Writers In The Storm

I find it interesting that at the opposite ends of the political spectrum, no one is happy.  In fact, there aren’t any cheery spots at any point along the continuum.  The vitriol slung across party and policy lines seems to be unprecedented.  But we humans haven’t learned any new tricks over the years, in spite of the hype.

The din of discontent rises to a crescendo in a major election year.  Our financial problems, a war, and growing international influences have only stoked the orchestra this time ‘round.  The fact is, politics looks around for a solution, never in.

It’s people oriented.  Not spirit. We look to others to blame it on, or to fix it.  Finger pointing has been raised to a national art form.  Satan is alive, well, and he stirs the cauldron.

We can’t make any change of value without the blessing of our Lord.  Mind you, the book of Revelation tells me that, ultimately, this ship will turn onto final approach, and then it lands, forever.  In the mean time, we need to do what we can, where we can, in obedience. 

Repentance is always a good start. Otherwise, we’re just flailing around for our own benefit.  Running, just to run, ranting, just to rant.  After that, we pray, that God will work through our leaders to His glory, work through our loved ones for their edification, and work through us to rest in His good pleasure.

His good pleasure.  Now there’s a place I can be happy.

The winds of change blow through this time of year, like it or not. While autumn remains my favorite season, I’m a little sorrier to see this particular summer end. I usually look forward to the cooler weather with impatient interest, but this summer we enjoyed the lake so thoroughly, I’m saddened to see the water temperatures dip below my tolerance for un-insulated swimming. At 78 deg Fahrenheit, we are an idle cloud away from my lower limit.

As one who successfully avoided the use of ATM cards for several years, I can’t be accused of living on any edge. I can park physically, emotionally, and spiritually with unfortunate ease. I understand the counterfeit comfort of complacent living, complacent loving, complacent faith. But I also know it isn’t healthy.

One of my wonderful sisters led me to a personal relationship with Christ. When I have questions about things evangelical, hers is an opinion I trust. She told me she was once in a church where others were experiencing something unusual, such as I mentioned. She simply prayed to experience it, if it were of God, and to have it pass her by, if it were not. Pretty darn sensible and biblical. And, it passed her by.

That lesson stuck with me, because I sometimes find myself wondering what else I should be doing. For Him. For His people. For my eternity. I don’t want to miss the opportunities He gives me. I want to see these clearly and pull these in to embrace.

Autumn is a time to assess the year and prepare for the next. Even endeavors that had a holy origin may no longer be God’s best for me. And those that are, I need to fully engage. I don’t to be the one hanging around Mount Sinai after God leaves for the desert. If God has moved on, I want to swiftly follow.

One of my favorite childhood activities was playing in the backyard with my brothers. We climbed trees, jumped out of swings, ran through water sprinklers, chased the dog, and gathered buckets of chinaberries to have chinaberry wars (a painful experience for the sister of two future baseball-pitching brothers). I learned to run fast and climb high. Inevitably, we would end up near the back fence digging holes and dragging out the water hose to create little lakes. I fashioned mud pies while my younger brother was assigned the task of tasting them. But I was never successful in coercing my older brother to sample my wares.

During those days in the backyard, with my limited experiences of the world, my mind couldn’t even imagine the fun I would encounter and the distant places I would visit later in my grown-up life—hiking near the Grand Tetons in Wyoming, riding horses in Colorado, seeing the moon glisten on the white sands of Pensacola, Florida, splashing in the waves on the beaches of Santa Barbara, California, and tromping through the misty green footpaths of England. My childhood eyes couldn’t see that far or even imagine the experiences and the grandeur of the places I would visit. I was content to make mud pies.

Today, as an adult, I sometimes find myself in that place of being content with less than a-child-of-the-king existence, like a child playing with mud pies, when God wants to show me so much more—He longs to reveal His wonders to me. C.S. Lewis once said, “Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at sea. We are far too easily pleased.” 

Far too easily pleased. Like Lot, who became comfortable and complacent with Sodom, and his wife who was even more entrenched in the allurement of her culture. She craved the delights of Sodom; God’s will mattered little to her. As a child prefers mud pies to a vacation abroad, Mrs. Lot desired the pleasures and comfort of Sodom more than the riches of God.

I wonder how many of God’s treasures pass us by because we don’t have eyes to see that far—the ability to imagine the goodness-beyond-comprehension of our God. And so we settle for the comfortable, easy existence. Lives of going-with-the-flow because it offers counterfeit peace. Choices that lead us to avoid conflicts and struggles, but miss out on the deliverances of a majestic, mighty God. We miss the joy of journeying through life with God.

What part of God’s character do we miss when we find ourselves wanting those things that aren’t best for us, not comprehending what He has in store for us, and not fully understanding the depths of His love? What heavenly mysteries remain unknown to us because we don’t desire them? What riches reserved for us wait in heavenly vaults? What blessings do we forfeit because we’ve become content playing with mud pies in the backyard of less-than-royal circumstances?

Our hearts so easily take for granted the gift of His grace, so quickly dismiss our position as heirs to the King of Kings.

“…eye has not seen and ear has not heard, and which have not entered the heart of man, all that God has prepared for those who love Him.” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

A lot of things in life make me smile—falling leaves, football, and dark chocolate, for starters. I also get a kick out of watching my kids watch movies—they giggle and laugh out loud, even in a theater full of people. My youngest daughter Grace coaxes a smile every time we say goodbye to each other; she gives the extended version with each departure—bye-see-you-later-I-love-you as if it were all one word. The way Bethany hugs her cat makes everyone smile—a death-grip around the neck with kisses on the nose. Funny thing, the cat keeps coming back for more.

Chaperoning the prom and getting a ringside perch to cheer my son and daughter on to second place all-around winners in the swing dance competition, and eavesdropping as they play the piano and sing when they think no one’s listening. My son’s smile when his special needs sister says something that doesn’t make sense to most people.

The list goes beyond my kids. My husband’s wit, snow, moonlit ocean waves, sunsets with clouds, cool breezes, thunder, rain—misty rain and pouring rain and steady rain, take-your-breath-away-cold weather, West Texas farmland and dust devils, armadillos and jack rabbits, the coo of dove, hanging out with my brothers, a fire in the fireplace, warm socks and cozy blankets, a dog’s howl (especially if it sounds like a beagle), a cat chasing its own tail, hot English tea with cream and one sugar cube, Dr. Pepper, fireworks, and patriotic songs. Friends who know my heart, even my failures, and love me anyway.

God often puts a smile on my face, too—the way He orchestrates circumstances as One who knows every detail of my life and, like a faithful friend, really cares. He leads me to Bible verses that seem placed in-between the leather covers just for me, and answers prayers (sometimes with a yes and other times, a no). I even laugh out loud at some of the answers, especially the ones that are secrets between God and me.

The other day, I added another thing to my list. I was cradling a cup of tea on my front porch, watching the ants forge new paths across the sidewalk, and I heard my daughters’ laughter. They were teaching piano lessons next door, the oldest daughter as the full-fledged teacher and the youngest, the student teacher. The sound of their voices came from my neighbor’s porch when they stole my attention from the ants.

I watched Karis and Grace walk down the neighbor’s sidewalk to the street and turn toward our house, with the morning sun bouncing off their hair. I couldn’t make out any details on their faces, except for the smiles. They were laughing and smiling. They clearly enjoyed each other. And that made me smile.

Regrets.

Frank Sinatra apparently had too few to mention, so the song goes. A poor Sicilian kid from Jersey, Frankie could have been my father. But we have little else in common. I have enough regrets for a Guinness-Book-of-World-Record mention, and no interest in the effort.

Regrets are like a trunk full of old clothes. On days when dissatisfaction burrows beneath my skin, the trunk is there for dress-up. I might slip on an old regret, even model it in front of the mirror awhile remembering the moment it seemed good and glorious. Because that’s what regrets are, choices made, which, by default, left so many others on the table. Of course, in hindsight, the choice was a poor one.

As the Paul Simon song goes, “. . . a bad day is when I lie in the bed and I think of things that might have been.” God commanded me to get off my supine duff * and go live. Time is limited. Regrets are a monumental waste of energy. I have a mission here, and they only slow me down. Like the old clothes, they no longer fit.

I am a new creation.

Sinatra’s song declares these aren’t, “the words of one who kneels.” Well, mine are. I kneel before my Lord Jesus and ask His forgiveness. My regrets are for disobedience, disregard of others, and my own general stupidity. From the knees is a good posture.

Wallowing in regrets, after giving them up to God, for Him to deal with and make clean, is another waste. He’s washed my sins. He can handle my regrets. He can let me remember them for the lesson it taught. But the pain is now only a shadow.

There was a Star Trek movie, where Captain Kirk talked about how his pain defined him, made him the man he became. My husband prays that he will learn a lesson the first time. There is wisdom in and through our struggles when the light of God filters the experience. All the rest, like the trunk of old clothes, is merely excess baggage.

* Proverbs 6:9

Some recent events in my life have given me pause to consider the nature of gratitude. It’s not an act one performs, but a state of mind that one possesses. Only its absence is glaringly obvious. I’ve decided the opposite of gratitude isn’t ingratitude, but entitlement.

While any resentment I may feel stings, it hardly reaches the level that God must feel. He plucked the Hebrew nation from obscurity to set them on His holy pedestal. He promised them every good thing, if only they would be obedient. When He decided to teach them a lesson in their utter dependence on Him, for even their obedience, He sent Jesus.

As a non-Hebrew member of the family tree, grafted in through Christ, I’m grateful. I know I’m not entitled, but undoubtedly I sometimes act that way. I also know it must grieve Him. I’m sorry Lord.
“Imagine,” a dear friend once said, “if we lost everything for which we hadn’t given thanks to God.”

Yikes!

Since then, I try to have some prayer time when I only thank Him. All good things come from Him, and I do consider myself blessed. I inevitably slip into asking for something. Still human.

My life, my salvation, my blessing. It’s a gift. I didn’t do anything for it. I can’t buy it, or even make payments. I can only be grateful.

It is the essence of a tithe. God doesn’t need my money, but through it I can share in His works. It is an offering of love, of my first fruits. If I grew apples, the point would be more salient. Out of that which He provides me, I am grateful, and return a portion of it to Him.

Samuel Wanjiru from Kenya broke the Olympic marathon record in Beijing with a time of two hours , six minutes, thirty-two seconds. He ran all twenty-six miles in under five minutes each. Phenomenal. His relentless pursuit earned him, and his proud nation, the gold medal.

I watched the ending of this race with family. They cringed at he stopped at the end of the race, all being involved in physical therapy, they understood the physiological need for him to keep his muscles active for a while and cool down gently. Stopping was singularly unwise.

But his priorities weren’t his next race. He knelt before the atheist nation of China, before the world, and, simply, before his God to give thanks. In gratitude, he returned the glory to the rightful owner.