Being Still

It sounds obvious, and therefore simple, so it should be easy to implement. I don't have to defend my character. God can take care of that.

So I just stop, right? Or even better, I don't start. I don't have to make someone realize what a great person I am. God can take care of that.

Oh, wait. That's not what He said. He didn't say he'd convince my adversary of anything, did He? He didn't say we'd be at peace. Did he? He didn't say that at all. Wait a minute.

He said I would be what? Persecuted? OK, but this isn't that. My life's not at stake. My family's not being tortured or killed. I'm not on the run. So I don't need to call this "persecution."

Oh, gee. Hold on. Let me get this straight.

I don't have to defend my character because . . . I am a sinner, and I have no character.

Alright, let that sink in for a while. Just sitting here breathing.

But He's made me new, right? And I'm His, right? And I'm trying really, really hard to do what He says, right?

Then I hear him speak: Be still.

I have no character. All my works are as filthy rags. Ok, wait. Gosh. You mean even when I'm trying . . . really, REALLY hard? Aw, gee.

-Shh.

Mmph. Keeping my mouth shut, trying to listen.

- Good.

Ok, so . . .

- Not yet.

My goodness, I'm like a bug in a mud puddle. I keep wiggling and paddling and trying to get out of here. You aren't going to help me unless I get still, are You?

- I can't help you unless you get still, dear one.

And I guess all my work is just muddying the water, huh?

He smiles, and the twinkle in His eye reminds me that He adores me, and I remember that He loves me enough to lay down His life for me - and that He did just that.

So I don't have to defend my character. So when someone says, "I've known Christians like you before . . . " and spits out the word, "Christians," as if it's a vile curse . . . or when someone who doesn't know my whole picture, who doesn't know all I'm defending, accuses me of lying . . . or when someone implies that I am failing at the one thing on this earth I'm trying hardest to do right . . .

Gee, I could have saved a lot of money on blood pressure medicine and doctor's visits if I'd heard this earlier.

- Were you listening?

Oh.

I talk too much, don't I?

- I love you.

I'll stop trying to deserve that. OK?

He smiles that way that wraps all the way around me, even to the tight place at the back of my neck where I get sore because I'm so stiff-necked in my self-righteousness.

- Be still and know that I am God.

I need to pay more attention to what that means. Every single word of it.

Exhale - Five Minute Friday

Exhale? But what if there’s no air left to inhale? Isn’t it better to hold my breath, concentrate on staying alive without breathing? There’s too much in the air, too much discouragement, too much pain, too much disappointment, too much negativism. It’s so polluted, I’d rather not breathe.

I guess it doesn’t make sense, though, never to breathe at all. But where? Where can I let out this breath, pour out the fear and anger and bitterness I hold inside, without polluting someone else’s air? I’m not sure it’s wise or responsible to exhale.

Where can I inhale, too? Where is the air safe to breathe? People depend on me. I can’t run around not breathing. I have things to do. They need me. Where can I go, or we go, or they go, to be able to breathe? Exhale?

Inhale. Exhale. It sounds so simple. It’s not even conscious. For most people, I guess.

I’ve held my breath for most of my life, though.

Do I let it out in one brief, fierce scream of exasperation? In a long, low moan? I’d prefer it to be an exultant song, a praise to the Creator Who allows me to live and share in the joy of His being. If I’m singing, too, the breathing is easier, in and out in rhythmic phrases.

So even my breath can be a testimony to God’s goodness?

Yes, Lord, my breath came from You, and I will trust You to manage even that.

I . . . will . . . I will choose, intentionally . . . I will exhale.

Sailor Moon

Maybe because I'm currently reading Moby Dick, I want to call this one a sailor moon. The air is crisp tonight, the wind fresh and sharp. I can imagine this moon sailing over a vast dark ocean, presiding over the battle between the seasons. Yesterday the heat seemed to be winning, but today was grey and continually cooling, until tonight when the moon checked in, the tide was definitely withdrawing from sunny beaches, sandals and sunblock. Back we slip into sleeves and sweaters for one more shining evening. The moon's brightness promises barefoot walks with dancing black shadows and glowing white breakers, but not tonight; it is a promise for another moon, next month perhaps. This moon is the messenger, hurrying on over rolling waves whipped into foam by the last whispers of winter, carrying the news of summer coming soon, just over the horizon.

Grateful? - Five Minute Friday

Last Friday's prompt for Five Minute Friday was "grateful." I was surprised by how difficult it was for me to write on that. Finally, today, on Wednesday, I was able to find words to respond to the prompt. Five minutes; here goes:



Grateful? Gracious, I hadn't thought of it recently. Grace - we say thank you for our food.  Daily grind; grin and bear it; don't lose your grasp. Grateful? Grr. Grumbling does no good. Good grief. Grateful. Grimace.

What happened? I've been thinking all week about this word, and I can't write a cohesive sentence about gratefulness without getting angry. I don't like to gripe. I don't want to be UNgrateful. But I've been gripping so tightly to hold on to joy through some grim realities that I don't FEEL grateful. Just exhausted.

Not so many months ago I could have extolled the virtues of the mundane or celebrated the wonders of simple existence. I could have written pages about things that moved me to feel grateful. It would have been an uplifting exercise to meditate on being so. But not today. Not this week. Not this month. Not this year.

Not yet. I'm still hopeful.

I'm remembering to see the beauty. I'm reminding others to look for it. I'm encouraging those who falter. I'm honoring the weaker members. I'm structuring plans for improvement. I'm hoping this will all lead to . . . something to be grateful for?

I'll lay aside the grateful challenge. I'm grateful for grace to minister where I am sent. That'll have to be enough for now.

Unclean Lips

I heard a sermon based on Isaiah 6:1-7.

Isaiah was ashamed of himself, of his people, of his king who was dying of leprosy. Specifically he was ashamed of his lips, and God specifically healed him there.

Lepers lose digits, limbs, even lips. Their wounds fester and do not heal. In Isaiah's day, there was no reversal of the process other than divine intervention. It was a life sentence, punctuated only by loss, terminating only in death.

Isaiah felt acutely the disgrace of being part of an accursed nation. With its leader suffering under the punishing wrath of God, Judah was despised among its neighbors. In this low and outcast place, God chose to speak to His prophet in a special way - by giving him a glimpse of heaven itself. Conscious of his unworthiness, Isaiah cried out, "Woe is me!" but not because he had dusty sandals or grimy feet; that was normal in a desert country. He did not cry out because he hadn't washed his hands and face before coming to the throne room of God, or because his hair was unkempt. Much worse than that, Isaiah could barely speak, aware that even his lips, which we would generally hope would be clean, were filthy in comparison to what he was being shown. In his flesh, Isaiah knew he was as unclean as a leper and as deserving of being cut off, isolated, separated from the family - not to mention the very presence - of God.

This is the One Who comes even now to speak to us. Instead of letting us rot, decaying from the accumulated wages of sin, the leprosy of the spirit, He looks upon us, touches the painful places, and makes us whole. He has come that we might have life, and have it more abundantly than we could dare to imagine.

Make me clean, Lord.

Amen.




Today I remembered to link to Just Write - The EO. If you enjoy reading - or writing - check it out!

Mess - Five Minute Friday

Mess is an artificial construct, an implied judgment that reveals more about the speaker than the situation. That's my fancy way of saying there's no such thing as a mess unless you want to call it a mess.

My mother didn't like to bake bread because it was too messy. She baked biscuits, but that was a small, contained, short-term mess. Baking yeast bread required more mixing, more floured or oiled surfaces, more time - and ultimately more cleanup. I, however, prefer baking the slow-rising bread that requires more interaction, more tactile experience, more . . . relationship? With yeast? It can feel like that, yes. I don't mind the cleanup.

I wasn't sure I could help my children be artistic, because, you know, it's messy. Paint and Play-doh and bits of colored paper all over the carpet or the floor or the table or the clothes. I got over it. Watching them be creative was worth the price of wiping up a spill or doing an extra load of laundry.

I didn't think I could have people over to visit because my house was too much of a mess, until I finally realized I wasn't having people over to visit my house, but to visit me. Since I got over that hesitancy, I've had loads of people over, and never once has someone left in shock or refused to return because of the mess.

So I've stopped calling myself, my things, my place a mess. Mess implies less - less neat, less orderly, less self-controlled, less organized, the list can go on forever. Instead, I'm choosing more: more attention, more connection, more community, more relationship. And sometimes the peaceful folk who frequent my place even help me tidy it up.


Thanks to Lisa-Jo Baker for the weekly writing prompts. You can see more thoughts about messes over at her Five Minute Friday page.

Jiggity Jig

Back on familiar ground, dancing familiar steps. I have a newly stiff back, a still-sore knee, and a slightly off-kilter internal clock. I've hugged some children (and exactly one husband), sorted some laundry, fed some pets, emptied some trash. It's bedtime but I'm not ready. I'm the one who used to hide in the darkened bedroom floor, reading by the light that came under the closed or barely open door. I have to spend time with words to unwind my mind.

This was not an afternoon for unwinding. Quite the opposite. Exercise, snack, pack; visit a college capstone presentation; ride to the airport; eat a salad at an airport restaurant all by myself (what, no chicken nuggets?); fly home through apparently tornado-infested skies, though our able pilot and air traffic controllers kept us on a very calm course. That's where the stiff back came from, though - the flight was an hour longer than scheduled, and my feet barely moved from their place against my under-seat carry-on bag for all that time. I don't mind. Flying is worth it.

I saw serpentine rivers and oxbow lakes and rice paddies and cattle pastures and mountains toasted on the southern faces. I saw every shade of green and several of brown. I saw most of the cloud types I've learned to identify, and I saw sunset from above those clouds, then rain below them - but not on my window. I thought about living near a river, about how unpredictable life is when even a big river can change its course unexpectedly.

So here I am. Full of new stories, happy to continue the old ones. Expecting the unexpected, comfortable and still surprised by joy. Home again!

Jiggity jig.