Hi Friends,
I'm getting ready to transition my blog over to Word Press. I'll be By The Banks of Kerith there too.
Hugs!
Friday, May 25, 2012
Friday, November 25, 2011
Thanksgiving Revisited
If I wrote a book about my childhood, it would be hard to believe. I try to laugh it off with my family sometimes by saying, "Yeah, we put the fun in dysfunctional." The truth is, my holidays growing up were often difficult. My step mother who raised me likely is a borderline personality. There were times when we would drive 12 butt numbing hours to her parents (my grandparents) home in Conway, Arkansas. Upon arrival, she would spew hateful words about how awful we all were and then send us packing. So, after taking my little sister out of the car there Scott, Dad, and I were. Persona non grata at Thanksgiving. Many holidays were like this and they were stressful, heartbreaking times. Thanksgiving was a day when we waited for the other shoe to drop and held our breaths hoping that this year it would not.
Today I made the mistake of calling her to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. After 18 years of marriage and after having put a fair amount of distance between us, I thought it would be the kind thing to do. Yet again, she had nothing but ugly things to say. She took credit for saving my life (there are no words for such hubris) and actually told me how to raise my children. Other hurtful things were said and then, as always, she put in the last word and hung up on me.
After a good cry and being comforted by my husband and children, I can say I am Thankful! Those days are over and I don't have to relive them. I am so thankful that I can look forward to tomorrow and that my future is not determined by the past I survived. I'll not make that mistake again next year, but it was an excellent reminder.
Today I made the mistake of calling her to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. After 18 years of marriage and after having put a fair amount of distance between us, I thought it would be the kind thing to do. Yet again, she had nothing but ugly things to say. She took credit for saving my life (there are no words for such hubris) and actually told me how to raise my children. Other hurtful things were said and then, as always, she put in the last word and hung up on me.
After a good cry and being comforted by my husband and children, I can say I am Thankful! Those days are over and I don't have to relive them. I am so thankful that I can look forward to tomorrow and that my future is not determined by the past I survived. I'll not make that mistake again next year, but it was an excellent reminder.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Someone to Blame
Someone to Blame
We hear it all the time these days. “It’s not my fault!” Our children say it and so do our elected officials. Sometimes, it’s even hard to tell the difference between the kids and everyone else. And, if we are honest with ourselves, in the quiet moments of the day we also say it too. I find myself wanting to disavow any responsibility for the messes I have made and all of the sins I’ve committed.
These days I think we are less likely to use the word ‘Saved’ as though we don’t really require saving. Rather, in our minds, we perceive that we need ‘righting’ or a mere ‘course correction.’ Perhaps it is this faulty (aka sinful) mindset that propels us to find someone to blame. Let’s think about Jesus from this perspective for a moment. He accepted blame for sins that weren’t his—without even a word of protest! And his eyes, the eyes of this fully man-fully God savior do not look at us with blame. He looks through our eyes and into our souls with love rather than condemnation. Jesus doesn’t need to cast blame, because his blood covered and obliterated it all!
If we circle this issue of casting blame and examine our hearts closely, we must conclude that we do indeed NEED saving. We can’t save ourselves from the wallow of sin that we have created; the wallow of sin that traps us. How is it that we can convince ourselves in the face of such compelling evidence that we don’t need Christ’s intervention?
When I was a little girl, my brother and I would take our play shovels into the back yard. We had a plan to dig to China. When we began excavating, we were exuberant and excited! We would imagine, as we dug, what we would encounter along the way. Were there new and undiscovered types of animals down there? What would the Chinese think when our heads appeared through the hole like a prairie dog popping up out of it’s burrow? Would we be able to find new friends and share our discoveries with them? Five or six spadefulls of soil later, we would begin to tire and start taking turns. The exuberance was fading into a steely determination. We had set out to dig to China and BY GUM, we were going to do it! Another round of poorly aimed digs into our hole and determination died. In its place was hopelessness. Digging to China was impossible! Ultimately, we would abandon our ‘tunnel’ which was not even deep enough to plant a rosebush in, and shuffle back to the house feeling defeated, sweaty, and badly in need of a shower.
We laugh now at our silliness! Why would we think that digging through the earth’s core was possible for two kids equipped with a plastic shovel? We do the same thing when we try to blame our way to salvation. Blame is our Fisher Price spade and we are out in the back yard exhausting ourselves over an impossible task. Is it wiser to continue pursuing the impossible when it is easier to accept salvation? I think the answer is clear, but I admit that my own sin nature urges me onward too. That’s a sin I need to confess. It’s time for me to climb out of that ridiculous hole and go take a bath! Perhaps I’ll occasionally be tempted to give China another try, but it will be as impossible tomorrow as it is today.
We hear it all the time these days. “It’s not my fault!” Our children say it and so do our elected officials. Sometimes, it’s even hard to tell the difference between the kids and everyone else. And, if we are honest with ourselves, in the quiet moments of the day we also say it too. I find myself wanting to disavow any responsibility for the messes I have made and all of the sins I’ve committed.
These days I think we are less likely to use the word ‘Saved’ as though we don’t really require saving. Rather, in our minds, we perceive that we need ‘righting’ or a mere ‘course correction.’ Perhaps it is this faulty (aka sinful) mindset that propels us to find someone to blame. Let’s think about Jesus from this perspective for a moment. He accepted blame for sins that weren’t his—without even a word of protest! And his eyes, the eyes of this fully man-fully God savior do not look at us with blame. He looks through our eyes and into our souls with love rather than condemnation. Jesus doesn’t need to cast blame, because his blood covered and obliterated it all!
If we circle this issue of casting blame and examine our hearts closely, we must conclude that we do indeed NEED saving. We can’t save ourselves from the wallow of sin that we have created; the wallow of sin that traps us. How is it that we can convince ourselves in the face of such compelling evidence that we don’t need Christ’s intervention?
When I was a little girl, my brother and I would take our play shovels into the back yard. We had a plan to dig to China. When we began excavating, we were exuberant and excited! We would imagine, as we dug, what we would encounter along the way. Were there new and undiscovered types of animals down there? What would the Chinese think when our heads appeared through the hole like a prairie dog popping up out of it’s burrow? Would we be able to find new friends and share our discoveries with them? Five or six spadefulls of soil later, we would begin to tire and start taking turns. The exuberance was fading into a steely determination. We had set out to dig to China and BY GUM, we were going to do it! Another round of poorly aimed digs into our hole and determination died. In its place was hopelessness. Digging to China was impossible! Ultimately, we would abandon our ‘tunnel’ which was not even deep enough to plant a rosebush in, and shuffle back to the house feeling defeated, sweaty, and badly in need of a shower.
We laugh now at our silliness! Why would we think that digging through the earth’s core was possible for two kids equipped with a plastic shovel? We do the same thing when we try to blame our way to salvation. Blame is our Fisher Price spade and we are out in the back yard exhausting ourselves over an impossible task. Is it wiser to continue pursuing the impossible when it is easier to accept salvation? I think the answer is clear, but I admit that my own sin nature urges me onward too. That’s a sin I need to confess. It’s time for me to climb out of that ridiculous hole and go take a bath! Perhaps I’ll occasionally be tempted to give China another try, but it will be as impossible tomorrow as it is today.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
"We Came, We Saw, He Died!"
"We Came, We Saw, He Died!" These words uttered by U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton are a triumphant celebration of Libyan Dictator Colonel Gaddafi's death. The so called "Mad Dog of the Middle East" ruled by terrorizing his own subjects. Torture and execution as well as using rape as a policy of war were characteristic of the way Gaddafi maintained control over his countrymen. Mummar was both deadly and capricious. In contrast to the poverty he inflicted upon his own people, Gaddafi lived like only an oil-rich Middle Eastern man could.
Oddly, at death Gadaffi seemed such a pathetic creature who was somehow less than human. Photographs show a beaten, bloodied man who at best resembled a shadow of himself. Men in street clothes and undershirts sporting automatic rifles are shown supporting and dragging him to places he did not wish to go. His hair was matted with sweat and blood; his face testified to crushing blows to the head. The mob of men surrounding him seemed to have taken great pleasure in inflicting as much hatred as they could with their fists and shaming him in ways that the Arab world will likely never forget. In his final moments, the Mad Dog begged for mercy. How is it that a man who showed no mercy could beg for it? I suppose no matter how evil we become, we are still, at least on some level, human.
After his death, the revolutionaries wend wild looting the palaces and compounds owned by the not so royal family. One man was photographed wearing the Colonel's ceremonial wheel cap with gold braiding. Another captured a man boldly sporting the expired dictator's personal handgun with a jeweled coat of arms on the stock. Cars, homes, and bank accounts were seized by the Libyan people. Upon his death, Gadaffi ceased to wield the power he used as a club during life.
I've never been to Libya, but I did spend several months in India when I was young. There are impressions that have never left me. When I recall that time, I remember the heat was so unbearable that the very ground seemed as though it had spent several days in a pottery kiln. I'll never forget just how many people there were and how different their concept of space is. People pressed in on us and handled us as though we were fruit at a vegetable stand. Literally, strangers would come up to me and pull the hair on my arms amazed by it. They even yanked at my hair to see if it was attached not even considering that I might feel pain. I'll never forget the flies! They were absolutely everywhere and there was no way to keep them out of any space. If I stood still for any length of time, they would land on me as though I was already dead and ripe for the eating. Above everything else, I remember how prevalent death was. Early in the morning, a dump truck would comb the streets picking up the bodies of ignoble people who may not have even had one person on earth to remember them.
When I saw the pictures of Gaddafi's demise, I immediately looked at the landscape and soil. It brought to mind sights and smells that I haven't experienced in over 20 years. As I looked closer at those last images, I could see in several frames that Mummar was trying to hold himself up by bracing with one of his arms. Gaddafi surrounded, under siege. He seemed stooped and utterly exhausted. For some reason, I couldn't help but wonder if that was how Jesus looked before he was crucified. I can't erase the thought that Jesus also died in a similar region surrounded by people who were celebrating his death. I can imagine the crush of people pressing in to see if he was dead yet. I can hear the swarm of flies attracted by the smell of blood.
If we fast forward two millenia and compare, we can see that Gaddafi lived an evil life; Jesus lived a sinless one. Gadaffi made himself king among men; Jesus made himself a man though he was a king. Both men were beaten to a bloody pulp and ridiculed by the masses of people around them. The possessions of each man were taken by those seeking souvenirs. Yet, in death Gaddafi begged for mercy from his captors while Jesus prayed mercy FOR his captors. Most importantly, Gadaffi's power ended at death, while the true power of Jesus Christ was revealed when he overcame death.
Amen and Glory to God in the Highest!
Oddly, at death Gadaffi seemed such a pathetic creature who was somehow less than human. Photographs show a beaten, bloodied man who at best resembled a shadow of himself. Men in street clothes and undershirts sporting automatic rifles are shown supporting and dragging him to places he did not wish to go. His hair was matted with sweat and blood; his face testified to crushing blows to the head. The mob of men surrounding him seemed to have taken great pleasure in inflicting as much hatred as they could with their fists and shaming him in ways that the Arab world will likely never forget. In his final moments, the Mad Dog begged for mercy. How is it that a man who showed no mercy could beg for it? I suppose no matter how evil we become, we are still, at least on some level, human.
After his death, the revolutionaries wend wild looting the palaces and compounds owned by the not so royal family. One man was photographed wearing the Colonel's ceremonial wheel cap with gold braiding. Another captured a man boldly sporting the expired dictator's personal handgun with a jeweled coat of arms on the stock. Cars, homes, and bank accounts were seized by the Libyan people. Upon his death, Gadaffi ceased to wield the power he used as a club during life.
I've never been to Libya, but I did spend several months in India when I was young. There are impressions that have never left me. When I recall that time, I remember the heat was so unbearable that the very ground seemed as though it had spent several days in a pottery kiln. I'll never forget just how many people there were and how different their concept of space is. People pressed in on us and handled us as though we were fruit at a vegetable stand. Literally, strangers would come up to me and pull the hair on my arms amazed by it. They even yanked at my hair to see if it was attached not even considering that I might feel pain. I'll never forget the flies! They were absolutely everywhere and there was no way to keep them out of any space. If I stood still for any length of time, they would land on me as though I was already dead and ripe for the eating. Above everything else, I remember how prevalent death was. Early in the morning, a dump truck would comb the streets picking up the bodies of ignoble people who may not have even had one person on earth to remember them.
When I saw the pictures of Gaddafi's demise, I immediately looked at the landscape and soil. It brought to mind sights and smells that I haven't experienced in over 20 years. As I looked closer at those last images, I could see in several frames that Mummar was trying to hold himself up by bracing with one of his arms. Gaddafi surrounded, under siege. He seemed stooped and utterly exhausted. For some reason, I couldn't help but wonder if that was how Jesus looked before he was crucified. I can't erase the thought that Jesus also died in a similar region surrounded by people who were celebrating his death. I can imagine the crush of people pressing in to see if he was dead yet. I can hear the swarm of flies attracted by the smell of blood.
If we fast forward two millenia and compare, we can see that Gaddafi lived an evil life; Jesus lived a sinless one. Gadaffi made himself king among men; Jesus made himself a man though he was a king. Both men were beaten to a bloody pulp and ridiculed by the masses of people around them. The possessions of each man were taken by those seeking souvenirs. Yet, in death Gaddafi begged for mercy from his captors while Jesus prayed mercy FOR his captors. Most importantly, Gadaffi's power ended at death, while the true power of Jesus Christ was revealed when he overcame death.
Amen and Glory to God in the Highest!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Perky Turkey Duck
When I was a young motherless girl, I lived with my grandmother in the mountains of North Carolina. We had all sorts of wonderful animals on her farm and I was enthralled with them. Because of my own wounded state, I felt a special affinity to any creature that was hurt or endangered and I desperately tried to save them when I could.
One day as my grandmother and I were walking along the pond, we found a duck egg on the dock. In my mind, this treasure needed saving! Although my grandmother was in favor of making an omelet, I pleaded with her to give the egg to our turkey. This particular turkey was made to be a mother, but she was unable to lay eggs. Mamma Turkey would lovingly pluck feathers from her breast, make a nest, and sit awaiting an egg that would never come. Reluctantly my grandma agreed that we could give this lonely yet to be hatchling to the turkey. I think she was convinced the egg would be a dud, but I was determined to give the baby duck a chance.
This was a match made in heaven. Mamma Turkey tenderly sat upon her beloved egg, turned it, and talked to it. Through the shell, Little Duck was listening and imprinting with its Mamma. The day arrived when Little Duck hatched! From that first moment, Mamma was filled with a new sense of purpose and she took great care in instructing Little Duck how to be a turkey. Little Duck was never even aware that he was, in fact, a duck and I suspect Mamma Turkey was so blinded by love she never saw the difference either.
Our happy little farm was filled with other ducks, but Little Duck walked, talked, and quacked just like a turkey all the days of his life. He never ever went near the water and proceeded to ignore all of the other waterfowl. In his little bird brain, he was no duck; he was ALL turkey. My young heart was overjoyed to have played a part in finding just the right mother for him.
My grandmother was an artist and when I moved away, she would draw little pictures of our duckling. She would even write stories of his adventures and we ended up calling him, "The Perky Turkey Duck." It occurs to me that we are supposed to imprint with our heavenly father just like the duckling did with his adopted mother. We are supposed to be so bonded to him that the things of this world fade into the background and we hear only Him. And when he looks at us, our Father doesn't see our sins or weaknesses. He sees only that we are His and that He himself has made us perfect with His love.
One day as my grandmother and I were walking along the pond, we found a duck egg on the dock. In my mind, this treasure needed saving! Although my grandmother was in favor of making an omelet, I pleaded with her to give the egg to our turkey. This particular turkey was made to be a mother, but she was unable to lay eggs. Mamma Turkey would lovingly pluck feathers from her breast, make a nest, and sit awaiting an egg that would never come. Reluctantly my grandma agreed that we could give this lonely yet to be hatchling to the turkey. I think she was convinced the egg would be a dud, but I was determined to give the baby duck a chance.
This was a match made in heaven. Mamma Turkey tenderly sat upon her beloved egg, turned it, and talked to it. Through the shell, Little Duck was listening and imprinting with its Mamma. The day arrived when Little Duck hatched! From that first moment, Mamma was filled with a new sense of purpose and she took great care in instructing Little Duck how to be a turkey. Little Duck was never even aware that he was, in fact, a duck and I suspect Mamma Turkey was so blinded by love she never saw the difference either.
Our happy little farm was filled with other ducks, but Little Duck walked, talked, and quacked just like a turkey all the days of his life. He never ever went near the water and proceeded to ignore all of the other waterfowl. In his little bird brain, he was no duck; he was ALL turkey. My young heart was overjoyed to have played a part in finding just the right mother for him.
My grandmother was an artist and when I moved away, she would draw little pictures of our duckling. She would even write stories of his adventures and we ended up calling him, "The Perky Turkey Duck." It occurs to me that we are supposed to imprint with our heavenly father just like the duckling did with his adopted mother. We are supposed to be so bonded to him that the things of this world fade into the background and we hear only Him. And when he looks at us, our Father doesn't see our sins or weaknesses. He sees only that we are His and that He himself has made us perfect with His love.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
A Rant To My Senator
Mr. Begich,
I watched you on Fox News today and you were supportive of President Obama's budget plan. I have a hard time understanding how and why you support his policies. Not only are they not working but it is as if no one is listening to the little guys that everyone keeps talking about. Our President mocks those of us who respectfully disagree with him. If we don't agree, then he rudely assumes that we are unable to read. He calls Wall Street folks "Fat Cats," but what about those of us who invest in the Stock Market because we think that Social Security won't be there for us? And truthfully, how is it that he can refer to people as "Fat Cats" when he flies around in a jet paid for by my tax dollars, rides a bus outfitted in Canada and vacations on Martha's Vineyard? It seems as though he has grown whiskers, pointy ears, and a tail. The bowl of warm milk that he is lapping up came from the taxpayer's cow. Why does he use inflammatory language and name calling that further divides Americans? Why does he support the Occupy Wall Street movement and liken them to the Tea Party after spending the last several years denigrating and dismissing the Tea Party? Frankly, all of this rhetoric is unbecoming and unpresidential. How is it that you can support him? How is it that you have failed to call him out and demand the civility he embraces only when it suits him? I am registered as an independent and I for one do not intend to sit idly by as my own President mocks me. In the next election, I will refuse to vote for the person who courts me will smooth words one moment and then slaps me with insults the next. Nor do I intend to vote for people who refuse to hold a member of their own party accountable for their words and actions. As a member of the middle class, I am certain that I am paying my fair share but the amount that we pay will never be enough for you all. Furthermore, some of us believe in hope and charity. We give significant amounts to charity not because you demand it, but because God asks it of us. The idea that increasing our taxes, making people pay their 'fair' share will imperil food pantries, women's shelters, and not-for profits everywhere. We will be able to give less to streamlined charities that spend less than 25% of their income on administration. In exchange, all of the money that is diverted to the government will spend 75% on administrative costs and we can only hope and pray that 25% manages to rattle down to the people it's supposed to benefit. President Obama's 'A GAME' is not good enough for America and if you support that game theory then yours isn't either.
Thank you for 'listening.'
Deborah R. Oliver
I watched you on Fox News today and you were supportive of President Obama's budget plan. I have a hard time understanding how and why you support his policies. Not only are they not working but it is as if no one is listening to the little guys that everyone keeps talking about. Our President mocks those of us who respectfully disagree with him. If we don't agree, then he rudely assumes that we are unable to read. He calls Wall Street folks "Fat Cats," but what about those of us who invest in the Stock Market because we think that Social Security won't be there for us? And truthfully, how is it that he can refer to people as "Fat Cats" when he flies around in a jet paid for by my tax dollars, rides a bus outfitted in Canada and vacations on Martha's Vineyard? It seems as though he has grown whiskers, pointy ears, and a tail. The bowl of warm milk that he is lapping up came from the taxpayer's cow. Why does he use inflammatory language and name calling that further divides Americans? Why does he support the Occupy Wall Street movement and liken them to the Tea Party after spending the last several years denigrating and dismissing the Tea Party? Frankly, all of this rhetoric is unbecoming and unpresidential. How is it that you can support him? How is it that you have failed to call him out and demand the civility he embraces only when it suits him? I am registered as an independent and I for one do not intend to sit idly by as my own President mocks me. In the next election, I will refuse to vote for the person who courts me will smooth words one moment and then slaps me with insults the next. Nor do I intend to vote for people who refuse to hold a member of their own party accountable for their words and actions. As a member of the middle class, I am certain that I am paying my fair share but the amount that we pay will never be enough for you all. Furthermore, some of us believe in hope and charity. We give significant amounts to charity not because you demand it, but because God asks it of us. The idea that increasing our taxes, making people pay their 'fair' share will imperil food pantries, women's shelters, and not-for profits everywhere. We will be able to give less to streamlined charities that spend less than 25% of their income on administration. In exchange, all of the money that is diverted to the government will spend 75% on administrative costs and we can only hope and pray that 25% manages to rattle down to the people it's supposed to benefit. President Obama's 'A GAME' is not good enough for America and if you support that game theory then yours isn't either.
Thank you for 'listening.'
Deborah R. Oliver
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I am NOT the maid
As I was staring at my messy house this morning, I felt a sense of profound irritation. Last night's dirty dishes were still on the table. My children have a little habit of "saving" their dinner. This is their polite, evasive way of avoiding a meal they don't like. One bite into a meal (a bite that took exactly five minutes to get onto the fork and another ten minutes to chew and swallow) they proclaim themselves to be full. My darlings then "save" their plates in case they either get hungry or in case there is a dessert tempting enough to bribe them into eating more.
It is common for me to be greeted by their leftovers and this morning was no exception. As silly as it seems, I HATE facing those plates with the now shriveled remains of an entree that failed the popularity contest. My immediate exclamation was, "I am NOT THE MAID!"
As I was grumbling, I checked myself and began thanking God for these dirty dishes. I realized if I am storing up treasures in heaven, then there will be an enormous pile of sparkling dishes and truck loads full of clean clothes to greet me when I arrive. More importantly, if I a Christ-like servant then I AM the maid. I lead my family by serving. Ultimately, I hope they will feel the love poured out for them over loads of laundry and sinks full of dishes. I clean their messes just as Christ himself cleans me.
Being the maid is hardly a glorious position. The hours are long, the labor is hard, and the recognition is minimal. However, I'd rather have these treasures in heaven than have earthly treasures parked in my garage bay or in the form of a vacation home in a trendy location. Where my heart is, there my treasure is also and I am thankful for the treasures I have.
It is common for me to be greeted by their leftovers and this morning was no exception. As silly as it seems, I HATE facing those plates with the now shriveled remains of an entree that failed the popularity contest. My immediate exclamation was, "I am NOT THE MAID!"
As I was grumbling, I checked myself and began thanking God for these dirty dishes. I realized if I am storing up treasures in heaven, then there will be an enormous pile of sparkling dishes and truck loads full of clean clothes to greet me when I arrive. More importantly, if I a Christ-like servant then I AM the maid. I lead my family by serving. Ultimately, I hope they will feel the love poured out for them over loads of laundry and sinks full of dishes. I clean their messes just as Christ himself cleans me.
Being the maid is hardly a glorious position. The hours are long, the labor is hard, and the recognition is minimal. However, I'd rather have these treasures in heaven than have earthly treasures parked in my garage bay or in the form of a vacation home in a trendy location. Where my heart is, there my treasure is also and I am thankful for the treasures I have.
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