This isn't an essay, but I noticed this factoid for the first time today when I was reading Genesis. Genesis 1:30
And to all the beasts of the earth and all thee birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground-everything that has the breath of life in it-I give every green plant for food. And it was so."
According to this scripture, at least as I understand it and it is rather clear, all of the animals that we identify as carnivores were originally created to be herbivores!!!! WOW.
I have a very soft hearted friend who once asked me how a loving God could create animals that would prey upon each other. I think at the time I mentioned the verse where the Lord refers to how the earth will be a new creation when Christ returns "and the lion will lay down with the lamb and eat straw...." (I don't remember it's specific wording or location right now.) I am just amazed though that this was in Genesis all along and I never picked up on it.
God did not create a world that included death! We invited death in and made it a part of the fabric of this fallen world. However, one day when Christ returns, the world will again be as God intended.
Again, WOW!
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
What Does It Mean To Be Blessed?
My husband wrote this and it really touched me. He gave me permission to post it and I hope you find it encouraging.
What does it mean to be blessed?
I recently had the opportunity to help out in a particular situation for a family without the means to help themselves with certain needs. As I completed this experience I had some time to contemplate the situation and ponder some past experiences with what we in the United States consider a blessing. It has become very apparent to me over the last 5 or 6 years that the “church” (I use this in general terms) has associated money and wealth with blessing. I find this sad in that it completely distorts true blessing as Jesus referred to blessing in Mathew chapter 5 (known as the Sermon on the Mount). In the NIV, Jesus uses the word blessed 9 times in versus 3-11. Not one of those instances mentions, blessed are the wealthy. There is no Beatitude stating blessed are those that have much for they will get more. Even with just a cursory look, one will note that none of the Beatitudes are attributes that our modern Western society would consider blessings. Let’s see, poor in spirit; mourners; the meek; those seeking righteousness; the merciful; pure in heart; peacemakers; the persecuted; and last but not least those who are insulted for their faith in Jesus. The only one of these that I see as a possible “modern day” blessing is the peacemakers. But even they might be considered as weak and therefore not possessing an attribute that deserves our time or energy. So who are the blessed and what is the expectation of those who are blessed.
Jesus tells us who the blessed are in Mathew 5. It would be foolish of me to try and elaborate on His words (you can’t top perfection). So what is the point of the first paragraph and my recent experience? It is this, blessing is from God. Blessing isn’t happiness. Blessing is a deep joy and understanding of who you are in God’s eyes and being able to hear His voice and respond in a way that demonstrates the love He has for all of us in a meaningful and life changing way. My blessing wasn’t that I have the means to help but that I was able to help. There were so many things that needed to be done and only a small amount of that required money. The blessing was in the shared life experiences, the laughter, and the time spent together. The blessing was a hug, a word of thanksgiving, a smile and simply being in the presence of family. God provided me the means to be a servant. If we are unable to use what He has given us, whether that is money or a more meaningful gift like our time and love, then He will take what we do have and give it to someone else. To fully reap the blessings of God we must be willing to reach out to others with whatever He has blessed us with. This may mean making a 5 minute phone call when we’d rather send an e-mail. I sincerely hope that the church in America will move our focus from the “prosperity blessing message” to the true message of God’s blessings and what that really means and how it can change the world.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
When Daddy Comes Home
Normally, I like to write my thoughts and then polish them up later. I've been so busy with a move to Alaska that I don't have time to do that right now, but I wanted to share the briefest insight I had today. For the last month, the kids and I have been plugging along without Brad, without their daddy. We've experienced more than our fair share of meltdowns (some of them mine) and teary bedtimes. The kids have started a new school, a new schedule, and a transplant that has been anything but smooth. Jonathan keeps saying, "When is Daddy coming home?" Jacqueline keeps saying, "I wish Daddy were here!"
As I was driving today, a friend called. That person is experiencing a situation where their spouse just up and decided that they didn't want to be married anymore. When they called, Jacqueline, who has a big heart full of compassion asked, "How are they doing?" In that situation, there are children involved. This family is struggling along just as we are only their Daddy isn't coming home. Jacqueline and I talked about how hard it is to be without a Daddy, and her heart is so sad for this family.
In that moment I realized the parallel that we Christians have with my current status. I am slogging along up here in Alaska, two kids, a dog, a new house, boxes everywhere, and a stress level that exceeds the amount of cortisol my body is able to secrete. Each day, I do my best to compartmentalize....what is it that I have to accomplish today? I can't even think about tomorrow. But I find hope and comfort in knowing that in five 'short' weeks, Brad will be with us again. I reassure my children that Daddy IS coming back and that we just had to go ahead of him this time.
Similarly, we Christians are here on this earth though we are not of this world. We keep struggling each day to remember what it is that we need to accomplish. We find hope in knowing that we aren't alone in our efforts and that if Jesus went before us, he will return! Our Daddy is coming back for us. He has gone ahead to prepare a place for us so that where He is, there we may also be. Amen? My stressed out heart finds joy in remembering that He is faithful.
As I was driving today, a friend called. That person is experiencing a situation where their spouse just up and decided that they didn't want to be married anymore. When they called, Jacqueline, who has a big heart full of compassion asked, "How are they doing?" In that situation, there are children involved. This family is struggling along just as we are only their Daddy isn't coming home. Jacqueline and I talked about how hard it is to be without a Daddy, and her heart is so sad for this family.
In that moment I realized the parallel that we Christians have with my current status. I am slogging along up here in Alaska, two kids, a dog, a new house, boxes everywhere, and a stress level that exceeds the amount of cortisol my body is able to secrete. Each day, I do my best to compartmentalize....what is it that I have to accomplish today? I can't even think about tomorrow. But I find hope and comfort in knowing that in five 'short' weeks, Brad will be with us again. I reassure my children that Daddy IS coming back and that we just had to go ahead of him this time.
Similarly, we Christians are here on this earth though we are not of this world. We keep struggling each day to remember what it is that we need to accomplish. We find hope in knowing that we aren't alone in our efforts and that if Jesus went before us, he will return! Our Daddy is coming back for us. He has gone ahead to prepare a place for us so that where He is, there we may also be. Amen? My stressed out heart finds joy in remembering that He is faithful.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Crushes and True Love
First crushes are one of the most memorable moments of adolescence. Heart and hormones unite into a delirious concoction that elevate the subject to a higher plane. Suddenly, the world around looks three shades brighter as if life itself were a giant television and you'd brightened the screen by degrees with the remote. Gray, gloomy days look positively sunkissed and idyllic. Despite having a full load of classes with months to go until the next school break, it feels as if you are on summer vacation. Every day, mundane life recedes into the distance and is barely noticeable as shadows on the horizon. Your heart longs with the deepest intensity to see HIM (or her) and the faintest glimpse down the hallway is enough to make your heart jolt and thump hard enough that others, if they know to look, can see it pounding.
Aaaaaahhhhh, my first crush was lovely! I still remember it, as much as I remember him. His name was Kenny and I was a freshman in High School. He was tall, dark haired, green-eyed and played on the basketball team. To this day, I still don't know what position he played or whether he was any good in spite of the fact that I attended as many games as I could just so I could watch him. I also remember that he had a car, which only served to make me feel as if he were more manly than any of the other testosterone infused young men with whom I attended school. Although I wasn't old enough to drive, I felt much older than my tender years; adult even. My very existence was validated: I liked him and he liked me! Somehow, I had been lifted to a new level of existence, and yes, even status, all because of a boy. But Kenny wasn't just any boy, he was the popular guy who chose me out of a sea of incoming freshmen girls. In my imagination, and there may indeed have been some truth to it, all of the girls were jealous that I, despite not being on the cheer team, had been able to catch his eye. Each day, I spent hours picking the right clothing and taming my shaggy 80's mane of long hair, perfecting the sphere of bangs perched precariously atop my forehead.
My bliss was complete the day Kenny came by our house to take me on my first (almost) date. I was getting to go by myself in a car with MY almost boyfriend. He came by my house to meet my parents and face my father. If you've met my dad, you know that he is stereotypically Italian. Thus, Kenny towered over him in height. But being Italian means that my somewhat shorter statured father towered over him in presence and attitude! They faced off like a pair of male dogs eyeing each other. I know they shook hands, and in retrospect there may have even been some knuckle rolling. Fortunately I was oblivious of the unspoken exchange, because I was blinded by puppy love. With the interrogation behind us, I glided to the car and allowed him to open my door for me. My happiness was complete! When I returned home that evening, although I still can't remember where we went or what the function was, I spent countless hours planning how we would be able to get married after a long four year period of high school sweethearts followed by another long four years as college sweethearts. Ahhhh, silly girl!
The next day, I awoke suddenly more aware of my phone than I had ever been. "Ring! Ring!" I consciously willed it at 7:30a.m. on a Saturday morning. As 10:00 a.m. rolled around I became despondent! Then I became panicked as the day ever so slowly unfolded. I heard the grass growing, the trees drinking, and even the paint on the neighbor's two story garage drying. Kenny never called. Somehow I made it through the weekend. It was torturous!!! My mother forbade me from calling him, because "Nice girls don't call boys!" So, I was left wondering if the switchboard was routing his calls to another number or if we had power. We did. I checked many times that day, we had a dial tone.
All of a sudden, my euphoric plans for myself and my future came to a screeching halt. Anyone who has been rejected knows how bad it feels. Sleep is hard to come by, a general fatigue overcomes the body, and one's stomach is constantly queasy. I thought, "Surely he'll talk to me at school on Monday when I'm at my locker between classes!" Nope. Nothing. Crickets. I mooned about for weeks and months. The rational part of my mind that had been overcome with infatuation was now consumed by the urge to know "Why?" I frequently drove by his house to see if he was home and pretended I was visiting a friend when he was out washing his car. I found reasons to linger in the building where I knew most of his classes were just waiting for him to see me. My drive to connect with him, even fleetingly, reduced me to a benign, desperate stalking schoolgirl. I was no longer the "woman" I'd imagined myself to be in his presence. I'd deflated to half my age. Somehow in my adolescent mind I thought, "If he can just see me, he'll like me again!"
The school year slowly ground by, day after day until track season finally arrived. I was on the track team my freshman year and I will never forget how my Kenny bubble finally burst. Our team was at the track and field stadium and all of the participants were lined up for registration. I was standing in line joking with friends, desperately attempting to look successful and happy because he was around. My sense of self preservation had returned and I was determined not to be obviously pathetic anymore. I remember hearing friends jumping up and down on the huge, thick pole vaulter's mat and I even remember the b.o.--combined with sweat--combined with rain smell of that mat. My ears detected the timbre of his laughter and I looked over to see him in full repose with my best friend. My peripheral vision caught movement and as I focused in, I saw him leaning over to delicately, deliciously kiss her lips. It was the kind of kiss that every young lady dreams of; the kind of kiss that holds a promise. My stomach plummeted through my body, exited, and landed right there on the cinder track in front of the new couple. My naked heart was exposed for all to see. It took a monstrous and exhausting force of will to fake happiness and continue as if I hadn't been struck with a two by four. In that instant all of the memories of my best friend turned to dust and I loathed her as only a besotted, thwarted schoolgirl can.
Then I began to hate myself! "How could I be such a loser?" I berated myself over and over again. Why didn't I get it before? It was only then that I realized Kenny had seen me all along. He just didn't like me anymore. I finally realized all of my efforts to be funny enough, beautiful enough, and smart enough for him to like me were in vain. Thus ended my first crush. It then became important to me to prove to him, and to myself, that I was superior to any girlfriend he currently had. As I pulled myself out of my emotional hole, I became defiant in my attitude, "I'll show him what he's missing!" "I am the best thing that COULD have ever happened to him!" I hated that I had abased myself and abandoned my dignity all for wanting him to like me. How ridiculous is that?
Years later, a dear family friend laughingly said, "Oh do you remember the time your dad threatened that guy--what was his name?" "Kenny something I think!" Dear reader, all those years later, the why became apparent. My father's b.s. detector had apparently, and in retrospect rightly, been pinging a silent, screaming alarm. When I had taken a few moments to stop at the powder room my father took the measure of the man and instantly disliked him. I learned that my dad actually showed Kenny his gun collection. Now I know that there are a lot of urban myths about this, but my father is an avid hunter. He'd been to Africa to hunt Cape Buffalo and he hunted doves and geese annually. To my friend's best recollection my father actually said, "Young man, do you see that gun over there?" My would-be beau politely responded, "Yes sir I do." And my father said, "Well I don't have a problem using it!" Any amorous ideas young Kenny might have had for the good Doctor's daughter evaporated in a cloud of fear, partly I suspect because my dad could see ill intentions from a mile away. As it turns out, father's b.s. detectors are operational even when their daughter's aren't.
Now, many years later, I realized how fragile infatuation can be. During those months, I was willing to sacrifice myself and my dignity all for a man all upon the altar of 'love.' Now after having been married for sixteen years wife and being the mother of a ten year old daughter, I can chuckle at myself. I can tuck that lesson about preserving dignity into my pocket and show it to my daughter when she is ready. During these subsequent decades, I've learned a lot about love and what true love really is.
I am reminded that even when Kenny couldn't really 'see' me, Jesus really did. He saw beyond the fresh faced hope of a school girl and into her very heart. And unlike Kenny, Jesus stopped and took notice. He loved me for all that I was and even more importantly for all that I wasn't. He also saw all that he could help me to be and was willing to lay everything down to save me. Jesus totally abandoned his dignity just for me, just as he has for all of us. I think unrequited love is the perfect metaphor for the Jesus who waits for us! He's staring at the spiritual phone waiting for you to call. He sees time come and go, and watches the birth and death of stars. Yet, he became fragile man to prove his undying love. Jesus, the Lord of the Universe, did more than allow himself to be the subject of ridicule in the school cafeteria. He allowed soldiers to strip him naked, lash him with whips, tear open his scalp all to prove how much he loves us. He abandoned kingship, health, wealth, and even his own happiness so that we might have life. This is no crush, this is true, all consuming, love. Amen??? My heart is happy to know that he saw me and I am happy to return his love. Are you?
Hey, I finally got over my crush on Kenny! And then in college, I met this super HOT guy named Brad....
Aaaaaahhhhh, my first crush was lovely! I still remember it, as much as I remember him. His name was Kenny and I was a freshman in High School. He was tall, dark haired, green-eyed and played on the basketball team. To this day, I still don't know what position he played or whether he was any good in spite of the fact that I attended as many games as I could just so I could watch him. I also remember that he had a car, which only served to make me feel as if he were more manly than any of the other testosterone infused young men with whom I attended school. Although I wasn't old enough to drive, I felt much older than my tender years; adult even. My very existence was validated: I liked him and he liked me! Somehow, I had been lifted to a new level of existence, and yes, even status, all because of a boy. But Kenny wasn't just any boy, he was the popular guy who chose me out of a sea of incoming freshmen girls. In my imagination, and there may indeed have been some truth to it, all of the girls were jealous that I, despite not being on the cheer team, had been able to catch his eye. Each day, I spent hours picking the right clothing and taming my shaggy 80's mane of long hair, perfecting the sphere of bangs perched precariously atop my forehead.
My bliss was complete the day Kenny came by our house to take me on my first (almost) date. I was getting to go by myself in a car with MY almost boyfriend. He came by my house to meet my parents and face my father. If you've met my dad, you know that he is stereotypically Italian. Thus, Kenny towered over him in height. But being Italian means that my somewhat shorter statured father towered over him in presence and attitude! They faced off like a pair of male dogs eyeing each other. I know they shook hands, and in retrospect there may have even been some knuckle rolling. Fortunately I was oblivious of the unspoken exchange, because I was blinded by puppy love. With the interrogation behind us, I glided to the car and allowed him to open my door for me.
The next day, I awoke suddenly more aware of my phone than I had ever been. "Ring! Ring!" I consciously willed it at 7:30a.m. on a Saturday morning. As 10:00 a.m. rolled around I became despondent! Then I became panicked as the day ever so slowly unfolded. I heard the grass growing, the trees drinking, and even the paint on the neighbor's two story garage drying. Kenny never called. Somehow I made it through the weekend. It was torturous!!! My mother forbade me from calling him, because "Nice girls don't call boys!" So, I was left wondering if the switchboard was routing his calls to another number or if we had power. We did. I checked many times that day, we had a dial tone.
All of a sudden, my euphoric plans for myself and my future came to a screeching halt. Anyone who has been rejected knows how bad it feels. Sleep is hard to come by, a general fatigue overcomes the body, and one's stomach is constantly queasy. I thought, "Surely he'll talk to me at school on Monday when I'm at my locker between classes!" Nope. Nothing. Crickets. I mooned about for weeks and months. The rational part of my mind that had been overcome with infatuation was now consumed by the urge to know "Why?" I frequently drove by his house to see if he was home and pretended I was visiting a friend when he was out washing his car. I found reasons to linger in the building where I knew most of his classes were just waiting for him to see me. My drive to connect with him, even fleetingly, reduced me to a benign, desperate stalking schoolgirl. I was no longer the "woman" I'd imagined myself to be in his presence. I'd deflated to half my age. Somehow in my adolescent mind I thought, "If he can just see me, he'll like me again!"
The school year slowly ground by, day after day until track season finally arrived. I was on the track team my freshman year and I will never forget how my Kenny bubble finally burst. Our team was at the track and field stadium and all of the participants were lined up for registration. I was standing in line joking with friends, desperately attempting to look successful and happy because he was around. My sense of self preservation had returned and I was determined not to be obviously pathetic anymore. I remember hearing friends jumping up and down on the huge, thick pole vaulter's mat and I even remember the b.o.--combined with sweat--combined with rain smell of that mat. My ears detected the timbre of his laughter and I looked over to see him in full repose with my best friend. My peripheral vision caught movement and as I focused in, I saw him leaning over to delicately, deliciously kiss her lips. It was the kind of kiss that every young lady dreams of; the kind of kiss that holds a promise. My stomach plummeted through my body, exited, and landed right there on the cinder track in front of the new couple. My naked heart was exposed for all to see. It took a monstrous and exhausting force of will to fake happiness and continue as if I hadn't been struck with a two by four. In that instant all of the memories of my best friend turned to dust and I loathed her as only a besotted, thwarted schoolgirl can.
Then I began to hate myself! "How could I be such a loser?" I berated myself over and over again. Why didn't I get it before? It was only then that I realized Kenny had seen me all along. He just didn't like me anymore. I finally realized all of my efforts to be funny enough, beautiful enough, and smart enough for him to like me were in vain. Thus ended my first crush. It then became important to me to prove to him, and to myself, that I was superior to any girlfriend he currently had. As I pulled myself out of my emotional hole, I became defiant in my attitude, "I'll show him what he's missing!" "I am the best thing that COULD have ever happened to him!" I hated that I had abased myself and abandoned my dignity all for wanting him to like me. How ridiculous is that?
Years later, a dear family friend laughingly said, "Oh do you remember the time your dad threatened that guy--what was his name?" "Kenny something I think!" Dear reader, all those years later, the why became apparent. My father's b.s. detector had apparently, and in retrospect rightly, been pinging a silent, screaming alarm. When I had taken a few moments to stop at the powder room my father took the measure of the man and instantly disliked him. I learned that my dad actually showed Kenny his gun collection. Now I know that there are a lot of urban myths about this, but my father is an avid hunter. He'd been to Africa to hunt Cape Buffalo and he hunted doves and geese annually. To my friend's best recollection my father actually said, "Young man, do you see that gun over there?" My would-be beau politely responded, "Yes sir I do." And my father said, "Well I don't have a problem using it!" Any amorous ideas young Kenny might have had for the good Doctor's daughter evaporated in a cloud of fear, partly I suspect because my dad could see ill intentions from a mile away. As it turns out, father's b.s. detectors are operational even when their daughter's aren't.
Now, many years later, I realized how fragile infatuation can be. During those months, I was willing to sacrifice myself and my dignity all for a man all upon the altar of 'love.' Now after having been married for sixteen years wife and being the mother of a ten year old daughter, I can chuckle at myself. I can tuck that lesson about preserving dignity into my pocket and show it to my daughter when she is ready. During these subsequent decades, I've learned a lot about love and what true love really is.
I am reminded that even when Kenny couldn't really 'see' me, Jesus really did. He saw beyond the fresh faced hope of a school girl and into her very heart. And unlike Kenny, Jesus stopped and took notice. He loved me for all that I was and even more importantly for all that I wasn't. He also saw all that he could help me to be and was willing to lay everything down to save me. Jesus totally abandoned his dignity just for me, just as he has for all of us. I think unrequited love is the perfect metaphor for the Jesus who waits for us! He's staring at the spiritual phone waiting for you to call. He sees time come and go, and watches the birth and death of stars. Yet, he became fragile man to prove his undying love. Jesus, the Lord of the Universe, did more than allow himself to be the subject of ridicule in the school cafeteria. He allowed soldiers to strip him naked, lash him with whips, tear open his scalp all to prove how much he loves us. He abandoned kingship, health, wealth, and even his own happiness so that we might have life. This is no crush, this is true, all consuming, love. Amen??? My heart is happy to know that he saw me and I am happy to return his love. Are you?
Hey, I finally got over my crush on Kenny! And then in college, I met this super HOT guy named Brad....
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Bottoms Up; An embarrassing moment...at church
BOTTOMS UP!!!!
Those who know me can attest to the fact that I am very clumsy. In fact, simply walking across a room can prove to be an insurmountable challenge. I take care to make life as simple as possible for myself and limit my overall exposure to situations that might lead me to embarrass myself. For example, one will almost never see me in a pair of cute shoes; I favor Dansko clogs, running shoes, and flip flops because they are a stable platform for this unsteady walker.
This last Sunday, I broke with tradition. A dear friend gave me a cute, flirty black dress...the sort of dress that flatters you in all the right places and camoflages any extra 'junk in the trunk.' I rolled my hair and carefully applied makeup designed to make me look dewy, fresh faced, and younger than my 37 years. I looked in the mirror and thought, "DANG....I GOT IT GOIN' ON!" To complete my nearly (but not so) "Desperate Housewives" look, I strapped on a pair of two inch, strappy heels with neat little geometric bows over the toes.
En route to church, I may have actually looked at my husband and said "YOU ARE WELCOME" (thinking he got a great deal in marrying such a fine looking woman). I pranced into church without incident and enjoyed an excellent sermon. Afterward, we picked up our children from the WOW worship facility, which is actually a trailer on blocks with a set of prefab deck wooden stairs. The kids ran ahead of while my husband and I walked slowly enjoying the day. I recall discussing where we would eat lunch as we began our descent from the deck. This conversation was abruptly ended by yours truly giving the Sunday school children an education which is not normally included in their curriculum. Upon reaching the second stair, my sassy two inch heel became wedged between the abutting 2 x 4 boards that make up each step. By wedged, I mean it sunk an inch deep in between the planks. I do not exaggerate when I state that I, or at least my right foot, was stuck!!!
I gave a most unlady-like shriek that served only to alert a larger audience to my distress, flailed wildly at my husband’s bicep, and plummeted face first down the two remaining steps. The only benefit his presence gave me was to slow my progress. In sloooooow motion (I am convinced that time itself did indeed slow to a crawl) my dress flapped, became caught by a divinely sent gust of wind, and exposed my backside to the masses of children and parents exiting Sunday school.
Ladies, I was wearing a thong. Yes you read that correctly! Lest you think I am some wild hussy who has taken leave of her senses, please know that it's a matter of practicality. If you have a derriere as substantial as mine, it becomes an issue of exactly how much fabric do you want crammed up "there." Regardless of what sort of undergarment I choose it's headed North, so I took the Less is More approach in selecting my pantaloons that morning.
Finally, some small shred of good fortune caught up with me at the last instant. My heel popped free and I was able to pirouette so that I landed soundly upon my gluteus maximus. To add insult to injury, I landed with my legs pointing up the stairs. Being the lady that I am in the dress that I was wearing, I clenched my knees together and refused to bend my legs. As far as I was concerned, that first peek was all anyone was going to get of 'the netherlands.'
Like a child needing consolation, I stretched my arms up to my husband and begged, "HELP!" He took hold of my hands and gave a mighty pull. My gravitational inertia was greater than the force of the yanking, and I didn't budge. So he was urgently admonishing me to, "BEND YOUR KNEES!" and I was vehemently refusing between clenched teeth, "AIN'T NO WAY!!!" After a second attempt, and much heaving, he managed to restore me to my feet. I was already painfully aware that I had inadvertently created a scene. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to stop and pay more attention to me.
But, my daughter in kindhearted concern began pointing out that I had a big bruise on my shin. She was terribly worried and completely unaware that she was impeding my escape. I was trying to kindly explain that “I am not worried about my shin and let's all go to the car now, mommy's fine, OKAY?” She continued to question me all while I was trying to limp and shoo her onward. On our way to the car, I noticed that several concerned parents had clapped their hands over their children's eyes. Other church-goers were doing their best not to laugh, and not succeeding at all.
Physically, I am fine. My ego, however, is crushed. And frankly, I feel terrible for all of those poor victims who were inadvertently flashed last Sunday. I suspect more people will remember the sight of my albino fanny, exposed, and flapping in the breeze than will remember the sermon, which by the way I have already forgotten. (They say trauma can cause memory loss and I for one agree.) I am deeply regretful for any offense I caused and am truly sorry for parents who might need to have explanatory conversations with their children.
I suspect God knew how proud I felt that morning. It seems apparent that he wouldn't want me to become conceited for any reason. Most importantly, I'd guess we can all agree that he does indeed have a sense of humor and that pride truly does go before a fall.
Those who know me can attest to the fact that I am very clumsy. In fact, simply walking across a room can prove to be an insurmountable challenge. I take care to make life as simple as possible for myself and limit my overall exposure to situations that might lead me to embarrass myself. For example, one will almost never see me in a pair of cute shoes; I favor Dansko clogs, running shoes, and flip flops because they are a stable platform for this unsteady walker.
This last Sunday, I broke with tradition. A dear friend gave me a cute, flirty black dress...the sort of dress that flatters you in all the right places and camoflages any extra 'junk in the trunk.' I rolled my hair and carefully applied makeup designed to make me look dewy, fresh faced, and younger than my 37 years. I looked in the mirror and thought, "DANG....I GOT IT GOIN' ON!" To complete my nearly (but not so) "Desperate Housewives" look, I strapped on a pair of two inch, strappy heels with neat little geometric bows over the toes.
En route to church, I may have actually looked at my husband and said "YOU ARE WELCOME" (thinking he got a great deal in marrying such a fine looking woman). I pranced into church without incident and enjoyed an excellent sermon. Afterward, we picked up our children from the WOW worship facility, which is actually a trailer on blocks with a set of prefab deck wooden stairs. The kids ran ahead of while my husband and I walked slowly enjoying the day. I recall discussing where we would eat lunch as we began our descent from the deck. This conversation was abruptly ended by yours truly giving the Sunday school children an education which is not normally included in their curriculum. Upon reaching the second stair, my sassy two inch heel became wedged between the abutting 2 x 4 boards that make up each step. By wedged, I mean it sunk an inch deep in between the planks. I do not exaggerate when I state that I, or at least my right foot, was stuck!!!
I gave a most unlady-like shriek that served only to alert a larger audience to my distress, flailed wildly at my husband’s bicep, and plummeted face first down the two remaining steps. The only benefit his presence gave me was to slow my progress. In sloooooow motion (I am convinced that time itself did indeed slow to a crawl) my dress flapped, became caught by a divinely sent gust of wind, and exposed my backside to the masses of children and parents exiting Sunday school.
Ladies, I was wearing a thong. Yes you read that correctly! Lest you think I am some wild hussy who has taken leave of her senses, please know that it's a matter of practicality. If you have a derriere as substantial as mine, it becomes an issue of exactly how much fabric do you want crammed up "there." Regardless of what sort of undergarment I choose it's headed North, so I took the Less is More approach in selecting my pantaloons that morning.
Finally, some small shred of good fortune caught up with me at the last instant. My heel popped free and I was able to pirouette so that I landed soundly upon my gluteus maximus. To add insult to injury, I landed with my legs pointing up the stairs. Being the lady that I am in the dress that I was wearing, I clenched my knees together and refused to bend my legs. As far as I was concerned, that first peek was all anyone was going to get of 'the netherlands.'
Like a child needing consolation, I stretched my arms up to my husband and begged, "HELP!" He took hold of my hands and gave a mighty pull. My gravitational inertia was greater than the force of the yanking, and I didn't budge. So he was urgently admonishing me to, "BEND YOUR KNEES!" and I was vehemently refusing between clenched teeth, "AIN'T NO WAY!!!" After a second attempt, and much heaving, he managed to restore me to my feet. I was already painfully aware that I had inadvertently created a scene. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to stop and pay more attention to me.
But, my daughter in kindhearted concern began pointing out that I had a big bruise on my shin. She was terribly worried and completely unaware that she was impeding my escape. I was trying to kindly explain that “I am not worried about my shin and let's all go to the car now, mommy's fine, OKAY?” She continued to question me all while I was trying to limp and shoo her onward. On our way to the car, I noticed that several concerned parents had clapped their hands over their children's eyes. Other church-goers were doing their best not to laugh, and not succeeding at all.
Physically, I am fine. My ego, however, is crushed. And frankly, I feel terrible for all of those poor victims who were inadvertently flashed last Sunday. I suspect more people will remember the sight of my albino fanny, exposed, and flapping in the breeze than will remember the sermon, which by the way I have already forgotten. (They say trauma can cause memory loss and I for one agree.) I am deeply regretful for any offense I caused and am truly sorry for parents who might need to have explanatory conversations with their children.
I suspect God knew how proud I felt that morning. It seems apparent that he wouldn't want me to become conceited for any reason. Most importantly, I'd guess we can all agree that he does indeed have a sense of humor and that pride truly does go before a fall.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The Church
Earth’s crust is littered with fragile bodies and broken souls
Mere fragments of who man was created to be.
We the church are an imperfect reflection of Christ,
Fractured shards of a holy mirror that when fitted together
Represent His love and passion for all of creation.
Only together, working as one body, can we honor him
By going places only Jesus would have gone and loving
Those who only an almighty God could love.
Mere fragments of who man was created to be.
We the church are an imperfect reflection of Christ,
Fractured shards of a holy mirror that when fitted together
Represent His love and passion for all of creation.
Only together, working as one body, can we honor him
By going places only Jesus would have gone and loving
Those who only an almighty God could love.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Mountains
Brad and I recently traveled to Anchorage, Alaska from Washington D.C. We spent 13 hours confined to sitting at extreme right angles, knees in our eye sockets, and breathing in air that had been recycled by 250 pairs of lungs and then exhaled for our benefit. This already appealing cocktail of fun was further enhanced by my swollen, black right foot. I had severely sprained it and was supposed to be traveling with an air cast. As I hobbled onto the airplane, I was hoping that I'd be able to baby my foot and sleep as well. I also prayed fervently not to be seated next to anyone who felt it necessary to consume mass quanitites of alcohol! In the past, it seems that 'fate' plays the occasional rude joke and I get wedged into a seat next to some bombastic soul who sweats profusely, swears with flourish, and drinks enough to make someone of Slavic heritage proud. In those situations, with beer goggles perched neatly atop the bridge of their nose, the poor soul nearest to them, married or not, can appear to be an available, receptive target.
Brad and I seated ourselves and I sank into my seat with a sigh of relief. Finding just the right position for my foot was difficult, and I finally propped it up against the bulkhead wall. I noticed that my traveling companion also had HIS feet up too and they too looked worse for wear. He was wearing a pair of TEVA sandals and it was apparent that he was missing several toes.
Curiosity piqued, I asked him why he was headed to Anchorage. He indicated that he was en route to climb Denali, the highest and most hazardous peak in Alaska. Denali, for those from the lower 48, is known as Mt. McKinley. On a clear day, you can see Denali from Anchorage. It is breathtaking and spectacular! Most days, however, the top is shrouded in clouds and there is always a cap of snow on top. The steep angle of the mountain is hardly a slope for novices, so I assumed he was experienced and I suspected he'd lost his toes on another climb. I'd also read "Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakaur and "No Shortcuts to the Top" by Ed Viesturs, as well as several other first-hand accounts.
More recently, he had attempted a peak in South America. It was during this trip that his foot became badly infected. He was evacuated on a litter by men who carried him throughout the night to reach medical care. I believe his toes were amputated as a result of this near-death experience. Many months of treatment and skin grafts were needed to bring him back to health. This trip would be a moment of truth for him. Would the grafts withstand the unique physiological stressors of high altitudes?
"Why," I asked, "Do you climb?" In my mind, I was wondering why someone would relish the prospect of risking life and limb to climb a mountain. Our companion said that when one is on the mountain, vanity falls away. Unimportant things like what you do for a living, what car you drive, and other inane status symbols cease to matter. I would suppose that in a quest of that magnitude, the significance of self becomes lost in the mighty, awesome, and somewhat terrible power of nature. Life, like a mountain, can not be tamed.
I shared with him that I love running for that very reason. Although I am currently hampered by chronic injuries, I used to run long distance races. Quite simply, endurance running helped me keep my soul tidy and organized. Exerting myself, forcing my body to obey my will allowed me to practice discipline. In order to succeed at long distances, one must take all of the negativity and any thoughts of "I can't" and replace them with "I will!" For that reason, I love the rhythm of running. While many people have a hard time breathing for long distances, I always felt like the little engine that could. I would start slow, but I always breathed in for two steps and then breathed out for two steps. That first mile or three was always stiff and uncomfortable, but the farther I ran the easier it became. Breathing and channeling pain became enjoyable to me! The act of running forced out all of the miniscule things I worried about and made me concentrate on the next breath or the next step. During those times of intense concentration, running stopped being exercise and became a form of worship for me. As I would run, I could pray and I could enjoy God's creation. There were simply no distractions to keep me from focusing on God. The phone never rang, I couldn't be cleaning, or cooking, or attending to all of the needs of others. As strange as it seems, when I was out running, everything else was on pause and that was very helpful both emotionally and spiritually.
I once trained and ran a marathon. It was the hardest thing I have ever done and that includes bearing children! The more I trained, the more running and setting a goal, and achieving that goal became a proving ground for me. I felt that if I could beat back fatigue and stave off despair, triumphs on the road would extend into other areas of my life. During these moments when my body wanted to fail but my mind wanted to win, I found a deeper understanding of who God is. He is a God who never gives up on us and I resolved to finish at all costs. However, running is hardly mountain climbing in its purest form. The only risks to me might have been a couple of blisters, hurt knees, or torn tendons. I could pull over to the side of the road and stop if needed. Barring an unforeseen collision with a car or a massive heart attack, I never risked my own survival to run.
The conversation touched me so deeply. Why does man persist in such endeavors? In my opinion, there is some small kernel deep inside all humanity that makes us fight to overcome. There hasn't been a day since that flight that I haven't replayed this conversation and it is very difficult for me to condense my thoughts into words effectively. Truly, the metaphor of climbing an almost infinite mountain parallels many aspects of life.
One idea keeps occuring over and over again in my mind: mountains are important to God! In scripture, specifically the Old Testament, God's very presence descended upon Mt. Sinai so that he could be known to the Israelites. In fact, Moses spent 40 days on the top of Sinai receiving the commandments. The book of Isaiah says that God's people are called to pray at God's holy mountain. In the new testament, Jesus met a Samaritan woman at a well. She talked with God's own son about which mountain she should pray at; the Jews prayed in Jerusalem but the Samaritans prayed at a different mountain. Mountains are symbolic of God because of how immense and infinite they seem. The biggest mountains dwarf us when we stand at their feet. They seem to bridge the gap between terra firma and heaven itself. Whenever I've been in the Rockies, I have been aware of my insignificance in comparison to something that seems immutable.
As I write this, my new friend is summiting Denali. I am amazed that in the pursuit of triumph he voluntarily risks his life. He has at times sacrificed his health and even a few toes in the reckless pursit of his goals. I am awed by his fortitude and persistence. At the same time, I can't help but believe that this is what God requires of us all...that we would seek him so ardently, so passionately that everything else would seem as unimportant as ashes from a fire...that we would ruthlessly chase him above all else and that we would risk it all just to see his face.
We are promised that if we seek him, we will indeed find him. And, when we find him, all of the trivialities in life will pale in comparison to the beauty, joy, and contentment that he offers. God is like a mountain. He is mighty and can not be tamed yet, he seeks communion, relationship with us. King David said it best, "What is man that you are mindful of him?" As I write this I pray for the success of this man. I am also reminded of who God really is and how I need to live my life. I need to work so hard that I leave it all on the mountain, because life is too short to leave any effort unspent.
Brad and I seated ourselves and I sank into my seat with a sigh of relief. Finding just the right position for my foot was difficult, and I finally propped it up against the bulkhead wall. I noticed that my traveling companion also had HIS feet up too and they too looked worse for wear. He was wearing a pair of TEVA sandals and it was apparent that he was missing several toes.
Curiosity piqued, I asked him why he was headed to Anchorage. He indicated that he was en route to climb Denali, the highest and most hazardous peak in Alaska. Denali, for those from the lower 48, is known as Mt. McKinley. On a clear day, you can see Denali from Anchorage. It is breathtaking and spectacular! Most days, however, the top is shrouded in clouds and there is always a cap of snow on top. The steep angle of the mountain is hardly a slope for novices, so I assumed he was experienced and I suspected he'd lost his toes on another climb. I'd also read "Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakaur and "No Shortcuts to the Top" by Ed Viesturs, as well as several other first-hand accounts.
More recently, he had attempted a peak in South America. It was during this trip that his foot became badly infected. He was evacuated on a litter by men who carried him throughout the night to reach medical care. I believe his toes were amputated as a result of this near-death experience. Many months of treatment and skin grafts were needed to bring him back to health. This trip would be a moment of truth for him. Would the grafts withstand the unique physiological stressors of high altitudes?
"Why," I asked, "Do you climb?" In my mind, I was wondering why someone would relish the prospect of risking life and limb to climb a mountain. Our companion said that when one is on the mountain, vanity falls away. Unimportant things like what you do for a living, what car you drive, and other inane status symbols cease to matter. I would suppose that in a quest of that magnitude, the significance of self becomes lost in the mighty, awesome, and somewhat terrible power of nature. Life, like a mountain, can not be tamed.
I shared with him that I love running for that very reason. Although I am currently hampered by chronic injuries, I used to run long distance races. Quite simply, endurance running helped me keep my soul tidy and organized. Exerting myself, forcing my body to obey my will allowed me to practice discipline. In order to succeed at long distances, one must take all of the negativity and any thoughts of "I can't" and replace them with "I will!" For that reason, I love the rhythm of running. While many people have a hard time breathing for long distances, I always felt like the little engine that could. I would start slow, but I always breathed in for two steps and then breathed out for two steps. That first mile or three was always stiff and uncomfortable, but the farther I ran the easier it became. Breathing and channeling pain became enjoyable to me! The act of running forced out all of the miniscule things I worried about and made me concentrate on the next breath or the next step. During those times of intense concentration, running stopped being exercise and became a form of worship for me. As I would run, I could pray and I could enjoy God's creation. There were simply no distractions to keep me from focusing on God. The phone never rang, I couldn't be cleaning, or cooking, or attending to all of the needs of others. As strange as it seems, when I was out running, everything else was on pause and that was very helpful both emotionally and spiritually.
I once trained and ran a marathon. It was the hardest thing I have ever done and that includes bearing children! The more I trained, the more running and setting a goal, and achieving that goal became a proving ground for me. I felt that if I could beat back fatigue and stave off despair, triumphs on the road would extend into other areas of my life. During these moments when my body wanted to fail but my mind wanted to win, I found a deeper understanding of who God is. He is a God who never gives up on us and I resolved to finish at all costs. However, running is hardly mountain climbing in its purest form. The only risks to me might have been a couple of blisters, hurt knees, or torn tendons. I could pull over to the side of the road and stop if needed. Barring an unforeseen collision with a car or a massive heart attack, I never risked my own survival to run.
The conversation touched me so deeply. Why does man persist in such endeavors? In my opinion, there is some small kernel deep inside all humanity that makes us fight to overcome. There hasn't been a day since that flight that I haven't replayed this conversation and it is very difficult for me to condense my thoughts into words effectively. Truly, the metaphor of climbing an almost infinite mountain parallels many aspects of life.
One idea keeps occuring over and over again in my mind: mountains are important to God! In scripture, specifically the Old Testament, God's very presence descended upon Mt. Sinai so that he could be known to the Israelites. In fact, Moses spent 40 days on the top of Sinai receiving the commandments. The book of Isaiah says that God's people are called to pray at God's holy mountain. In the new testament, Jesus met a Samaritan woman at a well. She talked with God's own son about which mountain she should pray at; the Jews prayed in Jerusalem but the Samaritans prayed at a different mountain. Mountains are symbolic of God because of how immense and infinite they seem. The biggest mountains dwarf us when we stand at their feet. They seem to bridge the gap between terra firma and heaven itself. Whenever I've been in the Rockies, I have been aware of my insignificance in comparison to something that seems immutable.
As I write this, my new friend is summiting Denali. I am amazed that in the pursuit of triumph he voluntarily risks his life. He has at times sacrificed his health and even a few toes in the reckless pursit of his goals. I am awed by his fortitude and persistence. At the same time, I can't help but believe that this is what God requires of us all...that we would seek him so ardently, so passionately that everything else would seem as unimportant as ashes from a fire...that we would ruthlessly chase him above all else and that we would risk it all just to see his face.
We are promised that if we seek him, we will indeed find him. And, when we find him, all of the trivialities in life will pale in comparison to the beauty, joy, and contentment that he offers. God is like a mountain. He is mighty and can not be tamed yet, he seeks communion, relationship with us. King David said it best, "What is man that you are mindful of him?" As I write this I pray for the success of this man. I am also reminded of who God really is and how I need to live my life. I need to work so hard that I leave it all on the mountain, because life is too short to leave any effort unspent.
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