Honing the Edge

Tools with dull edges are a drag- hard to use, exhausting, and pretty much useless. Additionally, they can be really dangerous. I think God heard my multiple unspoken prayer requests prior to our Omaha move in 2013. I think He knew there were some issues in me that I myself didn’t recognize. After all… I was still the same tool, right?

I didn’t understand the exhaustion of my working peers who attended church. Now, having been in the most stressful of jobs, I think, (I know there are a TON of stressful jobs. I don’t mean to say mine is MORE, like a bad bragging contest… I just mean, ‘wow- my job has been fairly tough’…), and it has enabled me to understand more. What do I understand?IMG_3754

I NEED worship. Like plants need rain. I need to contemplate God in all His bigness. And do it often. Knowing Him and His sufficiency in all ways, this keeps my hope alive. I NEED affirmation. I had no idea. I just didn’t know. I am recognizing how significant it is to let someone know ‘hey, you are doing a great job in….’. I NEED self-examination. I did not know my relationship with God needed remodeling. I thought we were doing fine. What I discovered is that under duress, I have a profound relationship with food and self-comfort, rather than a healthy way to dig deeper into Him. I’d LOVE to say I’m over this, but no, this is big and God and I are in discussion. I NEED believers… the real ones that talk about God and where He intersects their lives, frustrations and battles, the ones who I can laugh and cry with in total honesty. And….

I am learning that God is like breathing. He isn’t compelled because my prayers are accompanied by wailing, whining, or stomach ache intensity. He is God, afterall, not some despot in need of me being more desperate. My prayers are better spent really thanking Him for where He has been amazing, and maybe audibly watching to see His next moves where I am unsure He has been amazing.

I think the past 3 years have been instructive. I was not sure how God was moving around in peoples lives, but I am observing things now. My ‘tooling’ has been sharpened. I have NO idea what later today or the next 10 years hold, in my life, but I know I will push deeper into God in so many ways for His faithfulness not just in my life but the lives of my family and friends and neighbors and even those I have to fight hard to like, let alone love. (I had no idea how big my unforgiveness capacity was. This is another thing…<sigh>… and an old one.)

This isn’t my best writing. It’s simple a bookmark left on the page of the story being written by my choices and God’s sovereignty.

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Hope and Beyond: resurrection?metamorphosis?transformation

IMG_3126When, after I hang up, I realize I yelled because I was not being heard, and somehow ridiculously thought if I was louder it would be heard, my heavy heart reminds me how much I need … beyond. …When I eat that thing I should not, followed by more of the same with different names because ‘I am frustrated’, my heavy tummy pulls my heart back to my longing for …. Beyond. It’s been quite the meditation, as I’ve realized over and over why I need Christ’s cross… and maybe my own, too. I’ve no proof of arrival, but surely the longing has grown, the awareness of ‘me’. Romans, and “I do that which I do not want to do” washes over me, and the wonderful texts beyond.

But.

Resurrection. Harder to lay ‘grip’ on, in so many ways. Then I look up the word on Google and it becomes clearer. Wrong word, really. … resurrect…….Yes, yes, of course, it really does mean ‘to come back to life’, but… oh I need better than that.: I need much more, deeper, better. There is NO way….. I DON’T WANT some dead stuff to resurrect.! No way. I look up ‘metamorphosis’ and my relief grows. Yes, that is closer. Stages. Change. Transformation. Yes. That’s it. Where my hope lays. Where Christ made a way for better. Because he didn’t just …. resurrect. He changed the whole playing field.

‘We have a better hope.” I REALLY like Romans and Hebrews. That phrase I just typed, comes from Hebrews 7. That hope is what I wanted to FEEL coming up in me better than springtime and flowering bulbs…..hope beyond pain and death, beyond drugs and fights for more money, beyond the next sex fix partner… beyond. Hope is beyond. I wanted it to push up so I could be motivated enough to tap a friend or stranger and say ‘Hey!! There is HOPE and its BEYOND.” As I have meditated on my hope when I have a ‘fail’ moment, because of Christ, joy is. And that is enough.

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Pool. Spring.

Driving along the interstate, soul glazed over, aching dully, I ponder the panel truck’s ad: Pool. My brain refuses the word. Pool. Collection of…. water? coins? collection. That is all.

Like water in the low spot in the road. Pool. Spring. Now spring, that’s different, isn’t it?

Something leaking… something so full it just won’t quit, leaking, filling, flowing over, over-flowing. Pools dry out. I’m thinking its a lot harder for springs to dry out. No matter what, springs leak.

I keep thinking about what I am. Pool or spring? Collection of extra to give out, as in pool that dries out, or spring that just keeps on leaking?

love Ps. 84…. and here’s a pertinent piece of it for this, (from the NKJV thanks BibleGateWay)…Blessed is the man whose strength is in You, whose heart is set on pilgrimage. As they pass through the Valley of Baca,(weeping) they make it a spring; the rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion.  I am on a journey. I am weak, my strength is in You, Lord. Places when weeping happens (thankfully NOT today.. today is just that aching dryness)…well, springs happen. That is what I am counting on. Pools collect weeping… springs leak something more. And that is all.

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Focus

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After four weeks of cold congestion, I’m tired, and at this early hour, my husband asleep beside me, awake, struggling again to breath. The rain, which has so often felt like a personal gift, quieting the noisy ‘world-song’ around me, and softening hard edges, compels me to open the window, and I begin to be able to breathe as the moist air helps. Then I hear it. The soft long slide of tires, the thump of those same tires, attached to a vehicle hits something with a finality and quietness that causes me to listen closer. After only half a moment’s pause, I hear the woman scream, the man voice say something that instantly silences the noises, and I know without truly knowing, although I cannot see anything at all, that someone has left this earth. I do not even know them, on one level, yet, on another level, as first the siren finally comes, 10 minutes later and other vehicles in a horrible silent parade come and go, their lights flashing, the sirens silent, the ambulance full but seemingly, not moving at ’emergency speed’, I somehow realize that someone I have passed every day, maybe, is gone. The sadness lingers. It is so important that I pause to participate and focus on knowing and caring for those who pass through my life. We have only got this one moment. We don’t know about the next moment. I must move on into my work day… put on clothes, smile and work for my client, but must not forget that the eyes of those who move past me, whereever possible, must be focused on as belonging to someone I only have this particular opportunity with.

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devote.d/tional.crazydeeplongingforbreadormaybejustyou.

I have to. I crave. I desperately need and long for. You. So, I read. And listen.

Cover to cover, yearly. Genesis to Revelation.

In the beginning… I read to understand cognitively and ‘conclusively’ the history of the world. Makes me laugh. That is not who you were communicating. As time passed, I searched for your Arms around me. And now?

Now I read to run my heart over your scars, carefully. They hurt me, they heal me, they inspire me. I read to see you laugh. I read and know your tears. I read…. and listen like someone too young or foolish to grasp some things, Danieleque mysteries of times… or maybe I’d rather leave it to you for now, yet listen, hearing your voice in it nonetheless.

When I am afraid I will trust in you. In the secret place. Turn my heart/eyes to you. I will look to the mountains… from where comes my help? From the Maker of Heaven and Earth. I fell in love with you so very long ago.

(What I do not understand makes me want to hurl it all so far, but I restrain myself, or you do)… and I return again and again. For where shall we go, Lord? For it is you who have the Words of Life. Breathe on me.

Inspired. One more day. Daily bread, give me this day.

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No Easy Answer X 3 perspectives

The news shocked me to my core. It haunts me. I am worried it will pass and I will forget. I long for perspective… but which perspective? So, I try to fit into the different ‘shoes’ of the characters of the tragedy…

Perspective One: Mom of Young Mom

‘my baby, formed of blood and bone, tears and prayer, fashioned by God’s own hand in amazing fragile beauty…

it will be alright. We will collect the savaged remnants of relationship between jobs and money and tragedy and hold each other through the storm, warmed under this assembled quilt of hopes and tomorrows. it will be alright. but… you are silent. withdrawn. and somehow in these past few weeks, I have begun to have the aching knowing that one more drama tugs at this blanket of our life and love, pulled around us. Can it be that you hold a life within you? Does the circle continue this way? Shh. God has held us. Will hold us still. Hold on. Just wait here by me.it will be alright.

Oh, God, my God. Can it be? What has happened here? How can one more tug not rend this fragile comforter that warms and keeps us? I will stand strong yet again. We must make it. Hold me while I hold her. Keep us.’

Perspective Two: Young Mom

‘no.

Nonononono.No. It cannot be. It will not be. Invaded once. Did I want it, that moment that brought this… this life.. no. This second invasion of me? What life will this child have? Will it/he/she remind me of ….. How will I do this? How can this be? No one knows, but maybe some suspect? I cannot. I am terrified. I am angry. I am sad. No. I reject this. I have a choice. Will I be my mom? I am utterly alone. No one can know. I am ashamed, but this is not my fault. Oh, look! a hand! No, wait, was it a foot? No! I do NOT care. I CANNOT care. How could this happen? My life, is it over?

Augh! The pain! I am helpless. I cannot do this. I cannot believe this was done… to me? Was it my fault? I just WON’T! I refuse. This is NOT mine.

And now, that moment has passed. I am so confused. What I threw out,… I cannot take back that moment, that choice. I will never forget. What I never wanted to accept has now branded its way across my heart and mind.’

Perspective Three, Maybe? The Unknown ‘Public’… us? 

Shock and horror. Headlines and then maybe forgotten, except for some who cannot get that image out of their head. Fury? Guilty? (of what?) “Child abuse”… “murder”? I think those are the charges. Does she ‘need therapy?’ I don’t actually know what people think, although I have conjectured here some of the possible responses. But I keep thinking… the irony here is that she could have gone a few miles and quietly had the infant cut out of her piece by piece or all intact. The so-called ‘fetus’ could have been sold as something for ‘medical purposes’, buried, or thrown out as trash. She would have been lauded as ‘sane’, as ‘reasonable’. How is it different than what she did- throwing the baby out the back, off the deck? The baby maybe died instantly, I hope? Hopefully, with no pain? But the loss is forever. The aching arms of that grandma who lost daughter and grandchild in one moment….  The pain of that child/daughter being thrust brutally into adulthood and very possibly prison because she did in public what is done by many every day in private,… paid for by ‘insurance’, mandated, often, by federal government. That irony catches my breath away. I cannot stop hurting for the girl in this story and for the all-of-us caught in the grip of this drama in quiet and loud ways. I cannot forget her. I surely hope I do not. Her pain knocks me down. I have no idea what it does to her. I worry that to even comment, to dare to ‘think outloud’ will be called presumptuous. Even so, I must ask. Surely you see the irony? I know there is no easy answer to so very much, and especially this issue. Yet I will ask God. And I will ask you. If you do not see the question, I cannot help you.

 

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Struggling To Be Undone

In the world I grew up in, beds were made every day. “After all, you never know when company might come.” (It also helped keep things clean, bug -fewer, and less chaotic,) but I got the impression it was mostly ‘for others, and just proper’. Messy things were put away, dealt with, or hidden. For example: relational issues were not ‘put out for everyone to see’ or ‘what happens in family stays in family’ sort of comments really enforced this idea.

Recently I have realized something. This ‘clean house’ idea is somewhat like a person who lives in a two room home, where the front room is what people are brought into and the back room is private. It goes beyond the concept of clean and enters into the idea that the ‘back room’ parts of our life are either entirely hidden from everyone, or, at best, are for a very few, those invited into that ‘inner sanctum’ of a person’s private world.

The people I serve, though, seem at times to live in a ‘one room’ world. It is messy. Things don’t always get dealt with. It’s right there, take it or leave it sort of existence. I am not from that world, although I have tried to live with my ‘back room’ far more open than is normal, based on what I see and hear around me.

What occurred to me is this: those who can’t see the backroom don’t fully trust because they don’t know what’s in there… who I am. ( And maybe they don’t want to know.)  But those who live in a ‘one room’ life definitely don’t invite ‘two-roomers’ into their lives. ‘What will they think?’ ‘Will they judge me?’  There is a distance between these two types of folks.

I find myself in quite the quandary. If I live discreetly and keep my back room private, I find the relationships are ‘edge-of-the-couch’ polite. They aren’t relationships you can lean into or share with deeply. But if I live more as a ‘one room’ person- just being me and accepting that life is messy and I am in process and take me or leave me, the ‘two roomers’ are exceptionally uncomfortable. They just move on. Quietly. Politely. And I wonder what is in their backrooms.

I expressed this to Jim and he understood and said I ought to try and write about it, which i have here, at 10 at night, before I prepare for my 12 hour workday tomorrow. It’s almost a relief to go to work because when I feel the pressure to resolve the distances created by choosing who to be, knowing the risks with either choice, then I want to be undone. I can’t be a ‘one-roomer’ because I am so aware of the moving-away-quickly ‘two-roomers’.  I am not a good ‘two-roomer’ because I don’t fit the mold and I open my ‘back room’ more than people want. At work at least I can just do my job and shut my own processes down. But I hate the distances that come between people and feel them. I love people. Gah.  I think too much. Its bedtime. Goodnight.

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