Crossroads

Friends are an integral part of life. Some friends are for life, others just fade into the background, and some just grow apart. If you’re lucky enough you’ll have a friend who gets you, who knows what you’re feeling without you saying a word, who shares similar interests and values. In my life I’ve experienced all of these. I’ve kept friends, gained new friends, even lost a friend or two; I even have one friend, my best friend in high school, who I’ve known for 50 years…half a century…who I only see once every 15 years or so, but we can pick up where we left off without missing a beat. What I’ve learned though is as I get older and grow as a person and a Christian, I get closer to God while growing away from some of my friends, which is fine if they’re casual friendships, but what if those friends don't share your faith or your values or morals?  

It is so difficult to ascertain how to respond, or even IF to respond, when friends brag about sexual exploits, express anger over the Supreme Court overturning Roe v Wade, or even just share cruel gossip. Sometimes I feel myself getting pulled into their conversations, even if just passively, and that makes me just as culpable. Do I speak up? Do I walk away? Change the subject? Or do I just wanly smile at their "jokes" and feel superior?

I’m not holy, I’m not perfect, and I try so hard to avoid being self-righteous when I share the gospel. Well, when I THINK I am sharing the gospel. In actuality, when someone says something that makes me cringe, something completely unbiblical, I will sometimes mutter some platitude or watered down gospel, because I am afraid if I share the unadulterated truth, I will be laughed at or shunned. In other words, I have just made friendship and social acceptance, more important than their souls. Worse yet, I am trying to change hearts, instead of planting seeds, living the gospel, and then praying for the Holy Spirit to do His work. 

My answer? Love. Just love my friends, my family, and strangers whether or not they are believers. Let them see Christ through my actions, not just my words.

On Prayer

Prayer--that honor and privilege of having a two-way communication with our Creator, a means in which man can not only talk to God, but also listen. Prayer is the means by which His supernatural grace flows to us--powerful grace, saving grace. Prayer is how we acknowledge and adore God, confess our sins, thank Him for everything, and ask for what we need. In short, prayer is talking to and listening to our heavenly Father. Thousands of books have been written about prayer--how to pray, when to pray, why to pray. There are prescribed prayers for every situation, every career field (the lawyer's prayer, the teacher's prayer). There is the serenity prayer. Prayer altars. Prayer cloths and blankets. Beads. Crystals. Mantras. There is no shortage of guidance and instructions and accouterments for prayer. All faiths have some sort of prayer built into their rituals and traditions. 

Christians are great at talking about prayer, but let's face it: few people, me included, have a robust prayer life. Sure, I pray before meals, say quick prayers of intercession, and offer to pray for people who are concerned about some trouble in their lives. Sadly, though, my prayer life is seriously wanting; more often than not, when confronted with a problem, pain, illness, frustration, or a challenge, I still yearn to be in control, to fix it myself, to seek out the answers. Recently I suffered a horrible tooth abscess, and was in excruciating pain. My first reaction? Google it, complain about it, take pills, call the ER; only AFTER all those things did I realize, or even think about, praying about it. 

Then there is the matter of intercessory prayer--friends and families confide some worry or concern to me, I tell them "I'll pray for you," but really, do I? Or is it just some automatic, knee jerk response, something I am expected (as a Christian) to say? And if I do pray for that person, how sincere am I? Do I really talk to God about it as I would talk to my earthly father or mentors or pastor about it? Oh, and yeah, do I actually listen? Or do I just rattle off some "please help (insert name) with (insert problem)," and then move on the next item on the list?

Seriously, by this point in my life I should be more practiced in this area; I mean, I have been a self-professed Christian for over 50 years, and since prayer is integral to the life of a believing Christian, one would assume I would be better at it than I am, that with any challenge, my first reaction would be to fall to my knees and pray.  

Maybe my prayers need to start with "Help me, teach me, to pray." 

The older I get, the farther along I am on this journey of sanctification, growing in grace, the more I realize (painfully) how I do not deserve His grace.  

On Discipleship

disciple” (noun): someone who adheres to the teachings of another. It is a follower or a learner. It refers to someone who takes up the ways of someone else. Applied to Jesus, a disciple is someone who learns from him to live like him — someone who, because of God’s awakening grace, conforms his or her words and ways to the words and ways of Jesus. (Jonathan Parnell, Desiring God)

A little over two weeks ago (seems like a year ago), my daughter and I attended The Gospel Coalition (TGC) Women's conference, something she encouraged me to do, and then, when she asked if I would like her to join me, I ecstatically concurred. Leading up to the event, I was excited, anxious, nervous, albeit sometimes a bit nauseated, at the prospect of being in a convention center with thousands of women, women whose objective was to learn more about their faith, about Jesus, about God. And despite having attended countless work-related conferences, heck, I even taught at quite a few of them, I had no idea of what to expect; military and government conferences are a far cry from spiritual ones. My daughter on the other hand was an old pro at this sort of event, so I gladly latched on to her coattails and off we went. My expectations were nebulous--at the very least, though, I was thrilled about some mother-daughter alone time. Ha. That's hilarious. Alone time. In a convention center filled with women from all over the globe, most of whom seemed to know my daughter. 

Remember me? The introverted, highly sensitive person? What was I thinking? I was not equipped for this experience! We hit the ground the day before the conference began, and the next morning we embarked on a 72 hour kaleidoscope of breakout sessions, keynote speakers, a bookstore with over 60 vendors, and yes, tons of women. Old, young, middle-aged women. Single women, married women. Nursing moms. Moms with baby carriers and strollers. Women of every shape, size, color, and denomination. The speakers were fervent, knowledgeable, articulate, and the breakout sessions I had signed up for (at my daughter's recommendation) were germane and on point. I bought more books that weekend than I have in the past 10 years (most of which still sit on my bookshelf waiting to be opened). By Saturday evening, I was exhausted--emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally--overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information and prayer and a very obviously active Holy Spirit. I even ventured out of my comfort zone and joined Mandy and her friends for dinner on at least two occasions. During the conference, though, I would look around the giant arena, and I felt very alone. At one point I wrote in my journal: 

Here at this conference with my daughter and 3500 other Christian women this weekend, I am simultaneously thrilled, inspired, awed, and humbled. I listen to the talks and read the words and sing the songs and worship our God, and I excitedly buy books to help me and guide me on journey through sanctification. I take  notes and pray and grow, and internalize all the beauty and pain and sorrow and joy around me, but despite being surrounded by other believers and sisters in Christ, and believing the same things, I feel alone and alien and unworthy to be here. It’s as if I’m counterfeit, a distorted reflection or pixilated version of these Godly women. I cannot match their fervor or relate to their gospel soaked lifestyles, and my sinful past and lack of a Christian upbringing are glaringly obvious and crippling handicaps.  My daughter and her friends and, let’s be honest, most of the attendees, are so far ahead of me in their growth and their sanctification that I feel I will never catch them. Inside I feel what they feel, and my brain and my heart are there, but I cannot even begin to relate intellectually on their spiritual level. It’s as if I’m in a different dimension, on another plane. I’m alone and different and I don’t belong. Oh but how I wish, I yearn, I ache to be in their sphere, to be a part of their group, a member of this elite club, and to be seen as one of them.

After praying about these feelings, I vocalized some of this to my daughter, and she reassured me that this was normal, and a lot of it was a combination of being new to faith conferences and an introvert. And don't get me wrong: I loved every minute of the conference, and am still listening to sessions I did not have a chance to attend. The real kicker though? We had some fairly frank dinner conversations about spiritual growth; one in particular stands out during which my daughter unceremoniously announced my urgent need for discipleship...to which her friends nodded. Such a humbling experience. I mean, my daughters, both of them, have taught me things and broadened my knowledge base in many areas, and I am not foolish enough or vain enough to think that, just because I am older and "the mom" that I cannot be taught. But being informed you are in need of mentoring and discipleship, by younger women, especially one you gave birth to, is quite a different item than advice on baking bread, fundraising, or gardening. Again, humbling. With a capital H. But the more I contemplated it, thought about it, turned the idea over in my mind, the more sense it made, the more I wanted to act on it. Book recommendation received (Growing Together" by one of the keynote speakers), and subsequently ordered on Amazon (the bookstore, by the way, was completely sold out...a good sign). And a few days after I returned home, I reached out to my pastor's wife...a young woman at least 25 years my junior...and asked if she would be willing to disciple me, to mentor me, and to work through the afore-mentioned book; I even ordered her a copy as well. 

So, here I am, less than 24 hours after our first "session," and I am at once (again) excited, nervous, anxious, and yes, a bit queasy at the prospect of learning and growing and sharing with this younger woman. Our first meeting, intended to be "about an hour" at a local coffee place, lasted nearly four hours, and did not even cover the entire introductory chapters. And, like after the conference two weeks ago, I am overwhelmed and awed at how God works in my life, brings people into my life, and gently puts my feet on the path He has designed for me. 

THANK you Mandy, Cheryl, Amy, Blaire, and especially, thank you Melissa for agreeing to go on this crazy trip with me. This is definitely going to be a bumpy ride!

Measuring Up

Remember those growth charts parents would hang in their children's rooms? The ones with giraffes or other cute animals on them? We would measure our children as they grew, marking the chart or the wall or even a yardstick, with milestones reached each birthday. Some families created measuring walls or posts that now serve as bittersweet mementos of the past, growing up, and simpler times. Grandparents aren't any different--we love to measure and record the growth of all our grandkids. Since we live in a log home, and have exposed beams and posts throughout, we have set aside three posts--one for each of our children's families--to mark the progress from infancy to adulthood.  With kids (and grandkids) scattered around the US and India, not all of them can visit at the same frequency, resulting in some kids having more marks than others. But that's okay--we still love marking their growth, and we marvel at how quickly each one is shooting towards adulthood. I even bought myself a wood burner so I can permanently etch a line for each measured occasion. 

But I digress (as I am prone to do). Human beings love to measure things--weight, height, age, bank account, calories, sporting scores, mileage, you name it, we measure it. We may not always like the results of our measurements, but at least they are concrete numbers, and definable. Even better, we can track progress, set goals, and measure (there is that M word again) achievements and set backs. And that is often how I have gone through life...checking my progress, taking notes, evaluating how I am measuring up. How old am I? What did I score on my promotion exam? How much do I weigh (yikes!)? How much should I budget for my next vacation? Do I have enough in my account to cover a home repair? How many miles until we get to the grandkids'? 

So many questions, so little time...and I am an overachiever, perfectionist, with ridiculously high expectations for myself; regardless of the task or goal, I typically set the bar so high that it is humanly impossible for anyone to meet them, even superhero me.

All these numbers and measurements appeal to my sense of orderliness and things being in the right place, nice and neat and easy to decipher, and easy to ascertain corrective actions, what I am doing right, and what I am doing wrong...in other words, I can measure my room for improvement and correct my course accordingly. Cut my calories, increase my exercise, save more money, spend less money, study harder, drive faster...measure again. Whew! On track now. 

But, how do I measure my sanctification? How do I know if I am measuring up to Christ? Meeting God's expectations? Accomplishing what I should be accomplishing, fulfilling my purpose in life, in line with His will? I see myself as flawed and sinful and inadequate, and I panic. A lot. Worse yet, I continue to see myself as certain people in my life have painted me--you know, the ones who sued me, betrayed me, and shunned me. They were family, so they must know me better than anyone else, right? So I push myself, trying to measure up to my own unachievable, unrealistic expectations, to prove I am NOT that person they see me as, that I am worthy and good and, well, salvageable. And when others tell me I am good and decent and honest and, not only loved, but LOVEABLE, I shake my head and don't believe them. I keep pushing, keep straining to be perfect, to prove myself, to be, after all, like Christ. Measuring every single word, each and every breath, holding myself against the standard of God's own son. 

Until lately. Not only has my husband told me I am too tough on myself, that I hold myself to an impossible standard, and that I am blind to all I have accomplished, but a dear, dear friend laid it all out for me in a letter the other night. She reminded me I am human, that moving mountains is above my pay grade, and that I will NEVER meet the standard I am straining to meet. Nor should I even try, because, as she so poetically and succinctly put it:

"When we come to the unscalable wall, He is reaching down, gripping our forearms, and pulling us up and over. When we are belly-crawling through the mud, He is in front of us and on either side of us and cheering us on. He expects us not to handle all the details of this imperfect world, but to lean on Him as we do our imperfect job. Give up trying to measure up to Christ. You're wasting your time and it's hurting your spirit."

A major ah-ha moment. Life in Christ, growing in grace, as the title of my blog says, is NOT about measuring up to my standards, let along the standards and expectations of anyone else...including those who love me and those who do not. My sole purpose is to put my faith and trust in Jesus Christ, and seek HIM at every turn, and, instead of measuring my growth or progress or successes or failures, to fall on my knees and give thanks for the immeasurable, beautiful, boundless love He has for His children, for the grace that covers every manner of "not measuring up." God measures me against the cross, His Son's shed blood, and the conquered grave. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, I do or say or think or hope will ever measure up to that, nor does it have to.

And that leads to the final and pivotal issue I face (and fight and fuss and fluster over) on a daily basis: how others see me. I want to be loved and good and perfect and worthy and understood and respected, and most of all, I want to reflect Christ in all I do. But my past haunts me, and I still see myself as those misguided, toxic, and mean-spirited souls portrayed me; the mirror they held in front of my face was not unlike those fun house mirrors at amusement parks, distorting my image to the point of being unrecognizable (and impossible to love). For some time, I remained trapped in that fun house of mirrors, surrounded by derisive laughter. Until I broke free, and shattered the glass. And began to see myself as God sees me, a new creation, covered in the grace of His beloved son. At least half of the time that is how I see myself--admittedly, at times I get sucked back into that funhouse and cannot fathom why friends see good in me. 

Good thing I am blessed with people who love me, who see me as God sees me, and who love me...maybe not as much as my Father loves me, but enough to help me believe them when they say I am loved and beautiful and fearfully and wonderfully made. After all, I am still growing and, as Paul says in Philippians: 

"Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling," (Phil 2:12)

Will I ever measure up? No. "All have sinned and come short of the glory of God" (Rom 3:23). 

Nor do I need to.

Without rain, gardens cannot grow

Today as I was doing my morning walk around my gardens, and marveling at the green and the growth and the beauty of it all, I was struck by how the recent rain and uncharacteristically cooler weather have caused things to practically shoot up overnight. And I was overwhelmed with the beauty of God's creation, and his unfathomable purpose and methods, and I wished out loud that I would stay here forever and never leave, so I could absorb this beauty and this wonder. I felt His presence around me, as if He was holding me in his arms and carrying me around the yard, pointing out a new shoot here, a budding plant there, a tiny warbler singing above me. It brought me to tears. And to a realization that we require not just sunshine and balmy weather to grow and to appreciate and be thankful for our blessings from God. We also need times of rest and refreshment, like the cooler days and the seemingly incessant rain, to help us grow, and reach up to heaven.

The past four years, not just the past 8 weeks, have humbled me and taught me so much about myself, about life, and about God. Through startlingly brilliant and glorious times of joy, as well as through dark periods of seemingly unending grief and pain, interspersed with grey moments of uncertainty, God has brought me, carrying me, holding me, cradling me, and teaching me to look up to Him, always, to trust Him, and to be refreshed. Like the gardens outside, I need rest and rain to grow, and not just refreshment from sources I seek out, but refreshment from above. Take my gardens--I can fertilize them with compost, water them with sprinklers daily, and pull weeds and thin the seedlings to optimize growth. Sunny days make them grow, and bloom, and thrive; cloudy days and rain, though, provide much needed nourishment and rest.

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,

And do not return there without watering the earth

And making it bear and sprout,

And furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater;

So will My word be which goes forth from My mouth;

It will not return to Me empty,

Without accomplishing what I desire,

And without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it.

(Isaiah 55:10-11)

Non-negotiable

non·ne·go·ti·a·ble

/ˌnä(n)nəˈɡōSHəbəl/

adjective

adjective: non-negotiable

1. not open to discussion or modification.

   "the essential features of the constitution are nonnegotiable".

Ask yourself these questions:  What are the non-negotiable things in my life?  What do I revere?  What is my ultimate joy? Finish the sentence: Without _____________, I am nothing.  

Dangerous thoughts.  Dangerous waters to tread here.  Because what we love defines who we are.  What we love shapes us, what we revere we resemble, either to our ruin, or our restoration.   

So, you ask, what do I love?  I thought about this, and, while I would love to provide some profound and innately good and selfless answer, the truth is oh so much uglier.  Because, most of all, I revere, love, chase after, yearn for the approval of others.  I crave acceptance,  people to see my heart, to know my true intentions, to NOT think ill of me or misunderstand me.  

How sad.  
How pitiful.  
How selfish.  
How prideful.  
How human.

So what SHOULD be my non-negotiables?  Love.  Love God.  Love my neighbor. Period.  

I'm working on that--it's a bit like cleaning house.  I dust and mop and vacuum and still, there are the dustballs that hide in the corners, under the bed, and on top of the refrigerator.  Spider webs in the corners of the ceiling, dead bugs in the light fixtures, rings on the coffee table where someone left a wet glass for too long.  Eventually I will get it all, clean it all, throw all the dirt out and be made shiny and clean and new, but I am not there yet.  A work in progress.  But a new creation in Christ.  The old is gone, the new is here.

And that, my friend, is truly non-negotiable.

Letting Go

In dealing with an ingrained bitterness over past events, I found myself at the crossroads of “now what?”  Because I have been nursing hurts and betrayals for so long they have become a part of me.  I am a victim.  I tell the story over and over again, repeating the litany of the wrongs done to me to whomever will listen—especially to myself.  And each time I repeat them, I can feel the acid churning in my stomach.  When the persons who wronged me are mentioned, when I hear their names, their voices, or worse yet, see them, I wince and cringe and all the old hatred and hurt and pain bubbles back up.  Bitterness is sucking the life out of me.  And I have prayed, LORD how I have PRAYED, to stop this bitterness, to rip it out of my heart, to let me just wake up renewed and whole and not bitter. Counseling, prayer, reading, talking--nothing worked.  I would never be free of it.  Or so I thought.  

Three things happened.  

1.  My friend and neighbor confided in me how she was so bitter about something, so bitter that she cried and prayed every night for God to take it all away, to release her.  Years went by, then suddenly, it was gone.  She awoke with a clean heart.  And I thought, great, if only....

2.  My daughter and I were having a heated discussion (okay, an argument) about how I should just let go of the past, but I wanted to rationalize it, to make her see my point, that I had been WRONGED, that it was not FAIR, that I had been HURT.  You know what she said?  She said "yeah, it sucks, yeah, it was horrible, but get over it!"

3.  I googled "anger and bitterness;" I was surprised by what came up, in all of 0.53 seconds: 107,000,000 answers.  And while I did not peruse more than 10 or 20 of those millions of hits, I noticed something odd--the same advice and warnings were being touted by Psychology Today, The Gospel Coalition, new age philosophy, Wikipedia, and even the Mayo Clinic. Normally, secular and spiritual resources are diametrically opposed when seeking answers to problems, but this time, Biblical wisdom won hands down, across the board.  

Suddenly it all became clear--I had allowed anger to set in, to lay seeds of bitterness in my heart, and that bitterness had grown and taken root, and it was not going to be easy to pull it out.  The roots were deep, because the hurts were deep, and I thought that justified the depth of my bitterness.  It did not.  Because in allowing that bitter root to grow, to take hold, I was, in essence, telling God I did not trust Him to make it all right, to be the perfect Judge, and I definitely was not feeling forgiven or forgiving.  I had to let it go, give it to God, and let bygones be bygones.  For the sake of my soul.  

Because even though I had been hurt, even though I had been wronged, it was not my place to judge anyone, even those who hurt me.  That is for God to do. He will judge all sins, and when that time comes, if they are in hell, then nothing I do or say can make it worse for them. But, and here's the real kicker, if they have repented, then their sins have been carried to the cross along with mine.  And they have been forgiven.

And that is where I see the wonder and the beauty and the miracle of God's grace--for I have sinned horribly against God, yet He has given me new life, not because I deserve it, but because He loves me.  How can I look at anything the same anymore?  How can I be so selfish as to pound my chest and pull out my hair and say "woe is me!" when I surely have caused hurt to someone else, betrayed someone else, yet I stand forgiven?

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, iforgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. (Ephesians 4:31-32)

On God's Grace and Report Cards

Remember when you were a kid and you got your report card?  And you had to take it home and get your parents to sign it?  The teacher would hand out envelopes with your name on the top, and in it was this thin piece of paper (sometimes white, sometimes blue), containing all your subjects for the year, your behavior, your social adaptability, and, gulp, comments from the teacher, and next to each subject was a handwritten letter or number denoting how you fared that report period.  Sometimes it would just be an "S" for satisfactory, or "N" for needs improvement; later on, the grades would change to a scale--1 through 4, or A through F--a scale rating you on your performance compared to the rest of the class.  School was always easy for me, so anything less than an A+ would make my knees knock as I handed the report card over to my father to review--he knew my capabilities, and held me to a high standard.  I would bask in his praise, and vow to work as hard as I could to maintain those straight As, or eliminate anything less than perfection.  

Report cards and grading scales permeate our daily life--sports teams and cheerleader squads are denoted as "A" or "B" teams, and everything from stocks, insurance, food, movies and construction materials are rated and graded.  Little wonder we humans grade ourselves.   The problem with grading ourselves, though, is we grade ourselves on our human scale, in human terms.  No, let's be more specific, more on point--I grade MYSELF.  Constantly.  I compare my actions, my thoughts, my responses, pretty much everything, to the WORLD's standard of what is acceptable.  And then, even if I use the correct yardstick to measure myself, i.e. the Bible, I look at myself through some distorted lenses and see myself how I was, before I became a new creation in Christ.  I am perpetually trying to improve, to get the best grade, to bring home that report card of all As, but I always fall short.  I fail...sometimes a little, sometimes miserably...but I can guarantee you, I will always fail. I will always fall short.  

I go to my God in prayer, in supplication, in a panic sometimes, holding out my report card for the day, or the week, or my lifetime, and I am ashamed.   Instead of all As, all I see is my failures--Ds and Fs and lots of checkmarks for "needing improvement."  I am despondent.   I will never be good enough to spend eternity with Him.  

Except for God's grace.  

Because almost 2000 years ago, on Good Friday, God sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to the cross, holding  all our report cards.  All of our sins, our well meaning intentions, our failures, our paltry attempts at holiness, all of it...loaded on the cross, in the thorns that pierced his brow, the stripes he bore.  He took it ALL, and covered us with HIS grace, HIS perfection, HIS report card of straight As.

And THAT, my friend, is what God sees when we look up at him and he looks back at us.  He sees the perfection that is His Son, because Christ took our sins, and, get this, SEPARATED himself from His Father, because God cannot even look at sin.  He redeemed us, we are justified, and report cards just do not matter any more.  

What an awesome, awe-inspiring feeling!  To know for certain that God sees only His perfect Son when He sees me.  What a beautiful thing, this amazing grace.  That saved a wretch like me.

"For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God."  (2 Corinthians 5:21)

P.S.  Thanks, Brian, for putting this analogy in my head!   

Spots and Blemishes

Endured my annual skin cancer screening recently—funny the areas I thought were serious were not.  However, seems the doctor was a bit alarmed at some rough patches on my face.  Yep, he matter of factly froze them right then and there.  He also seemed perplexed as to why I hadn’t noticed them.  Sure I noticed them...I noticed them every day as I applied concealer and foundation to hide them.  They've been there for a long time, and I just figured they were part of the aging process.  Nope, they were precancerous lesions caused by years and years of cumulative sun damage.  Something I gave no thought to in my teens and my twenties, as I foolishly ignored advice to wear sunscreen, and later, to get annual checks. The older I get, and the more I ignore them and do nothing, the worse they become.  

Just like all the little sins, the minor trespasses committed without nary a second thought.  You know, the little slips of the tongue, the gossiping, the slamming door, the self-pity. All the human selfish tendencies I become so immune to, so complacent with. Years of cumulative damage, scarring the soul almost imperceptibly, slowly, relentlessly, barely noticeable as they become part of my persona. Covering them up with prayers and words and excuses and rationalizations, trying to cancel them out with good deeds, remorse, and repentance, hiding them under a smile, a kind word, church attendance.  

Until someone points them out.  

Until the Spirit convicts, forces me to look in the mirror, and see them for what they are:  ugly, rough spots on my soul.  

Then He heals them--and the healing process makes them more noticeable, tender, painful, making me more aware of their presence than before, more careful, gingerly touching the spots where the damage was done.  As they heal, always a small white spot to remind me of my foolhardiness.

Anxious for the day to come when I receive a new, fresh body, without any scars or blemishes.  

"And you, who once were alienated and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds, he has now reconciled in his body of flesh by his death, in order to present you holy and blameless and above reproach before him..."   Colossians 1:21-22

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!"

On Setting Boundaries

Redefining me, under the auspice of God's grace, has become my full-time job.  What took over 60 years to become has (thankfully!) been erased, or rather, replaced.  Replaced with confidence in who I am (in Christ), what I can do (in Christ), how I should live (in Christ).  Many who have known me (or think they know me) are surprised when I confess I shrink from confrontation, that I hate saying no, when I admit I feel insecure and insignificant.  Yes, I hid my feelings well, said yes when I meant no, and groveled after the approval of those whose love I was afraid to lose.  Those traits were inculcated in me from infancy--survival instincts.  I learned to "go with the flow" and to blend with my surroundings, to morph, almost chameleon-like, into the type of girl, woman, daughter, wife I felt others expected.  I had, let's face it, no boundaries that distinguished my desires from those of others whose favor I desperately sought.    My identity was totally enmeshed with what others saw in me, thought of me, expected of me.  I surrendered my "self" at the altar of acceptance.  Because that is what Christians do, right?  Turn the other cheek and all that stuff.  

Now, through God's fantastic, all-encompassing, healing, restorative grace I am rediscovering me, reaffirming me.  Not in a selfish or self-centered way, but in a God-centered way, I am becoming the person God intended. Setting boundaries,  defining limits, expressing myself without fear.  Don't get me wrong--it has not been a cake walk; walking through fire is not a pleasant experience.  And, while I would love for you to believe that I took on challenges and trials willingly and cheerfully, the truth is I have fought God and stubbornly insisted on doing things my own way.  And floundered and stumbled along the way.  A lot.  But I am more comfortable in my own skin, with my own soul, and everything that makes me, ME, than I have ever been.  

Thank you, God, for the people and resources you put in my path.  For helping me heal, helping me grow, in and through your wonderful grace.

I am not becoming a better person...I am becoming who God intended me to be.

Growing Pains

In reading 1 Samuel, I can relate to what Israel is going through in the first six chapters--God starts them on a new chapter of their lives. They had grown complacent, lazy, and had forgotten their sole purpose was to glorify God.  Their sacrifices and traditions had become stale, and a renewal of their hearts was drastically needed.  So God called out to Samuel, "And Samuel grew and the LORD was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground." (1 Sam 3:19). Yet, although all Israel knew Samuel, and realized he was the prophet of God, they STILL persisted in trusting their own ways, and tried to force God's hand by using the ark of the covenant as a talisman to defeat the Philistines. Well, God had other plans--the ark was captured, Eli and his sons died, and all seemed hopeless.  However, God used that defeat to glorify himself, and to remind everyone, including Israel, that He alone is omnipotent. The Philistines start having all sorts of problems with the pesky ark...their god falls over and breaks, mice are running rampant, and men are afflicted with tumors. They cannot get rid of that ark fast enough; Israel rejoices over their apparent good fortune. Samuel gathers them all together, though, and warns them to give themselves over completely to God--to abandon their old ways, their false gods. But when the Philistines hear all Israel is gathering in one location, they fear an uprising and a battle, so they, in turn, go up against Israel. The people of Israel start to panic, but this time, instead of trying to "help" God fix things, they instead call upon the Lord.  "And the hand of the LORD was against the Philistines all the days of Samuel." (1 Sam 7:13)

God has been teaching me, leading me, and schooling me in the ways of His grace, and I have been clumsily trying to follow His lead, to let go and let God be in control of my life. Like so many renewed Christians, I expected my life to become immediately better, for all my problems to be solved, for obstacles to just disappear, and for my enemies to be vanquished. I tried to help God, to force His hand. to second-guess what He meant to happen. And, like the people of Israel, I despaired when it seemed all was lost, that God had forsaken me, and feared being defeated yet again. Things got worse, not better. Yet, as long as I keep my eyes on God, and trust in His deliverance in His timing, my heart stops pounding and my soul rests in the blessed assurance that is in Jesus. Like Paul said to the Thessalonians, "you turned to God from idols to serve the living and true God, and to wait for his Son from heaven...Jesus who delivers us from the wrath to come." (1 Thess 1:9-10)

God not only loves me; He has CHOSEN me, as evidenced by my receipt of the gospel, the Good News, and by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. I must trust in Him, and imitate Christ in all I do, even when life seems hopeless.  Jesus delivers us from the wrath "to come." Despite all the fancy words of prosperity preachers like Osteen and Joyce Meyer, my faith in Christ is not the secret recipe for happiness and abundance in this life.  It does not guarantee freedom from affliction, or sorrow, or pain. Not in this world, anyway. Like Israel learned time and time again, God is with His people in all circumstances, and through this, God's people reflect His glory, and the joy of His Holy Spirit, thereby reaching others, who in turn, become believers.  Not because we have it so much better, but because they see in us how, in spite of our circumstances, our faith is a bright, shining light to a world steeped in darkness.

Striving for Perfection

As I continue on this journey of finding self and my purpose, and discerning God's will, I am discovering a lot of pieces.  Pieces of my life, jumbled about, some with sharp edges, others rounded and worn, even frayed, but pieces nonetheless that, when assembled, make me who I am now.  As I find these pieces, I pick them up, inspect them, and try to figure out where they fit, many times trying to force them into place.  Some of them are clear and in perfect focus, some are blurry and hard to distinguish where they belong, and still others appear to be mirror-images and backwards, like a negative to a photograph. But I persevere, picking up these pieces of me, of my life, my experiences, my relationships, and gradually, slowly, steadily, I am beginning to see who I really am, why I am, what I am, and how I came to be me.

If there is one driving force in my selfish heart, it is the desire for perfection--to be the perfect housekeeper, the perfect wife, be the perfect daughter and mom and grandmother and Christian and, well, you fill in the blank...whatever I do, whatever hat I am wearing, I am crushed and despondent if I am not perfect. My motto is not, "if at first you don't succeed, try try again."  Oh no.  Mine is, "if at first I don't succeed, then there is something wrong with me because I have to be perfect at everything I do the first time I do anything." I know...unrealistic, and about as achievable as weighing what my driver's license says I weigh.  But most of the pieces of "me" point to an overwhelming drive towards, no, obsession with, perfection. So as I walk down this path of sanctification, I am finding pieces that are, let's face it, not perfect. Things that I did, or still do--some are wonderful, and some are things that make me cringe and shrink from embarrassment.  Parts of me are mature in Christ, but part of me still grips on to those sins of the past, going over and over and over them in my mind, as if I could go back in time and undo what I have done. But I cannot. And, even if I could, it would be woefully inadequate to attain the prize of heaven. Wiping out those sins would still find me undeserving of the gift of redemption. Just like any "good" I do will never earn me one iota of salvation.  That is what Christ did, freely.

Take Paul's struggle with perfection, and how, despite all of the horrible things he had done, he was still in Christ, and redeemed in and by Christ. That he was pressing on towards becoming like Christ--the process of sanctification.  

"Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.  Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that to you also." (Philippians 3:12-14, ESV)

See, if God can (and He does) forget my past sins, and judges me as holy in His sight because of Christ's blood, then really, why should I keep looking back on sins already forgiven?  Isn't that akin to not believing God? Like giving him "the hand" and ignoring the beautiful, perfect gift He has given me? At least that is what I think of when I get stuck in that loop of blame and regret and shame. It is not a pretty or happy place to be, and it is truly counterproductive. And while the resources I am using to put my pieces together into the person God created me to be are useful and helpful and edifying, I must remember those resources were placed here by God, so I can look at my past, and all my pieces, and accept that I was less than perfect, and then move on, no STRAIN FORWARD, because if I keep looking behind me I am going to miss the turn, miss out on the beauty God has for me, and fall on my ass.

Like Paul, and every other human being set aside by God, I am not there yet, but as long as i keep my eyes forward, straining toward the prize, I will make it.  But only by the grace of God, in Christ.  

A Godly Woman

Yes, the Proverbs 31 woman, the perfect woman, the "one" all Christian wives and mothers and, well, women, aspire to be, to compare ourselves to, and to fall far short of, the woman we all have, ashamedly, a sort of secret love/hate feeling for.  Seriously!  I mean, come on!  That woman in Proverbs 31 is the consummate wife and mother and daughter and child of God.  She does it all--finances, cooking, clothing, housekeeping, childrearing, counseling, medical attention, praying...and she does it perfectly, with grace.  She is the litmus test against which each of us compare our lives as wives and mothers, as Christian women.  We all know at least one person, maybe even a few, who could fit the criteria, make the grade.  But most of us bemoan the fact that we personally will never make it that level of perfection.  And I am no different.  I can think of no less than four woman right now who are breathing rare Proverbs 31 atmosphere...and I bet none of them would even think I am talking about them.  I am, though, going to talk about just one of them.  

I met this young woman over three years ago when I walked into a local store looking for volunteer work.  She has the most beautiful eyes and most sincere smile I have ever seen; we hit it off right away.  She is as country as they come, and honest, sweet, and funny.  I knew we'd get along, so I signed up right away, first for a couple of hours a week, and now, three years later, I am there probably 40 hours a week.  But my hours are not important at all, except to validate the kind of person she is.  Because I am blessed to consider myself her friend.  And although I am twice her age, and have had far more formal education, she is wiser and more skilled in business than I have ever been.  She accepts everyone with the same grace and love, and treats no one with disrespect or disdain, regardless of how she is treated. I have seen customers curse at her, and yell at her, and she maintains her decorum and professionalism (something I cannot say about myself).  When she is treated unfairly by policies or supervisors, she remains professional, and dignified.  When people demand "special treatment" due to their self-perceived importance, she handles their requests with finesse without capitulating to every little petulant rant.  Any number of crises--power outage, no money for gas, broken credit card machine, water leak, death in the family, snowstorms,  truck breakdown, no drivers--she weathers them calmly and with grace.  

Outside of her professional life, like everyone, she also has a personal life--financial, emotional, family squabbles, legal issues, marriage, friends, sicknesses, deaths, flat tires, where to go for vacation, and worries about aging parents.  We have shared a lot of our stories together, and I would like to think I have helped her, but it is FAR more accurate to say SHE has helped ME.  The things she deals with on a daily basis astound me.  Because she does it all with such grace.  And with such love.  And as if anyone in the world could be doing what she is doing.  Everyone she meets feels like her friend.  People that others would look down on, or look away from, or not even look twice at--she treats all these people the same as anyone else she meets.   More importantly, she fights for them.  She gets righteously angry when the weak and the downtrodden are taken advantage of--just like it says in Proverbs 31:8, "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute."

When I work with her, I feel like I have done something good, helped someone, yet there is this nagging thought I could have done a little bit better, a little bit more.  So I go back the next day, and try to do more, and do it better, and with more grace.  She has become such an example for me, and I am so blessed and so thankful to know her.  Thanks, Lord, for putting me on this path--I need all the help you can give me.

What to wear, what to wear?

We all face it every day, in one way or another. What to wear? Some of us just reach in the closet or the dresser (or that jumbled pile of clothes on the floor at the bottom of the bed) and grab whatever doesn't grab back. Some of us must coordinate every single item in our outfit, from our hairpins to our shoes and socks, while others just throw on whatever will keep us from getting arrested or fired from our jobs. Some dress to impress. Some dress to excite. Others still dress for the shock value, and still others dress to blend in, to not be seen. We dress for comfort, for warmth, for sex appeal. Some folks are told what to wear, so they are identified by what they wear--military, firemen, policemen, medical staff. We have underwear, outerwear, footwear, sleepwear, and swimwear. Clothes for all seasons and every occasion. Clothing to get married in, and clothes to get buried in. I could go on and on (and on), but I think you get it.  

We all spend time deciding what to wear, how we are to present ourselves to the world, whether that is a world of one or one million. We look at ourselves in mirrors, checking out the reflection of our choices. We ask friends, directly or indirectly, "how do I look?" and "does this make me look fat?" or "do you think this outfit is okay?"  We even check our skirts/makeup/hair several times throughout the day (yes, even those of you who choose to wear pants around your knees). At 61, I still ask friends what they are wearing to a certain function, to make sure I am appropriately dressed, and I don't go anywhere without a lipstick.

How many days, though, do I wake up and get on with my day, or respond to a mean-spirited comment, or engage in idle conversation with friends or family, smile at inappropriate jokes, pass on false rumors, not speak out to defend the wrongly maligned? And forget that I am a new creation in Christ?  

That, above all, I am "to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness." Ephesians 4:24

What others see is not just what we are wearing, but what is inside of us—our thoughts, our moods, our worries, our joys. What we believe and what we live is reflected in our eyes, on our skin, in our expressions, and of course in our words, actions, and deeds. So often I leave the house, dressed in an outfit I think is, well, sort of cute (translation: my muffin top is camouflaged and I can sit down comfortably), my hair is combed, my face is washed and looks presentable, and I run into a friend. The friend says, “Hey hun, how are you?”  And, without skipping a beat, I start a rant about my most recent irritation, heartache, or gripe. I don’t put off my old self, or reflect Christ, or even stop and look at the person and perhaps wonder how SHE is doing, looking in HER eyes, and asking about HER day!  Nope, I just ramble on about my trials and tribulations.  And even if the conversation is not a question about me, specifically, but general social banter, I have, at times, just thrown off my new sanctification clothing and jumped into the fray, slinging mud with the rest of them.  

Putting on a new self is not something we can, or should, do with our eyes closed, or with no thought to how it will turn out. We should spend as much time, if not more, deciding how we are to reflect our inner, Christ-given beauty, as we spend displaying our wardrobe, makeup, and cosmetics. Because the former is what we will wear for eternity. Eternity folks. I haven’t found an outfit yet that will fit me no matter how much I weigh, or be presentable no matter how often I wear it. But my new self? That is worth investing more time.  

For this IS the imperative, and the most crucial part of my wardrobe. Before I put on ANYTHING else, I MUST put on the renewed spirit granted to me by God's grace.  Without it, I might as well wear nothing.

Seasons

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven" (Ecc 3:1)

A season...as in a time characterized by a particular circumstance or set of circumstances. Yeah, I'll say.  

I started this blog back in December as an emotional outlet, a way to let off steam, to document, and therefore possibly make sense of, all the crises we have been experiencing over the past year as caregivers for aging and ill parents. Of all the roles we have held over the years, caregiver of our parents has been, and will remain to be, the most difficult, albeit one of the most rewarding. My father-in-law, Bud, with advanced Parkinson's disease, my adorable mother-in-law, Connie, suffered two heart attacks and is recovering from colon cancer surgery, and my mom moved in with us, only to have to move into a nursing home as her condition deteriorated. It has been one crisis after another over the past eight months, with little to no respite for either me or my husband. We have had to make snap decisions, usually without our other half, and nearly always on less than enough sleep. But we have plodded through it all whilst still enjoying time with our children and their families, visits with friends, and much-needed emotional and spiritual support from our children, our friends and our church family.  

It has been an interesting season. And now, that season is over, and we are embarking on a new season. Bud and Connie transitioned from several hospitalizations, to rehab centers, to assisted living, spending months apart. Now they are together, at least in the same building. Bud is being transferred to hospice on the memory care unit, where he will spend the rest of his days. Connie is moving to a smaller apartment down the hall from her husband of 52 years, where she will live until Bud passes away. Mom moved to Tennessee three days ago with my sister, where she will stay until she runs away again. More or less, everyone is fairly stable at the moment. After months of living on an emotional roller coaster, we can finally loosen our white knuckled grip and exhale.  

Part of me wants to hold on to the old season; I've grown accustomed to it. I feel as if I have not finished with it yet.  My head is filled with "what ifs" and "if onlys" and "yeah, buts." I stubbornly and arrogantly think I know what God's will is for me, for the situation, for that season. The interim guardianship motion denied, my estranged family becomes more distant, and I feel as if I have failed, that I did not "do" enough. But that is merely my pride. Father (God) does know best. He brought me to that season, through the season, and now I must move on.

A new season--full of promise and surprises. I've no idea what this season holds.  But I know that God knows, and that he created this season for me, and me for this season. I will obey. I will learn. I will glorify Him in enjoying this next, and every, season.