Writers In The Storm

Restraint is one of those mounts that I expect the other person to ride. In love, war, politics, religion, or art, a little goes a long way. The holiday strains of familial challenges, too-much-fun, temptations, one-upping Currier and Ives, or the rawness of grief sometimes looses the tenuous grip I have on the reins of restraint. I slip. I slide. I fall off and stay down. The slamming shut of another year serves to remind me of the losses.

But then I remember, the sun shines for me just a little longer now, each day. The winter may come in full over the next two months, but I have a comrade in the sky. And it too serves my Lord.

Restraint can also tether me to the wrong post. Restraint in love, mercy, justice, honesty, faith, or worship diminishes the blessing God offers. Fear of looking foolish, investing too much, failure, or baring a smidge too much of my soul-all cousins of pride-prevent me from fully accepting the treasure that is mine here and now. My voucher for the eternal.

So this year, I pray, that I apply restraint as I should with my son: where it is needed to build character, where it will uplift the spirit, and only in doses appropriate. Otherwise, may I press on to serve with a full heart, clear mind, joyful countenance, and feet swift in obedience to His calling.

2009. Happy New Year.

My concept of a public servant shares no resemblance to the members of Congress. Last week they voted another pay raise for themselves. The power invested, entrusted, and imputed to them generally serves only to insulate them from the effects of their policies.Do as I say, not as I do. The public lord. Not servant.

Another came and removed a holy and righteous diadem, lived beneath His position, as a man, specifically to serve me. Born in a feeding trough, His parents had ridden to Bethlehem on a donkey to meet a legal obligation. Those anticipating his birth traveled great distance to honor Him with gifts befitting His tenure on earth: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The King. The High Priest. The Savior willing to die in my place.

The perfection of God required a perfect atonement for my sin-a-plenty. I can’t fix myself. I’ve tried. God could only reach down and pluck me from the mire. He sent Jesus, One-with-God, as a man to lead me home. A holy sacrifice to Holy God.

The third day, He rose from the grave.

A dead savior holds no power over sin. The Romans posted guards around the tomb to ensure no one would steal His body to avert false proclamations of resurrection. But the grave couldn’t hold Him. His place, His throne, His kingdom was in heaven.

On this eve of Christmas, I stand with the late Dr. Shadrach Meshach Lockridge, former pastor, in proclaiming that Jesus is my King. I stand here, grateful, looking to His return. Dr. Lockridge stands before Him, grateful, in His presence.

Do you know Him?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aks9xkXxc2A&feature=related

He revealed Himself to me, only after I asked myself that question.

Merry Christmas!

We celebrated Christmas at my grandmother-in-law’s yesterday. Ninety-three-years-old and still living independently. Family members lined the walls, lounged on the floor, and grabbed places on sofas and chairs when someone relinquished their spot in search of more chocolate truffles.

I remember when she first moved to this home. She announced to everyone she didn’t want to clutter it up like her last home. She had plenty of decorations and housekeeping items. She didn’t need anything.

Made it hard to shop at Christmas.

Twenty years ago the options included consumables, restaurant gift cards, movies, and books. Jewelry. Photos tucked into albums or exchanged with older photos in already-displayed frames.

Today she has a limited diet and driving isn’t an option, so restaurant gift cards are out. She can’t fasten jewelry anymore. Retrieving photo albums from the shelf is a major undertaking.

Most days she sits in her lift-chair and watches the trees across the street blow in the wind. Her mobility is limited; she can’t raise her arms above elbow-level. Each step requires monumental effort. Relatives of her generation and siblings have already passed away. Most of her friends from church have gone on to glory. Her daughters visit on a daily basis to check on her, and grandkids stop by occasionally. A neighbor takes her to church; it isn’t the church she fellowshipped in for more than fifty years, but it’s still a blessing.

Before we showered Grandma with presents, we all played the familiar Chinese gift exchange. Five-dollar gifts aren’t a lot to get excited about, but watching Grandma was-she giggled like a child when a gift was stolen and complaints were offered about losing a coveted bottle of lavender bath soap. We stole gifts from Grandma just to give her the fun of opening new gifts (she never has the heart to “steal” a gift from anyone else).

After the game, it was time for Grandma to open her gifts. She made eye contact with each gift-giver and politely thanked them. Trash bags were filled with boxes of ribbon and discarded wrapping paper. As the afternoon wound down and we hugged her goodbye, she said to each one of us with tears in her eyes, “Thank you for coming-it means so much to me.” And I was reminded that the gift we so carefully selected and wrapped wasn’t what she cherished this Christmas.

Spending time with family was her gift.

I often wonder how many people I’ve disappointed in my life. My husband, my son, absolutely my parents over the many years of my youth. I’ve had opportunity to make amends with them. I don’t pretend to be perfect. Too much evidence to the contrary.

I remember early in my born-again walk I prayed for a Christian radio station. I commuted then and wanted to put the time to good spiritual use. I had read the bible starting at John and back again, and was on my second round. I didn’t understand it all, still don’t, but God was working on me.

My prayer was answered in a local station and a man with a worldwide ministry. He could locate bible references faster than I could find A in the dictionary. I thought he had a computer until I saw him on public access TV. Just him and a well-thumbed bible answering questions. Impressive.

One day he made some comments about angels that I didn’t recall in my personal read through the testaments. Not a major point, but I was curious as to what formed that particular pronouncement. Another day, he announced the date of Jesus’ return. I turned off the radio with a shudder.

I stewed over that for two weeks. I knew he was wrong. I’d read it in the bible:

                  But of that day and hour man knows, no, not the angels which are in
                         heaven, neither the Son, but only the Father.  Mark 13:31

But who was I? I couldn’t find the book of Amos without the lookup table, or an hour to kill. The event unnerved me.

Then I got mad. How dare he? I was mightily disappointed. The man had tried to mislead me. To this day, I cannot fathom why the man stepped out onto that particular ledge. His error was simply stunning.

But then a smile of joy burst upon my heart. Only the Holy Spirit enlightens our minds with scriptural truth. It was a gift of discernment. To me. The little ignorant one. The one whose bible still reeked of the box. I needn’t look to others for guidance. God held a firm grip on my soul.

That moment of understanding is favorite memory. I eventually turned the radio back on, in search of other stations. Some I listened to, others I rejected. The Holy Spirit truly became my guide.

Unlike the rest of us, He never disappoints.

My mother, an English major and history minor, enjoyed tossing around old sayings. “Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” She used that one with one of my feistier friends. “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” None of us kids took that one too seriously. If someone was mad, she’d say, “They can get glad in the same shoes they got mad in.” Happiness and anger are both choices.

Mom had other phrases for angry people, especially those that whined when they were verbally one-upped by someone-”If they can’t stand the heat, they need to get out of the kitchen,” or “Those who live in glass castles shouldn’t throw stones.”

Agreed. Those who have their own failings, their own sets of frailties, and their own areas of vulnerability, incompetence, and deficiency shouldn’t be casting stones. They’d be wise to step back and take a look at their own life before pronouncing judgment on others.

Jesus had His sayings, too. Hypocrites “strain gnats” in your life while they “swallow camels” in their own lives. They’re more than willing to point out the “speck” in your eye while they have “logs” floating in their own eyes. And those who carry a whole arsenal of stones to cast your way don’t seem to hear Jesus’ admonition, “He who is without sin may cast the first stone.” Or maybe they’ve heard the words and truly believe they’re justified in rock throwing. Other sayings probably apply to them.

Difficult people are a fact of life-we’ve all encountered those who are harsh, critical, eager to be angry. Like the “pot calling the kettle black” they will be oblivious to their own failings while they magnify our inadequacies. One of life’s certainties is that we will encounter stones hurled our way, and it helps to be equipped with more than just a few clever sayings.

So, when someone tries to hurt you… when someone hurls a verbal spear your direction. When someone takes aim because you didn’t meet their expectations. When someone scoffs at your pain. When someone triumphs at your mistakes or blames you for their insufficiencies, you have a choice.

Instead of flinging back the stone in a return volley, leave it on the ground. Don’t pick it up, don’t roll it around in your hand contemplating the damage you could do in return-choose grace instead. Look at it, yes, recognize and acknowledge the pain it caused, then choose to leave the stone where it lies. Let the stones fall. Let them heap up to become a monument to the grace you’ve chosen to live in, the freedom of forgiveness you’ve experienced and can now bestow on those who hurt you, and the peace of releasing your antagonist to God’s realm. You can choose to rest in the confidence that God is good and He freely bestows grace, to you, as well as to the stone-thrower.

As Mom would probably say, grace is just a stone’s throw away.

 
“Do not be eager in your heart to be angry…” (Ecclesiastes 7:9).

Hope springs eternal. But in what? The economy? Anyone with a 401K, a mortgage, or a gas tank can expound on the folly of hope in the economy. Government? That would be Congress. The President. The Supreme Court. It’s not polite to laugh and point, please, refrain and choose only one or the other.

I wasn’t raised on hell fire and damnation, but I certainly subscribe to the policy. I must. Because I cling to the mercy offered as substitute for my judgment. Hope of a new day, a new body, a new rendering of my soul before an almighty God. Forever. That is my hope.

Poor Jonah. We sometimes laugh at this pouting prophet, but I’m probably in his company more often than I would want you to know. Perhaps we all share a similarity to this comic-relief specimen of humanity. Maybe we should go a little easier on Jonah.

God had a plan for Jonah’s life-a specific mission to deliver a warning to Jonah’s enemies about God’s coming judgment. Jonah didn’t like his assignment; he knew that sounding the warning might cause the Ninevites to repent and then God wouldn’t destroy them. He preferred to see God annihilate his enemy. (I suppose mercy wasn’t one of Jonah’s spiritual gifts.) So Jonah ran. God redirected him-that’s the part where the whale comes in. God eventually used him to deliver a message Jonah didn’t want to deliver. God showed mercy on Jonah’s enemies-that’s the part of the plan Jonah didn’t like (can’t you just hear Jonah saying “@!#%! I knew it!”). So Jonah was mad at God. God challenged his thinking by questioning Jonah’s anger and using the illustration of caring more for something stupid like a plant (the plant enriched Jonah’s life at the moment) than showing compassion for the lives of men, women, children, and even animals.

God’s questioning resembled the tongue-in-cheek kind of questioning that parents do with their kids when the parents already know the answers and the kids are inventing outlandish explanations to nonsensical behavior. I’m sure God must’ve had a private laugh at his clueless prophet’s expense while Jonah crossed his arms, stomped his foot, and jutted out his bottom lip. Jonah was mad and by-golly he had good reason.

I understand. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been in Jonah’s position. In my earlier years I snickered at Jonah’s childish pouting, but I really can’t be that hard on Jonah-he thought God hadn’t delivered on the promises of deliverance and retribution. Jonah felt like God let him down. God hadn’t behaved the way Jonah thought a deity should-these people had mistreated Jonah’s people and justice demanded that the Ninevites be punished. It wasn’t fair. God’s ways confused him. God’s sovereignty left Jonah grasping for a world set aright. This didn’t look like anything Jonah had envisioned for his world. Not at all.

I chuckled at Jonah’s silliness until I encountered my own undesirable God-assigned missions. Then I joined Jonah’s ranks. Okay, now I get the pouting thing. God is asking too much of me. This just isn’t fair. Like Jonah, I’ve had days when I preferred the belly of the whale to carrying out God’s divine task.

Does God ever roll His eyes at us? I wonder if He sighs and groans that I’m a lost cause or shakes His head at my inability to “get it.” How many plants-the material creature comforts of life-do I pout over? Do I even care that there’s a lost-and-dying world needing a message of hope? And do I prefer revenge to compassion? Really?

I’m quick to choose His mercy for myself-why not for others? Maybe I should consider how quickly God withered Jonah’s plant. Or how consistently He extends mercy to me.

We put down my cranky insulin-dependent cat, Hayward, two days ago. She was 13. She had increasing problems from the disease, but weight loss was one of the few she missed. Her back feet were not always under her command, she occasionally seemed to be in pain, and I was looking into feline diapers. She had a stroke or some other violent neurological event, which we did not expect her to survive. My last cat died the same way. All I could do was hold her and offer soothing words. Hayward came out of it breathing, but clearly debilitated. I miss her furry face.

It was a non-decision for me to put her down. It’s what you do for animals. There is not a human equivalent to this. Human life is precious.

In some ways our medical advancements have only muddied our clarity. The Terry Schiavo case certainly divided some rooms. For my husband, what it came down to was the feeding. Disengage the heart pumps, the forced oxygen, if the major organs won’t work on their own, then, Amen, I get to meet Jesus.

But if I can’t eat, please, at least, feed me. We fed my son when he couldn’t feed himself. We fed my mom, too. It’s a logical line to draw.

There’s always a reason to give up, if you want one. Ditto with going on. It saddens me to see our society embrace, to any degree, assisted suicide. Assisted suicide is a sin against the image of God. I can only imagine how it must sadden Him. He determines our time here. But if you don’t acknowledge him as creator, it’s another logical line to draw.

God gave me explicit dominion over my cat, Hayward. I have exercised that for her benefit. May she purr in peace.