As I stared at my Christmas tree with all its memories on strings and wrapped boxes underneath, I started to think of the ultimate gift given: a small baby who fulfilled prophecies given hundreds of years before as well as a heavenly purpose of redemption. And in my mind, I quietly said: "thank you, God."
Immediately, my heart sunk and my posture became rigid - not because of what I was thankful for, but the tone I heard in my thanks. You know that tone we use as children when dutifully thanking someone after being prompted by our parents, or even when you thank someone for opening a door for you? That was my tone...to the God of the Universe...for the gift of salvation!
Needless to say, that was not the proper tone. The proper tone for something like that would come with gravitas, weight, depth, some type of change in you. Not the same tone used to thank your local grocery store clerk for ringing you up and handing you the receipt.
What is wrong with us (and by us, I mean me)! The tone comes from our posture of mind and heart so where is the disconnect? Does it come from desensitization of what this baby in a manger means; how it begins our redemption story? Does it come from a crowding of our hearts (and again, by "our" I mean "my")?
I mean, this is it! After months of angel-infused dreams and fear not's, the baby is here. How many prophecies this one child fulfilled! How much hope was carried in that first wail as He took earthly air into His lungs for the first time. It would take years for anyone to be thankful for that birth besides his parents and a gaggle of shepherds. Even they could not fully appreciate all that they would be thankful for until many dark days had passed and His death had accomplished His mission on earth.
We know the end, or I should say the real beginning of the redemption story. We have more to be thankful for then even those awe-struck, worshipping shepherds. They were thankful for a birth. We are thankful for a death and resurrection. That kind of thankfulness is breath-taking and vulnerable, but it comes when we (and I mean I) think about the entire story; from birth to death to life again. That kind of thankfulness is improper in a grocery line or a gift exchange, but it is perfect when thanking the God of the Universe for sending His Son to earth to breathe our air, feel our pain, and take our sins.
It's that kind of thankfulness that calls for a life to change, knees to bend, and hearts to rend. May we (and I mean I) live out our thanks with a tone that matches the Gift given this Christmas season.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Sunday, October 1, 2017
It's Never Come This Close Before
Grief comes in so many forms on this earth. So many times it's linked to death, almost as synonymous as the hooded man with his curved blade, but there's also grief that comes with any bad news. It's a word that describes those intense feelings in the midst of a process. I'm learning more and more about that grief. Being raised by a nurse who poured herself out and opened her home to the elderly, it would seem to follow that grief would be a familiar friend. But something's happened that has made me realize, I never fully understood it.
I remember one particular moment though. I was 6...maybe 7 and one of our residents had passed away. We lived by the lake then: secluded, quiet, self-sufficient family with a slew of bed-side commodes and dentures. I never said we were normal. By that time, I think we had 2-3 residents and each time mom came home with that slightly-furrowed brow of concern and apologetic tone, we knew we were about to receive another one. I've always said her heart was too big for one family.
Anyway, on this particular night, Mr. Harry had passed away. He was one of our orneriest residents. I think it came from years of independence being suddenly stolen by old age and a stroke. He had his sweet moments though. When his wife would come to sit and chat about the family or talk about the store they used to run together, he would get this look on his face, all the furrows and wrinkles would smooth out, and he'd settle right down.
I remember that dark night because I think it's the first time I breathed the same air as grief. Normally, as a young child, I would be ushered into another room or not even woken up when someone passed away. But this time, I stood with Harry's widow. I held her hand. I saw each tear fall as we stood under the front porch flood light. I was so small compared to her. I remember having to look up, wondering what to say. I knew, even at that young age, that the normal offers of condolences and words uttered in the name of comfort were really for the speaker and not for the griever. I didn't want to try to smother her in words that meant more to me than to her, so I stayed silent till the right word came along. It never did. We just stood there; my little hand patting her wrinkled one.
There would be more moments like that; some even involving those close to me as we cared for my own grandmother and grandfather as they breathed their last. But those were deaths due to age...expected, prepared for. It's an easing into of sorts. Grief was allowed in as part of the process.
With the word "cancer" there comes a slap or a punch, a forcefulness. There is no ease. One day is fine, then the next holds some concern, then it's named and the ripples begin. I say ripples, but in reality, it's an earthquake which lessens in strength the farther out it goes. But the core is felt fiercely and everyone is left hanging on for...well...life.
I have always joked with my Uncle Don that he is my favorite, but not to tell the other Uncles for fear of jealousy. Thankfully, my Uncles are all my favorites and I am one blessed niece, but I have a lot of memories with Uncle Don. As a small child, I feared his gruff manners and his strong tickling finger which felt like it would poke right through your diaphragm and out the other side. What began as fear turned into respect as I became his shadow in the workshop, or rode along in his truck, or helped him stack bricks in the neighbor's yard. He taught me to mow as well. "Straight lines" he would drawl, "straight lines!" I still hear that John Wayne accent in my head when I mow.
That is the other thing about Uncle Don; He's a good ol' boy. Problem is, he was born and raised in Yankeeville NY. But put him in a steel shop or a concrete truck with some fellow workmen hailing from the rolling hills of Georgia and he would have you thinking he was a native. He always fits in with people who are hardworking and easy going like him. He's a "go out with your boots on" kinda guy.
Punch-in-the-gut words like "cancer" and "metastasized"...I don't know what men like my Uncle can do with words like that. He could take a punch on the jaw or even a jab to the stomach and probably not even flinch. There's a story in my family that apparently, during the war, he once picked up two drunk, fellow SeeBees and plowed through a wall trying to avoid a mortar attack on the local saloon. My Uncle is tough. War, broken engines, yard work...those are all words he can take on and win because he has the gumption, the work ethic, the jaw-setting to get the job done.
Even now, as I feel grief's icy cold touch, I'm not mad. I don't shake my fists at the heavens or rail about life being unfair. Not yet anyway. Instead, what comes to mind are those straight mown lines in the grass and the fresh baked cookies he always sneaks next to his easy chair so his wife doesn't see the contraband I gave him on the sly. I even smile as I think of his long, drawn-out blond jokes and funny banter with my Mom as he shakes his head in mock exasperation (maybe not mock all the time.)
The tears only come when I think of that strong, tall man with his snarling lip yet teddy bear of a heart in a hospital bed, wondering what's next. My breath shudders when I think of the long night ahead of him and the moments he will wake up only to remember all over again the fight that's in front of him. I hope he will fight. But more than that, I hope with everything in me, that this hospital-gown journey be his Kingdom legacy. I pray that the long nights are punctuated with his cries of "why" and God's answers. I wanted to celebrate with him at my wedding one day, but more than that I want to celebrate with him in eternity. Please keep fighting Uncle Don, but not just for your body. Fight for those "dark night's of the soul" and wait for the morning to come. Yell at God in the darkness if you need to, but listen to his answers in the sunrise.
I remember one particular moment though. I was 6...maybe 7 and one of our residents had passed away. We lived by the lake then: secluded, quiet, self-sufficient family with a slew of bed-side commodes and dentures. I never said we were normal. By that time, I think we had 2-3 residents and each time mom came home with that slightly-furrowed brow of concern and apologetic tone, we knew we were about to receive another one. I've always said her heart was too big for one family.
Anyway, on this particular night, Mr. Harry had passed away. He was one of our orneriest residents. I think it came from years of independence being suddenly stolen by old age and a stroke. He had his sweet moments though. When his wife would come to sit and chat about the family or talk about the store they used to run together, he would get this look on his face, all the furrows and wrinkles would smooth out, and he'd settle right down.
I remember that dark night because I think it's the first time I breathed the same air as grief. Normally, as a young child, I would be ushered into another room or not even woken up when someone passed away. But this time, I stood with Harry's widow. I held her hand. I saw each tear fall as we stood under the front porch flood light. I was so small compared to her. I remember having to look up, wondering what to say. I knew, even at that young age, that the normal offers of condolences and words uttered in the name of comfort were really for the speaker and not for the griever. I didn't want to try to smother her in words that meant more to me than to her, so I stayed silent till the right word came along. It never did. We just stood there; my little hand patting her wrinkled one.
There would be more moments like that; some even involving those close to me as we cared for my own grandmother and grandfather as they breathed their last. But those were deaths due to age...expected, prepared for. It's an easing into of sorts. Grief was allowed in as part of the process.
With the word "cancer" there comes a slap or a punch, a forcefulness. There is no ease. One day is fine, then the next holds some concern, then it's named and the ripples begin. I say ripples, but in reality, it's an earthquake which lessens in strength the farther out it goes. But the core is felt fiercely and everyone is left hanging on for...well...life.
I have always joked with my Uncle Don that he is my favorite, but not to tell the other Uncles for fear of jealousy. Thankfully, my Uncles are all my favorites and I am one blessed niece, but I have a lot of memories with Uncle Don. As a small child, I feared his gruff manners and his strong tickling finger which felt like it would poke right through your diaphragm and out the other side. What began as fear turned into respect as I became his shadow in the workshop, or rode along in his truck, or helped him stack bricks in the neighbor's yard. He taught me to mow as well. "Straight lines" he would drawl, "straight lines!" I still hear that John Wayne accent in my head when I mow.
That is the other thing about Uncle Don; He's a good ol' boy. Problem is, he was born and raised in Yankeeville NY. But put him in a steel shop or a concrete truck with some fellow workmen hailing from the rolling hills of Georgia and he would have you thinking he was a native. He always fits in with people who are hardworking and easy going like him. He's a "go out with your boots on" kinda guy.
Punch-in-the-gut words like "cancer" and "metastasized"...I don't know what men like my Uncle can do with words like that. He could take a punch on the jaw or even a jab to the stomach and probably not even flinch. There's a story in my family that apparently, during the war, he once picked up two drunk, fellow SeeBees and plowed through a wall trying to avoid a mortar attack on the local saloon. My Uncle is tough. War, broken engines, yard work...those are all words he can take on and win because he has the gumption, the work ethic, the jaw-setting to get the job done.
Even now, as I feel grief's icy cold touch, I'm not mad. I don't shake my fists at the heavens or rail about life being unfair. Not yet anyway. Instead, what comes to mind are those straight mown lines in the grass and the fresh baked cookies he always sneaks next to his easy chair so his wife doesn't see the contraband I gave him on the sly. I even smile as I think of his long, drawn-out blond jokes and funny banter with my Mom as he shakes his head in mock exasperation (maybe not mock all the time.)
The tears only come when I think of that strong, tall man with his snarling lip yet teddy bear of a heart in a hospital bed, wondering what's next. My breath shudders when I think of the long night ahead of him and the moments he will wake up only to remember all over again the fight that's in front of him. I hope he will fight. But more than that, I hope with everything in me, that this hospital-gown journey be his Kingdom legacy. I pray that the long nights are punctuated with his cries of "why" and God's answers. I wanted to celebrate with him at my wedding one day, but more than that I want to celebrate with him in eternity. Please keep fighting Uncle Don, but not just for your body. Fight for those "dark night's of the soul" and wait for the morning to come. Yell at God in the darkness if you need to, but listen to his answers in the sunrise.
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Exhausted? Good!
Hisashiburi!
It's been a while. I've contemplated many times whether to start posting again. The thought that actually thawed my fingers and led to action was this; exhaustion, true exhaustion that causes your feet to drag and your mind to feel like you're swimming through jello is ok. I know, you're probably thinking, "Oh Lydia. No. What an unhealthy statement to make." And you would be right, normally. In this day and age of self-care, self-actualization, and personal goals it would be unhealthy...if my end-all was to live the American Dream. And it was, until recently.
Until I read two specific books which I'll list later, the way I pictured the end of my race was like a photo-shopped Olympic post-card. No sweat stains marring my shirt or sweat beads causing my hair to turn into unattractive tentacles latching onto my face. In my minds-eye, I would finish with as much gusto as I began. It would be a truly marvelous finish-line crossing.
It's funny. I've always wanted to be a runner. Never have though and there are two reasons why;
1. Have you ever seen a runner? I'm not talking at the beginning of their run when they're all fresh and sweat-free. I mean mid-run or even towards the end. I've only seen two runners smiling while they ran. You know why? It's cause you're sacrificing for each step! Yes, there's health and mental benefits. No argument. That's why I would love to be a runner. But you are literally pouring yourself out to achieve those benefits. It takes something each time you lace up those sneakers and I've never been willing to pay that price, which leads to my second reason.
2. I know that my mental picture would not match the actual. My fictional running persona would not sweat but glisten. She would have an amazing gait that passersby would nod their heads approvingly at and use words such as "good form." This would of course not be the case. My running pace is more like a wounded antelope with overly active sweat glands. I know, it's not pleasant for me either and so I save myself and the world from this experience by leaving my aspirations of jogging unfulfilled.
I mentioned two books that have caused a shift for me. The first is a book called Crazy Busy. In it, Kevin DeYoung makes an amazing statement concerning exhaustion; "Some forms of busyness are from the Lord and bring him glory." (DeYoung, 2013)
Earlier, DeYoung quotes an article on the same topic; an article entitled "To Serve is to Suffer" written by a man ministering in Sri Lanka. In this article, Fernando says "I get the strong feeling that many in the West think struggling with tiredness from overwork is evidence of disobedience to God...If you think it is wrong to suffer physically because of ministry, then you suffer more from the problem than those who believe that suffering is an inevitable step on the path of fruitfulness and fulfillment." (Fernando, 2010) Maybe exhaustion is a normal outcome, even expected much like you expect a runner to pant and lay his hands on his knees after finishing his sprint. You'd even wonder if he actually gave it his all if he wasn't struggling for breath.
The second book is called "Anything." Just like the title suggests, the author challenges her reader's to uncurl their fingers from the anything's in their lives in order to truly run with everything in them. But her finish line looks different from mine: "I want to get to heaven out of breath, having willingly done anything that you - God of the Universe- ask...anything." (Allen, 2015) You can imagine that kind of runner, right? They probably don't "glisten."
Yet, there's a beauty to someone who is pouring their all into something. It awakens something in us, something that says, "Oh, so it is worth it!" It's the same feeling you get when watching movies of heroic sacrifice and honor and you begin to wonder if you would make the same choice; the same choice that Katie Davis made.
Fresh out of high school, Katie makes a seemingly normal Christian choice to hit the pause button on her life and serve in Uganda. After all, you can do anything for a year, right? Her year turned into a lifestyle; a day after day commitment to lace up and run with everything she has. In fact, after her one year, she found that not running her hardest every day was not enough anymore. Yes, she desired rest; the kind that comes from buying whatever you want, when you want, or hanging out with your friends at a restaurant or even enjoying a house full of your family. But she had a taste for more. Not only that, she saw what was at stake.
You know those movies where the music crescendos just as a hero or heroine lay it all on the line in a bet? Sometimes their bet includes a promise of service or house or possessions but usually, it begins with the words, "If I win..." Well, Katie's life is a daily promise to give all she has because she knows the stakes. She would love to rest, but she wants something more;
"I want to be spiritually and emotionally filled every day of my life...I want to be challenged endlessly; I want to be learning and growing every minute...I want to work so hard that I end every day filthy and too tired to move. I want to feel needed, important, used by the Lord...I want to give my life away, to serve the Lord with each breath, each second. I want to be here. Right here. (Allen, 2015)
That doesn't sound like someone who wants to finish pretty. Yes, something can be said for self-care and making sure you can make it till the end, but am I wrong that more stamina comes from practicing than from resting? There's a time and place for everything. Jesus showed us that in His life examples, but maybe it's not a coincidence that there are more examples of Him serving than resting. Maybe our American ratio is off. I'm starting to think exhaustion is ok, and ironically, I feel less exhausted from that; as if a majority of my exhaustion in the race has come from fighting the reason for the exhaustion. I was a runner focused on the wrong thing.
I want to be exhausted for the right reasons. I too want to get to heaven out of breath, sweaty, dirty, with nothing left undone.
It's been a while. I've contemplated many times whether to start posting again. The thought that actually thawed my fingers and led to action was this; exhaustion, true exhaustion that causes your feet to drag and your mind to feel like you're swimming through jello is ok. I know, you're probably thinking, "Oh Lydia. No. What an unhealthy statement to make." And you would be right, normally. In this day and age of self-care, self-actualization, and personal goals it would be unhealthy...if my end-all was to live the American Dream. And it was, until recently.
Until I read two specific books which I'll list later, the way I pictured the end of my race was like a photo-shopped Olympic post-card. No sweat stains marring my shirt or sweat beads causing my hair to turn into unattractive tentacles latching onto my face. In my minds-eye, I would finish with as much gusto as I began. It would be a truly marvelous finish-line crossing.
It's funny. I've always wanted to be a runner. Never have though and there are two reasons why;
1. Have you ever seen a runner? I'm not talking at the beginning of their run when they're all fresh and sweat-free. I mean mid-run or even towards the end. I've only seen two runners smiling while they ran. You know why? It's cause you're sacrificing for each step! Yes, there's health and mental benefits. No argument. That's why I would love to be a runner. But you are literally pouring yourself out to achieve those benefits. It takes something each time you lace up those sneakers and I've never been willing to pay that price, which leads to my second reason.
2. I know that my mental picture would not match the actual. My fictional running persona would not sweat but glisten. She would have an amazing gait that passersby would nod their heads approvingly at and use words such as "good form." This would of course not be the case. My running pace is more like a wounded antelope with overly active sweat glands. I know, it's not pleasant for me either and so I save myself and the world from this experience by leaving my aspirations of jogging unfulfilled.
I mentioned two books that have caused a shift for me. The first is a book called Crazy Busy. In it, Kevin DeYoung makes an amazing statement concerning exhaustion; "Some forms of busyness are from the Lord and bring him glory." (DeYoung, 2013)
Earlier, DeYoung quotes an article on the same topic; an article entitled "To Serve is to Suffer" written by a man ministering in Sri Lanka. In this article, Fernando says "I get the strong feeling that many in the West think struggling with tiredness from overwork is evidence of disobedience to God...If you think it is wrong to suffer physically because of ministry, then you suffer more from the problem than those who believe that suffering is an inevitable step on the path of fruitfulness and fulfillment." (Fernando, 2010) Maybe exhaustion is a normal outcome, even expected much like you expect a runner to pant and lay his hands on his knees after finishing his sprint. You'd even wonder if he actually gave it his all if he wasn't struggling for breath.
The second book is called "Anything." Just like the title suggests, the author challenges her reader's to uncurl their fingers from the anything's in their lives in order to truly run with everything in them. But her finish line looks different from mine: "I want to get to heaven out of breath, having willingly done anything that you - God of the Universe- ask...anything." (Allen, 2015) You can imagine that kind of runner, right? They probably don't "glisten."
Yet, there's a beauty to someone who is pouring their all into something. It awakens something in us, something that says, "Oh, so it is worth it!" It's the same feeling you get when watching movies of heroic sacrifice and honor and you begin to wonder if you would make the same choice; the same choice that Katie Davis made.
Fresh out of high school, Katie makes a seemingly normal Christian choice to hit the pause button on her life and serve in Uganda. After all, you can do anything for a year, right? Her year turned into a lifestyle; a day after day commitment to lace up and run with everything she has. In fact, after her one year, she found that not running her hardest every day was not enough anymore. Yes, she desired rest; the kind that comes from buying whatever you want, when you want, or hanging out with your friends at a restaurant or even enjoying a house full of your family. But she had a taste for more. Not only that, she saw what was at stake.
You know those movies where the music crescendos just as a hero or heroine lay it all on the line in a bet? Sometimes their bet includes a promise of service or house or possessions but usually, it begins with the words, "If I win..." Well, Katie's life is a daily promise to give all she has because she knows the stakes. She would love to rest, but she wants something more;
"I want to be spiritually and emotionally filled every day of my life...I want to be challenged endlessly; I want to be learning and growing every minute...I want to work so hard that I end every day filthy and too tired to move. I want to feel needed, important, used by the Lord...I want to give my life away, to serve the Lord with each breath, each second. I want to be here. Right here. (Allen, 2015)
That doesn't sound like someone who wants to finish pretty. Yes, something can be said for self-care and making sure you can make it till the end, but am I wrong that more stamina comes from practicing than from resting? There's a time and place for everything. Jesus showed us that in His life examples, but maybe it's not a coincidence that there are more examples of Him serving than resting. Maybe our American ratio is off. I'm starting to think exhaustion is ok, and ironically, I feel less exhausted from that; as if a majority of my exhaustion in the race has come from fighting the reason for the exhaustion. I was a runner focused on the wrong thing.
I want to be exhausted for the right reasons. I too want to get to heaven out of breath, sweaty, dirty, with nothing left undone.
Friday, December 25, 2015
Christmas Relief
God gave me a present today...Himself. Sound odd? Well, I've been struggling a lot the past few weeks with my thought life and despair. It was as if the scars over past hurts had suddenly become tender again and the world was tugging mercilessly at them.
But this morning I awoke relieved. Yes, I awoke alone in my apartment with no presents under the tree for me (kinda reminds me of a Japanese Christmas but without the pneumonia and pulled stomach muscles), but this morning I was relieved because Jesus came.
Funny how something that happened thousands of years ago can catch up to you now; but it's true. I feel relieved. It's all going to be ok. He came, the prophecy was fulfilled, the adventure began.
Everything else I wanted suddenly turns into a "it would be nice to have" when He gives me what I truly needed; relief in the thought that the promised Savior has come. He gave Himself.
Merry Christmas!
But this morning I awoke relieved. Yes, I awoke alone in my apartment with no presents under the tree for me (kinda reminds me of a Japanese Christmas but without the pneumonia and pulled stomach muscles), but this morning I was relieved because Jesus came.
Funny how something that happened thousands of years ago can catch up to you now; but it's true. I feel relieved. It's all going to be ok. He came, the prophecy was fulfilled, the adventure began.
Everything else I wanted suddenly turns into a "it would be nice to have" when He gives me what I truly needed; relief in the thought that the promised Savior has come. He gave Himself.
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Some random musings
"Why do you refuse to wear the clothes I give you?" The words spin around my head as I survey the garments in front of me. Why do I prefer what I'm wearing to the clothes set out before me? I look over the rich fabric laying just inches from my reach. It looks so expensive. I reach out to touch the soft folds of the simple yet beautiful dress in front of me. It looks comfortable too. The kind of garment that won't hinder movement; that you can move through life with, yet it's the kind of outfit that makes you feel good. I notice myself standing up a bit taller just thinking about it.
Then the words start pinging around my brain again. "Why do you refuse to wear the clothes I give you?" My eyes travel down and the shock threatens to overwhelm me as I compare what I've just seen to what I now wear. It's almost laughable, but the tears that fill my eyes aren't from laughter. Think of the worst rag in your home; the kind you've used so much that it's almost falling apart and you've long forgetten what the pattern used to look like as years of use and cleaning up your own spills have marred it beyond recognition.
My feet shuffle back as I take in the comparison. I'm filled with shame that I even ventured to touch the gown laid out before me when my own outfit, the one I've clinged to for so long, is so filthy. "Why do I refuse to wear the clothes You gave me?" I whisper through a constricted throat. "It's not because I prefer mine...it's because I know I don't deserve Yours."
Through my tears, I notice that someone else has entered the room. My head is bent in shame so I don't see His face, but I feel His presence. He radiates kindness yet there's a sense of power, the same power that radiates from the Person before me; the One I've refused the gift from. I can hear His footsteps coming closer, but I never raise my head. How could I? To my horror, His steps stop in front of me, and I see His hands reach out to take mine. I want to pull away, I want to run and hide, but I can't once I've felt His strong hands on mine. I know I should, but I want to allow myself just a moment and I close my eyes.
It's the gentle rumble of a deep chuckle that makes my eyes open again. The gift Giver is laughing, but at what? Then I see it. My hands...I was so afraid that I might make this kind Mans hands dirty from Him touching me. But against all logic, I find it hard to explain even now, the opposite has happened and His hands have made mine clean! I don't dare look up into His face as I feel one hand release mine. He reaches back to accept the gift of the garments for me from the gift Giver, and He places them in my hands. My fingers clutch the soft fabric as I hear Him say, "Here, this is the garment made for you. You'll find it's much easier to carry out the things we have for you to do if you're wearing this. You'll be tempted to wear your rags again because they are familiar, but this, this is the garment made for you."
"This is who you are now."
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Accepting...me
I've been reminded a lot recently of the beautiful irony that is accepting your limitations. The idea was first presented through a random Facebook link found during a mindless scroll. One click later, I'm watching an artist describe his passionate pursuit of pointillism art, only to develop serious nerve damage and consequent hand tremors. This, of course, caused a major halt in his art as he was incapable of drawing a dot without it looking like a million tadpoles swimming in a pond instead of the carefully crafted series of dots that make up a masterpiece. During a visit to a physician, he was faced with the question, "Why not embrace the tremor?" He rushed home and did just that. Instead of forcing his hand to do what it could not, he allowed it to shake and tremor all it wanted and began creating the most beautiful swirls and lines that made up the masterpiece he so craved to create.
The second time this idea presented itself was actually during the most surprising medium of a movie called "Mom's Day Out." No, when I popped in the movie I was not thinking of what moral messages I could glean from it, I simply wanted to forget my own troubles for a couple of hours. And forget I did as I became enveloped in the story of a struggling mom, wanting so desperately to "be enough." Through the consequent mishaps and struggles that you would expect to find, yet using twists and turns in the plot that kept you guessing if everyone was going to become felons and/or be hospitalized (You'll have to watch it), I was again presented with the idea that embracing your limitations is a lot less stressful than trying to be what you're not. The main character learned this through a deep conversation with a tattoo artist and a youtube video of a mother eagle (Intrigued? I'm telling you, watch the movie). The eagle wasn't trying to be or do anything other than what it knew to do; be an eagle. And all of the struggling mothers were enraptured to watch it without knowing why. Apparently, the tattoo artist did know because he saw how the eagle felt no need to be perfect, no need to be "enough', the eagle was simply supposed to be an eagle.
Now, as I sit here in an empty apartment that is beautiful but confining, alone (not my favorite), with a week of Lord only knows what ahead of me...I want to see if I can embrace my limitations.
I am in an empty apartment. Like I said, not my favorite, but it's not forever and if nothing else, it's given me a passion to invite others in when I am normally protective of my space and try to keep others out if I'm "just not feeling up to it." I pray that someday this place is a haven for others in need of a cup of tea and a listening ear, but for right now, I don't have to avoid the empty. Maybe I should talk to myself out loud more, dance (no one should have to see that), and sing. That's what an empty apartment is for, right?
And as for being single, well I'm still figuring out how to embrace that one, but once I do it'll be awesome!
And this week...that'll be a longer journey cause it's one I can't take until each day presents itself. "Manna for today" right? I guess to sum it all up, I'm learning to rest in who I am with all the good, bad, and in between it entails and praying for God's help with it all so that I can be the "me" He created me to be.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Ticking clocks and sifting sands
There's that incessant ticking noise again. It comes with every big change as the minutes and seconds I once saw as generous as sand on a beach begins to become more and more precious as it falls into the bottom of the hourglass.
My life is once again filled with timelines, packing lists, goodbyes, and cherished "last times." The last time I experienced this, I was moving to Japan ready for my next adventure. This one caught me a bit by surprise. If you're wondering what in the world I mean, let me give you some context.
For many months now, God has been doing something sneaky. Unbeknownst to me, God has been setting the stage for a pretty miraculous plan. Through hardships, hourly dependence on Him, and some Francis Chan sermons, I have begun to realize I am a calm water dweller. I can see your confused gaze in my mind's eye, so let me explain. In Psalm 23 it talks about God as a Shepherd in two different scenarios; by calming and safe waters, as well as in the perilousness of a shadowed valley. I am a stream dweller, perfectly content with my babbling brooks and quiet talks with my Shepherd. I will even go to great lengths to avoid those valley experiences through my powers of organization, planning, and resourcefulness. But what I realized recently is that because of my valley avoidance, I have missed getting to know my Shepherd in some critical ways.
Now, I'm not saying I should go cliff jumping to see what it feels like to have angels keep my feet from striking a single rock, but since I avoid the valleys, I'm avoiding my Shepherd too. I am not an advocate for needless danger, but I am also tired of avoiding needed danger. I'm tired of saying with my life choices, anxiety, and stream dwelling that my Shepherd is only able to comfort and guide. I've missed seeing Him protect and sustain.
Believe it or not, that's just the context. Now for the story. On a recent visit to see my Uncle and meet his new wife and family, I began hearing stories of specific prayer and action. I'm talking "Lord, would you guide me and provide ____ as a confirmation?" And then acting on it when it happens. I decided to try it. "Lord," I prayed "would you show me with clarity what next steps I should take with my life?" He knew I was stuck as far as finishing my Masters was concerned and expanding my "valley" experiences.
Now enters God's first thread: While waiting for my Uncle at his church, I happened to glance down at a random flyer, tucked underneath multiple Christian magazines and Daily Bread devotionals, and I read the word "Registrar" on a job description. Picking it up, I laughed to my Uncle and said, "Isn't that funny. That's kinda what I do now."
"Are you going to email them?" my Uncle challenged. "No," I said tentatively. "I was joking." He didn't seem to get the joke and continued staring at me with those wisdom-filled eyes of his as if he knew he was setting the stage for something bigger. It was Sunday. What harm would it do to email, I said to myself. There's no way they'll get back to me before my flight tomorrow. So, I emailed and then promptly went to the beach to soak in the sun and forgot all possibilities of a crazy possibility.
"Check your email," was the nagging thought as I drove back with my family a few hours later, sunburnt and completely clueless. The words, "We would love to have you come in for an interview at 9am tomorrow before your flight" were waiting for me in my inbox.
I wish I had the finger strength to describe all the little confirmations, unexplainable "coincidences," and tiny threads tugged by God's hand to weave together this story, but all that to say, within the span of 3 days I had found out about a potential job, interviewed, and been offered a position as Registrar for a prestigious preparatory school in New York.
God's beautiful second thread in this insane tapestry is that I am actually stepping out in faith into the valley of uncertainty, new surroundings, and unkown. If that's not evidence of a Shepherd you can be confident in, I don't know what is. For the first time in my life, I am pursuing my Shepherd more than the right or wrong answer. I'm not doing it perfectly, I grant you, but I can't help but be excited to follow Him into a valley to see what the Shepherd who's promised to care for me, challenge me, and establish me all for the glory of His name is going to do.
I will miss my stream and all of the people I've met here. That's been the toughest part about leaving and trusting Him in this. I know there will be moments when the tears just won't stop because my heart is breaking, I know that doubts will stack upon each other till they threaten to topple, and I know the minutes will begin to tick more loudly the closer I get to that moving day. But as my Mom said to me with doubts sailing through my mind and sobs shaking my body as I contemplated leaving my calm waters, "If you didn't make this move Lydia, with all that you've seen God do to bring this about, would it be disobedience?"
God's beautiful third thread: yes, it would be, and I'm ready to see what my Shepherd is going to do in the shadows of my valleys.
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