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.
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