Wait...what was that?

Have you ever felt so wronged that you carried the memory of that wrong around with you for days, weeks, even months, and all that time you formulated in your head the perfect conversation, the ideal confrontation, and role played exactly how you'd face the wrongdoer, confront them, say wise and pithy things to the person, with just the right amount of sarcasm and sardonic wit?  And the longer you nursed the grudge and relived the wrongdoing you suffered, telling it over and over to anyone and everyone within earshot about your abuse, the more vivid the hurt became and the madder you got?  Until you were just bursting with righteous anger and indignation?  And you just KNEW that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, your well-rehearsed speech would come pouring out, completely crushing the wrongdoer, leaving her in a crumpled, shattered, shivering heap of apologies and remorse?  Oh how satisfying that encounter would be!  You were wronged!  You deserve an apology, fairness, even revenge!  And even though you could hate the person, and feel completely justified in that hate and anger, you choose the high road, you choose to forgive, and you gallantly bestow your mercy on the undeserving wretch because, after all, that is what Christians do!  Oh how the wretch will be so grateful, how proud God will be of His progeny for bestowing forgiveness on someone who has hurt you so deeply.  

The moment presents itself, you are facing her, she cannot escape, and you gird your loins for the confrontation that is imminent.  You open your mouth, you say a quick prayer, and the words come tumbling out, hesitant and stuttering at first, then, as you gather assurance and confidence, the words pour out of you, along with your emotions, even tears.  You are surprised at your composure and your compassion for the person sitting across from you.  She looks at you, blinks away tears, and then takes your hands in her hands, and thanks you.  And then, she forgives you.

Wait..what?

I asked for forgiveness?  From the person I have been fuming against for eighteen months?  How in the blue blazes did that just happen?  What planet am I on?  Am I hallucinating?  Did I enter some Mission Impossible scene and get a chip put in my brain and some strange person is controlling what I say without me knowing it?  

Uh, no.  None of the above.  I honestly and seriously have been carrying this bitterness in my heart toward someone I had never met, full of bitterness and resentment and anger over deeds done by others, and I lumped her into the group of evildoers simply as a result of guilt by association.  This grudge got bigger and bigger and took up so much room in my soul and my heart that it grew a life of its own.  I knew (or thought I knew) the only way to clear the playing field and put that grudge out of my life forever would be this:  I would have to face her, and I would magnanimously forgive her.  Yes, that would do it.  Then I could move on because she would know that I knew that she was wrong, but I forgave her anyway.  I had prayed about every facet of this situation for months; I begged for resolution, for an opportunity to present itself for me to fix this. The more I prayed, the more assured I became, confident God could use me to show that person how she was wrong and I had been wronged.  

God had other plans, which is always a good thing.  His plan? For the Holy Spirit to convict me of my wrongdoing, my pride, my arrogance, my self-righteous, and my mean spiritedness.  Yes, some people had wronged me, hurt me, sinned against me, but I had wrongfully laid the blame on the wrong person.  I had intimated impropriety, hinted at conspiracies, and even filed formal complaints.  And when I found myself in front of the person I had dreaded seeing for so long, I knew it was time to put this thing to rest.  Fortunately, putting it to rest meant for me to admit my wrongdoing, to ask for forgiveness for MY sins, my ill feelings.  

I had to remove that board out of my eye, before pointing out a splinter in her eye.  Funny, after I removed that board from my eye, I couldn't see anything wrong with her.  Hmmm....maybe the splinter I thought I saw was really just an illusion.

For, as Jesus said, 

"If your brother or sister has something against you … First go and be reconciled to them” (Matthew 5:23-24).

Tres Anos

Tres anos...that is what Grandma said to me tonight after dinner.  Uno, dos, tres...I am three years old now.  Well, not officially--Mommy says my birthday is really in two days, but I don't care if we had it on the wrong day because I got presents and ice cream and a balloon.  And we had a party at a Mexican restaurant where I got a quesadilla and lots of chips.  

Today started out pretty fun--I woke up and went into Mommy's bed and told her to wake up, wake up, and she said it was too early, but I wanted to come upstairs anyway to see Grandpa and go pee pee on the potty.  So Mommy said it was okay and I climbed up the steps holding the railing like a big girl.  Then I peed, and watched a little show; then I got into my chair and had some cereal that was all different colors, some milk, and a pear. Of course I had to pee again while I was in my chair so Grandma got me out, and then put me back after I peed.  After I finished eating, everyone got dressed for church except Uncle David and Mommy, because they were not feeling very good.  I think they are sick with the snotty nose thing I have.  

Next we went to church--just me and Grandpa and Grandma, and we got there in time for me to go in a room with other kids and learn about being kind.  The teacher helped me draw a heart, and then gave all the kids little bags with candy and lollipops in them.  When that was over, I went to the potty with Grandma, and then we went into the big room with lots of chairs and music.  I ate some snacks and pretended I was singing songs with the people and Grandma took me potty two more times, even though I did not have to go at all.  (I think she was nervous because I was wearing  my rainbow panties instead of a pull up.)  But when the music stopped Mr. Andy got up to talk and I was too tired so me and Grandma went to the playroom by ourselves.  Grandma can hear the talking in there, and I can play without getting in trouble.   We picked up, picked up, put away, then I went back to the big room and ran around with the other kids for a while.  I had so much fun!  But I had my fun, and now it was done, so I went home and pooped in the potty and then took a nap.  I think everyone else took naps too, because it took someone a while to come get me when I hollered.  

After nap, there were a whole bunch of presents on the big table in the living room, and I got to open them all.  All of them were just for me!  I got presents from Mommy and Daddy and Grandpa and even a big bag of presents from Teppie!  My favorite was the princess crayons.  But there was even more fun and surprises coming.  We all got in our car except Grandma--she went somewhere in her car--and we drove to our Mexican restaurant where the people are so so nice.  After we were there for a little bit, I saw Grandma coming in and she was holding a balloon!  A butterfly balloon!  It was so so pretty.  Then we had yummy food, and after I ate most of my dinner the people who make the food came out carrying a giant bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup and whipped cream and a candle on top, plus some funny hats for me, Uncle David, and Grandpa to wear.  They all sang Happy Birthday to me, and I got to eat all the ice cream myself. Mommy took my dress off because I was messy, so I stood up and ate it and got ice cream on my belly and my arm and all over the table.  It was delicious.  Grandma had to get a warm rag to clean me off, and then we went home.  

When I got home I peed and pooped again from all that ice cream and chocolate, and played with my balloon, and then Mommy had to clean out  my nose...it was full of snot and boogers and ice cream.  I cried and Grandpa held my legs so I couldn't kick Mommy.  I know I needed it, but I do not like it at all.  Mommy gave me medicine and put me in my pink PJs with the little girl Yeti on them.  Now I am going to sleep because it was a long and very happy day.  

The only thing that would make it better is if my daddy was here.  I miss him.  But he would be so proud of me for eating all that ice cream!

Don't scratch that itch!

Have you ever wanted to do something so badly, something unhealthy or wrong, and even though you knew you'd hate yourself for doing it, you just do it anyway?  And for one brief moment, you enjoy the act.  But then, after you do it, you feel ashamed, and horrible, and try to hide it.  Because the consequences of that action are there, staring at you, reminding you of your lack of self-control.  Then, just when the sting of the action starts to fade, you remember how good it felt initially.  That brief moment when you thought, maybe just this once it'd be okay, no one will know, I will be able to stop before it's too late.  But you can't.   And on and on, in a vicious circle, you go. Repeating the same senseless action over and over, and you wish it would stop, that you could go back to before it started?

About a year ago I developed a severely itchy rash on one of my forearms, so itchy that I would scratch it, subconsciously, until it bled.  Sometimes, I would inadvertently rip chunks of skin off my arm, and other times I would just scratch it lightly. Regardless of how hard or how long I scratched, within seconds my arm would be covered with dark purple, angry bruises.  Actually, not bruises--ruptured blood vessels.  Sometimes I'd have the rash on my legs, or other areas, but mostly it is on my arms.  I have dealt with this rash off and on for over a year, and no one really knows what it is.  I do know it is unbearably itchy, and it seems to itch even more after the skin has cleared up.  When I scratch it, it feels good, then it itches again, then I scratch it again.  Dr. Google says it's called the itch-scratch-itch cycle.   Whatever it is, my skin is changing--it has gotten thicker and darker and  pitted with scars.   And despite me being extremely self-conscious about how it looks, the itch is so strong, and it feels sooooo good to scratch it, I just cave.  And within seconds, my arm is ugly again.  And it still itches.  I have tried wearing long sleeves, taping thick gauze over it, applying oils and creams, concealing it with makeup, and wrapping ice packs over it, to no avail.  I've come to the conclusion I will have to get used to having ugly arms, and when people gasp and say "what did you do to your arm?!," I do my best to just laugh it off, saying I burned it, bumped it, had a biopsy, and then blithely change the subject.  

Tonight I was looking at my arms while taking a bath; they look horrible.  This month it's the left arm  that has blotchy purple areas and scabs on it.  In fact, I just scratched it again, and guaranteed myself at least another week before it "clears."  On my right arm there is a noticeably dark, leathery looking area over the entire forearm, and no matter how much lotion I put on it, the skin won't go back to normal.  And in that moment, it hit me: my faults and weaknesses (ahem, my sins) are like that.  It starts innocently enough, and it even feels good (for a moment), and seems harmless (at first), and then I see the ugly result of my weakness, my sin, staring at me, reminding me, even mocking me.  And just when the memory of that sin begins to fade, a little prick, a little twinge, reminds me of how satisfying it was to give in, even for a moment.  And no matter what I do, or how I try to avoid it, I cannot...the urge is too strong.  Again, ugly scars and bruises, and I do my best to hide them from people I see, to laugh them off, make up some excuse, rationalize why I did what I did.  And I see myself changing, the sin stays there, under my skin, daring me to give in.  But I know it is foolhardy and dangerous to scratch that itch, because scratching does not make the itching go away...it just makes it itch all the more.  

Strange analogy, I know.  

But reassuring just the same.  Because even though my skin condition may never go away,  as long as I lean on Christ, I can fight the urge to sin.  Yeah, I may die with ugly, scarred arms, but (and pardon the leap here):

"We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long to put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing...While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sign...we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life" 2 Cor 5: 2, 4

Meanwhile, I just keep telling myself "DON'T SCRATCH THAT ITCH!"