I am, the more I hurt for my friends who are making bad decisions.
For instance, a girlfriend whom I've loved for several years has pretty much set fire to her life, convincing herself all the while that the flames will keep her warm. She's listened to satan whispering in her ear for so long that she can no longer discern his voice from the voice of her Maker. And it breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart in a way that I didn't know it could be broken. And I'm having to learn to compartmentalize to some degree, in order to do the things I know the Lord requires of me to care for my own family. But in the back of my mind, the sorrow always lingers.
Now, I've experienced depression. I understand depression all too well. Depression is the sickness that keeps you from seeing colors as brightly as you might. It keeps you from any kind of clarity or productivity. But this is different.
It's a sorrow born out of love for my Lord. And because it comes from Him, I can accept it as good and right.
And so while I don't enjoy it, I do find joy in it.
But even here, there is some sort of balance. The Martha in me wants to explain to my friend that she's got it all wrong and she needs to pull herself up by the bootstraps and do the hard work it will take to put her shattered life back together. But the Mary in me wants desperately to help her understand "how wide and long, and high and deep is the love of Christ" (Eph. 3:18). I often hear this called "speaking the truth in love". Difficult stuff.
So for now, I check in with the Lord each morning, ask Him to direct my day and send peace to guard my heart.
And I wear water-proof mascara.
I love that I'm beginning to talk to God more intimately and freely. My home is mostly neater (is that even a word?), and when it's not, I nag myself less. I'm beginning to see the value in daily exercise and food management. I love that the relationships with my husband and kids are so much richer. I love that my life's colors seem less gray and more brilliant in color.
I'm really enjoying this journey. Mostly.
But there is something I could do without. Sorrow. It seems that the more in love with Christ I am, the more I hurt for my friends who are making bad decisions.
For instance, a girlfriend whom I've loved for several years has pretty much set fire to her life, convincing herself all the while that the flames will keep her warm. She's listened to satan whispering in her ear for so long that she can no longer discern his voice from the voice of her Maker. And it breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart in a way that I didn't know it could be broken. And I'm having to learn to compartmentalize to some degree, in order to do the things I know the Lord requires of me to care for my own family. But in the back of my mind, the sorrow always lingers.
Now, I've experienced depression. I understand depression all too well. Depression is the sickness that keeps you from seeing colors as brightly as you might. It keeps you from any kind of clarity or productivity. But this is different.
It's a sorrow born out of love for my Lord. And because it comes from Him, I can accept it as good and right.
And so while I don't enjoy it, I do find joy in it.
But even here, there is some sort of balance. The Martha in me wants to explain to my friend that she's got it all wrong and she needs to pull herself up by the bootstraps and do the hard work it will take to put her shattered life back together. But the Mary in me wants desperately to help her understand "how wide and long, and high and deep is the love of Christ" (Eph. 3:18). I often hear this called "speaking the truth in love". Difficult stuff.
So for now, I check in with the Lord each morning, ask Him to direct my day and send peace to guard my heart.
And I wear water-proof mascara.
I come from a long line of love.
And by that, I mean that not only has the Lord blessed me with parents and grandparents who love the Lord, but with an amazing lifetime collection of women who have influenced my life for Him.
I can look back on my life and see no gaps in the chain of women He has sent to minister to me. I may not have recognized it at the time. I may have been longing for something entirely different in a friendship, but He knew what I really needed, and He has been so faithful to meet each need individually.
It's like He's created designer friends and mentors, just for me. His love for me is that extravagant.
So on Wednesdays, from here on, I want to honor women, one by one, whom the Lord has blessed me with. These are the Marys and Marthas that taught me specific lessons, and they deserve a standing ovation for putting up with me and loving me through some tough times. I'm going to make an attempt to put them in chronological order, but I may end up backtracking occasionally.
First up is my mom. I know, pretty unoriginal. I'm not really sure where to put her on my timeline, but she's been there since birth, and I was NOT an easy delivery, so she deserves the first spot.
The greatest gift my mom has given me is the gift of hospitality. She is the ultimate Martha. That woman knows how to run a kitchen and feed a ton of folks, and do it with delight. She taught me how to make people comfortable in my home. I wish I could count the number of times we had extra people at family holidays and dinners. She never thought twice about including someone she recognized as needing connection, and she provided it with great enthusiasm.
Every now and then she gets a little carried away. One year, she had invited a woman to our Christmas dinner. She was careful to instruct us to make eye contact with this woman when we spoke to her, as she was deaf, but seemed to read lips pretty well. I don't remember how it all came about, but at some point I think someone asked her if she had been born deaf. She gave us this puzzled look and said, "I'm not deaf." I'm not sure I've ever had to work so hard to suppress laughter.
But that woman needed us that day. And though some of us may have seemed a little awkward around her, my mom never did.
She has a gift for loving people who are difficult to communicate with. She has a gift for loving people whom others have forgotten about.
I struggle with loving the unlovables. But it isn't for lack of a good example.
Thank you, Mom, for entertaining like Jesus would. Your example has not gone unnoticed.
I can look back on my life and see no gaps in the chain of women He has sent to minister to me. I may not have recognized it at the time. I may have been longing for something entirely different in a friendship, but He knew what I really needed, and He has been so faithful to meet each need individually.
It's like He's created designer friends and mentors, just for me. His love for me is that extravagant.
So on Wednesdays, from here on, I want to honor women, one by one, whom the Lord has blessed me with. These are the Marys and Marthas that taught me specific lessons, and they deserve a standing ovation for putting up with me and loving me through some tough times. I'm going to make an attempt to put them in chronological order, but I may end up backtracking occasionally.
First up is my mom. I know, pretty unoriginal. I'm not really sure where to put her on my timeline, but she's been there since birth, and I was NOT an easy delivery, so she deserves the first spot.
The greatest gift my mom has given me is the gift of hospitality. She is the ultimate Martha. That woman knows how to run a kitchen and feed a ton of folks, and do it with delight. She taught me how to make people comfortable in my home. I wish I could count the number of times we had extra people at family holidays and dinners. She never thought twice about including someone she recognized as needing connection, and she provided it with great enthusiasm.
Every now and then she gets a little carried away. One year, she had invited a woman to our Christmas dinner. She was careful to instruct us to make eye contact with this woman when we spoke to her, as she was deaf, but seemed to read lips pretty well. I don't remember how it all came about, but at some point I think someone asked her if she had been born deaf. She gave us this puzzled look and said, "I'm not deaf." I'm not sure I've ever had to work so hard to suppress laughter.
But that woman needed us that day. And though some of us may have seemed a little awkward around her, my mom never did.
She has a gift for loving people who are difficult to communicate with. She has a gift for loving people whom others have forgotten about.
I struggle with loving the unlovables. But it isn't for lack of a good example.
Thank you, Mom, for entertaining like Jesus would. Your example has not gone unnoticed.
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