I Can't Help it!

Standing in the shower the other day, I was thinking.  (Not that unusual, I think way too much).  Anyway, I was thinking about my kids, and love, and how much I love them . . . so much that sometimes I think my heart will burst for it.  Love so strong, and hard and fierce it hurts, literally hurts my heart.  That, however, is not the point.  The point is when I'd express to them how much I love them, or how fabulous they are, my kids used to tell me (and they probably feel the same way now), "you're supposed to feel that way, you're my Mom."  Or worse yet, "that doesn't mean anything, you're my Mom."

To be fair I have to say I understand where they were coming from.  They wanted acceptance and love from friends.... but here's the deal.  I don't love them because I'm supposed to.  I love them because, Holy Cow! I can't help it.  There is no choice involved here.  It's in the very marrow of my bones.  My body aches and my heart pours out.  There is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to stop it, or change it or anything.  It simply IS.

About a month ago my husband was preaching a sermon and He was talking about God's love.  God's love for us.  Basically saying the same thing.  God's love is not a choice, God's love is WHO He is.  There was no decision, "Well, these humans are going to screw up, I guess we better figure out how We can save them."  No, not at all.  God HAD to save us.  Why?  Because there IS NO choice. . . . it must be done.  Not because Love "demands" it.  But because that Love can't NOT.  That's what that love does. . . .that love pours itself out.  that Love bleeds. . . it cannot be stopped. . . it cannot decide not to love.

So, does that Love mean any less when it cannot help but love?  When there is no choice; do we discard it as "meaningless"?

There are some people in my life that I choose to love.  It is a willful act, a conscious decision.  And then there is the love for my husband. . . .  different because it started outside of me. . . . choice is involved somehow, but not totally.  It's more like a beautiful dance, like the colours of the sunset, like sun-diamonds sparkling on the snow.

But the love for my children, well that is direct, more like a blazing bolt of fire that cannot be quenched.  It has a power all its own, a life beyond me.  Which one means more?  The choice?  The dance?  The power?

I don't know the answer to that question.  But I do know which one is strongest in me . . . because that love, well, I can't help it.

Liar!

It's a lie.  A big, fat, "liar, liar pants on firer" BOLDFACED lie.  Pop psychology, modern spirituality and even traditional Christianity perpetuate it, but it's still a lie.
The lie?   That you (or anyone) will have life figured out and you can "have it all together".  It's NOT TRUE!  You can meditate and deep breathe all day long, you can "have the power of positive thinking" or follow all the "rules" and it won't make a difference.  Why?  Because life is hard!  Period.  Life is hard and we get bumped and bruised and sometimes scratched and stabbed and left bleeding.  And techniques, tools and coping skills are not going to get you to a place where you"ll have it all figured out.  And I'm mad, really mad at the lie, because it leaves people, you and me, thinking we are supposed to figure it out and have it together, and when we don't we either give up trying or pretend we have it figured out.  Doing either of those, we end up hurting, bumping and bruising others more than we could otherwise avoid.

So what's the point?  The point is not to "figure it out"  the point is to live, to live full and free.  Life is a menagerie of vicious and victorious, chaotic and contended, destructive and delightful.  We cannot stop the onslaught.  What we can to do is lean into it, all of it.  Lean in to the beauty and the pain.  "But pain hurts" you say.  Yes it does.  But it hurts more when you deny it, or brace yourself against it, or fight it off like it can go away.  And it hurts more when you numb it - numb it with activity, or religion, or alcohol or people or whatever.  But you can't just lie down and take it either.  We are not to be victims of our pain, but survivors, over-comers, thrivers.

So how do we lean in.  We face it, converse with it, sometimes wrestle a little.  If it lies to you, tell it the truth.  If it tells you the truth, accept it.  Let the suffering you embrace be the fertile place for compassion to grow, for kindness to flourish, for mercy to reign.

The journey of life takes us up a mountain, but its not a straight trail up.  The trail winds its way around.  Around and around we travel, a little higher and a little higher.  We often find ourselves in a similar spot, dealing with the insecurity, or fear, or discouragement or anger or hurt that we thought we had already dealt with, shaming ourselves thinking "I dealt with this already.  I should have this taken care of by now."  But that's not how it works.  We are at a similar spot because the journey is never over, there is always a deeper healing, a greater growth.  What we have to do when we find ourselves in a similar spot is to look around and notice that we are a little higher up than we were last time and take comfort in that.   Then let the deeper healing come and grow a little more.  Then keep walking and say, "see you next time around."

Home

Upstate New York ,

nothing really spectacular up there, just trees and roads and rocks.  Something happened to me as we got into upstate New York, an internal change.  A settling of sorts.  I felt a growing comfort.  I realized that I had entered my world of "familiar".

Now, upstate New York is not home for me.  But, it looks like my home, and feels like my home and I was approaching home.  My Canada, my history, my heritage.  It may seem all patriotic and such, but the feeling is not a puffing out of the chest, raise the flag and honour Queen (or Prime Minister) and country.  No, not even close.  It's more like a warm cup of tea, curled up on the couch in front of a fire kind of feeling.  It's . . . there's really no other word . . . comforting.

It happens to me every time I go back to Canada.  And it doesn't matter where I am, Ontario, Alberta, New Brunswick, although in the past, before I moved to the US, it only happened in Ontario.  The closer and closer I get to home the anticipation and excitement builds.  Joy bubbles from my heart and spills onto my face.  Every mile will soon  be a kilometer.  The grass will be soft.  The air will be cooler.  I'll drive on roads cut through granite rock.  Maple trees, birch trees (I forgot all about birch trees till I saw one - o my), poplars and weeping willows fill the landscape in abundance.  Marshlands with still, pond-like waters, lily pads and cattails waiting to be explored by canoe.  People's gardens. . . o the lushness of their gardens.  Yards decorated with black-eyed Susans, phlox, marigolds - yes I know they have those in a lot of places but up there they are plentiful, rich  - not scorched and begging for cool air.  Even the apples are different. . . MacIntosh, Cortlands, Empires. . . those are the commons apples, not Gala, Pink Lady, and Fuji.  Everything is familiar - and all is well with the world.

Then, when my feet cross over to my homeland. . . my heart finds its rest.  I can breathe a sigh of relief and let everything go.  I'm home.  I belong here.

Lent to me for a little while...

There's my precious baby boy,  born 17 years ago.  I remember an older woman telling me during my pregnancy that every woman needed a son.  I didn't believe her at the time.  I believe her now.

I don't know what it is about a son.  (It's certainly NOT that I don't cherish and adore my daughter - just thinking about her brings tears to my eyes cuz I love her till my heart bursts.)

Cameo said once that Jared brought laughter into our home.  She's so right.  From the very beginning Jared has had the best sense of humour.  And he loves to share it. 

Mostly though, I think I would describe Jared as a warrior-poet.  He is that unusual blend of fierceness and tenderness.  He lives to an internal code of honour.  He's honest, loyal.  He believes in justice and accountability.  He will call out inconsistency and demand fairness.

and yet he is tender. . . . and protective. . . as a little boy in elementary school he would come home and tell me about how he walked and encouraged one friend or another.  How he was sad that his friends had difficult lives. . . 

He is gentle with his tender-hearted mother and forgiving . . . 

it's really the pictures that tell the story. . . so much better than my words,

O and he's so creative. . . 

and brilliant. . .

              and poetic . . . 

                         and deep . . . 

He has a depth of insight. . . and can see into your soul. . .   His heart was born "old".  And he really wasn't made for this world.  But this world needs him.  Needs his compassion, needs his fierceness, needs his words, needs his poetry, needs his story. . . 

God, in His mercy has given me this "old man" in a boy's body. . . to love and nurture . . . 

. . . and then to let go. 

No greater gift have I been given than to be the mother of my children.

Happy Birthday Son!  You are my heart's treasure.

The Standard

I learned something about myself recently, well, I probably knew it all along but it finally registered.  When we start talking about "doing" or "keeping standards" I lose my mind.  . . . Literally . . . my brain stops thinking, my heart starts beating, and my tongue, well anything that rolls off my tongue makes no sense whatsoever, not even to me.  Its just a garbled mess of back peddling out of the mud.

And if that wasn't enough, well, I can't seem to stop myself from talking.  I want to.  I want to just quietly, sweetly sit there, pleasant smile on my face and let everyone else talk about it.  They are fine.  They don't need me to say anything.  Jesus loves all of us . . . let them wrestle it out without my input.

But that doesn't happen.  I get so riled up inside, that I open my mouth and it all comes spilling out.  And then when I'm all done I want to go crawl in a hole and slowly die . . .

Its not that I want to ignore the scriptures where Jesus says "if you love me, keep my commandments".  It just seems like that means I need to make sure my skirt length goes to my knees, I don't show any cleavage, I can't swear, don't eat pork, can't swim on Sabbath and a myriad of other don'ts and can'ts.  It makes me crazy, probably because I want to please God and do His will. AND I guess I have a rebellious spirit and don't want anyone telling me what to do.

I can't live by a list of rules.  First, I hate lists and second, rules . . . well the thought just makes me want to throw up.

I recently watched a movie called, Lord, Save Us From Your Followers, I recommend it, though some may find it a little irreverent at first.  It's a documentary.  A Christian man explores Christianity in America.  There seemed to be this huge contrast.  There were (or are) the condemning, judgmental Christians who postulate that New Orleans was hit by Hurricane Katrina as a punishment from God for their sinfulness and want to clean the world up for all its sinful corruption..

And then there are the ones who after dark take meals to the streets. and literally wash the feet of drunkards and addicts, who sit and listen to the story of the schizophrenic as they share a simple meal.

I also just finished a book by Anne Lamott.  In it she talks of an atheist friend of hers who goes to Africa on relief efforts.

Which is God pleased with more, the Christian who shakes her finger at the teen whose make-up is too thick and skirt is too high. . . OR . . . the atheist who feeds the hungry in Africa. . .

I don't know!

What I do know is that Jesus said, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice". . . and 1 Corinthians 13 tells me that I can have faith that moves mountains, or can prophecy or can speak with the tongues of angels. . . but without love, well, it amounts to a hill of beans.

The Standard. . . well the standard probably has less to do with how far in the water I went on the Sabbath and a whole lot more to do with "did I love?"

I'm not sure what will happen the next time there is a discussion on "doing" and Standard. . . I'm pretty guaranteed there will be one.  I'll likely behave the same way.  I'll say a garbled mess, not make any sense . . . and walk away wishing I'd kept my mouth shut.

 I know how I want to live though.  I don't want to live tied up in knots over a list of can and can'ts.

I want to live LOVE and be free.

cheers,
k

Thank You Jesus

Last week someone told me that she was glad she didn't write me off as "just another pastor's wife"... my first response was "thank you Jesus!"

I've been racking my brain for over a week trying to figure out what this is all about.  I want to pinpoint the "whatever it is"  that creates the image of "pastor's wife".  Because, you see, my gratitude is NOT that my friend didn't write me off (though I am thankful for that, she is a precious friend);  My gratitude is founded on the fact that I don't want to belong to the stereotypical "pastor's wives" club.

hmmmmm. . . . . . .

My friend later told me that "pastor's wives" and those with similar "labels" (she called them labels, and willingly admitted that she was the one doing the labeling). . . left her feeling "unsafe".    Unsafe!

Unsafe?  What is that all about?

Are we, pastor's wives,  Are we aloof?  Unapproachable?  Distant?  Do we portray the illusion of perfection?  Plastic?  Syrupy Sweet?  Disingenuine?    Do we come across as judgmental?  Condemning?  Condescending?  Do we gossip?  Tear people down?  Criticize?

What makes us, or the label of us, unsafe?

I really don't know.

What I DO know is that as a pastor's wife I am called to a higher plane of accountability.  My dress must be modest.  My speech, clean.  The Sabbath held sacred in my heart.  I am to tithe and to adhere to the food restrictions in Leviticus 11 (I'm even struggling with the coffee thing).  My "leadership" role calls me to greater responsibility to walk in OBEDIENCE to God's Law.  I KNOW that obedience does NOT save me.  Grace, and grace ALONE saves me.  Yet I must walk the walk of obedience.  I WANT to walk the walk of obedience.... I want, desperately want my life, my step-by-step, daily life to honour God.  Pure and Holy in His sight. . . . I AM a child of the One True King. . . . take my life and let it be, consecrated Lord to thee. . . . . I want my life to show that I AM His.

But there is more to being His, than the outward "show" of accountability' following the rules.   There is the free-flowing of the richness of His mercy, His compassion, His patience, His love .. . .
. . . and it's about "being" not "doing".

Maybe that's it!  I just figured it out.  Well, a piece of it anyway.

The RESTRICTION of obedience, the "doing" of obedience . . . that makes us unsafe . . . but the RESPONSE of obedience, flowing easily, spontaneously from a heart that loves..... that FREES us up to BE safe.   Safe havens, places of comfort, places of mercy, places of compassion. . . . even places of silliness, places of laughter.  Places where people can be people. . . . imperfect, mistake-making, beautiful people.

Today I had two different Kaylas tell me how they appreciated me.  How I helped them.   To one I was soothing comfort (thank you Jesus) during moments of tremendous fear and distress.  To the other, she said I was the "person in her corner" (again thank you Jesus). . . . then she sent me a link to a song. . . . and all I can say is praise You, my God and Father, and You, Sweet Jesus, Lover of my Soul and You, Comforting Holy Spirit who lives in me.... because ALL I want to be, all I want to do is

Love them like You do... (take a minute & listen to the song)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6OYmmMicsA&sns=em

God Bless,
k

The Gap

Her name is Sylvia.  I didn't KNOW that at the time.  She'd been to my class before and of course told me her name, but it didn't really register.  But what she did for me THAT day will linger into eternity, like the sweet scent of perfume remains a room long after the woman who wears it has left.  And because of THAT she holds a sacred place in my heart.

Life was happening and I was exhausted.  At the time I was working, running my home, leading a marriage seminar with my husband and teaching Sabbath school every Sabbath.  Now that my not seem like much but  everything I was doing required my heart to be fully engaged.  My clients get me, all of me, fully present and emotionally engaged.  Doing a marriage seminar, well I bleed desperation for marriages to be all they can be,  man and woman fully loving each other, filled with grace and acceptance, and a pour all of me, all my energy into imparting that.  Wanting to inspire couples to take the risk, because it's worth it.   And any woman knows how tiring running a household can be; a son in grade 8 and a daughter in grade 11, two different schedules to coordinate.  I was getting all my "work" done so I could pick my son up at 3:00 and be home in the afternoon.  Making meals, doing groceries, cleaning house etc, etc....   you know how it is.  My family needed ALL of me.

And then there was my Sabbath school class.  Well that class was special.  It was a Women's class and the estrogen flowed freely, as did the tears.  We had created a safe haven.  We came and left all pretense and facade on the other side of the door.  In our little room, we laughed, we cried, we shared, we supported, we prayed.  And these precious women, all ages, all life circumstances......... well they too deserved ALL of me too.

But on this Sabbath morning there was no "All-of-me" left.  There was nothing.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally depleted.  I remember praying, "Lord I have nothing to give."  I prayed throughout the morning, frantic, my unspoken request for God to give me "something" so I'd have something to give.....  His answer to my prayer . . . silence.

The Sabbath school room was full that morning, we were 12 - 15 strong.  The ladies carried on like they did every Sabbath.  They chatted and connected, then went through their heart's desires for prayer. . . .  all the while I listened, and smiled . . . and still, I had nothing.

Prayer time arrived.. . . .   I looked at my precious women. . . . tears welled in my eyes and dripped down my cheeks. . . . in a feeble, weak voice I told these beautiful women "I have nothing, I can't even pray.  I don't even have the energy to pray."

Sylvia spoke up then.  She said she would pray.  She said, "I'll pray for you."  And though she sat across the room it was as if she came and sat in my chair with me, beside me.  She told Jesus all the things I couldn't say.  She lifted me up and let me rest in her prayer.  She stood in the Gap of my nothingness, where I couldn't even reach Jesus.  And took hold of Jesus FOR me.  The Glorious Spirit of God was in that little room. . . .  and there was peace.

After prayer I was able to teach class. . . . but this story is NOT about some miracle of prayer that gave me energy to teach.  This story is about the miracle of standing in the Gap for another.

"When hope is more than you can bear, and it's too hard to believe it could be true.  
And your strength fails you half way there, You can LEAN on me and I'll believe FOR you.  
And in time you will believe it too."  (Jason Gray, Nothing is Wasted, emphasis mine.)

I was changed that day.  Leaning on Sylvia, she "believed" for me.  She was strength for me, she was love for me, she was peace for me, she was prayer for me.  She stood in the Gap FOR me.   She gave me a gift that transcends this "here and now" and carries me into the realm of the holy.

Of course she gave me a glimpse of what Jesus did and does for me.  And that too is a gift because I have a fuller understanding. . . .  my experience with Jesus is  richer, deeper.  O the love the Father has for us. . .  that we should be called the children of God.  Co-heirs with Christ. . . . because Jesus placed a cross in the Gap and built a bridge. . . . my heart overflows. . .

But this story, though a shadow of what Jesus did, is for today.  For you and me.  Let's stand in the Gap.  We NEED each other.  I'll stand in the Gap for you. . . you can lean on me. . . and I'll believe for you. . . UNTIL you can believe it too.

Thanks Sylvia.

blessings,
k

Safe?

There is so much pain in the world I just want to make it better.  I want to reach out, touch, ease the burden.    If only I could brush my thumb across your forehead and soothe your furrowed brow.   If only I could place my hand over yours and relief could escape your lips.  If only I could sit with you, in silence, and your grief would know it is not alone.  You are not alone.....

I recently read a blog (a response to the Boston bombing) about being safe.  About wanting to keep our children safe.  What a farce!  We cannot keep our children, or anyone else, including ourselves, safe.
Free from harm!  Not on your life!  There's no way.
So what to do?  Harm is everywhere.  There is no freedom from pain.

I guess one response would be to secure ourselves in a tower of fear.  Yes, that's it.  Be aware of all the dangers out there. . . constantly on the look out. . . vigilant . . . senses highly tuned to every sound, to every shadow that could harm.

I imagine that would keep us safe. . . right?   That way I could avoid all the harm, all the pain.  Right?  That way my kids would never get hurt.  Right?  That there would be no risk of suffering.  Right?

No.  That would be an illusion.  A facade of smoke and mirrors that would cause more pain and suffering.  Fear IS harm.  Fear is a prison that lies and tells you that you are safe but slowly devours you from the inside.  It eats away at your soul.  Leaves you behind bars . . . and alone . . . dissolving to nothingness.

But I don't want to feel pain.  And even more so I don't want YOU to feel pain.  I want you to be kept from harm. . . . you, my friends, my children, my husband.  You, the stranger who is being crushed under the weight of suffering too heavy to bear.

I see you.  I see your anguish.  I see how it dulls the sparkle in your eyes, how is curves your shoulders and bends your back.  How you stumble as you so bravely carry it through your day, through your life. . . . moment my moment . . . so heavy.

What can I offer?  I can't take it away.  I can't change the circumstance.  I can't pick it up like a large boulder and carry it away. . . far, far away so it does not weigh you down anymore.

All I can offer is myself.  All I can do is sit in the suffering WITH you.  All I can do is not shrink away, not be horrified, not talk you out of it, not shame you and not force you to pretend it isn't there.  All I can do is offer myself.  Not my love, not my acceptance, not my sympathy, or pity or kindness.  NO!  Me, all of me.  Present!  Showing up!  In your pain.   I might be afraid, and I might be shy.  You see, your pain reminds me of my pain.  It reminds me of the ugly truth that there is no freedom from harm.  No protection from injury.  But that is not enough reason to stay away. . . and all the more reason be to present.

So perhaps we need to redefine "safe".   Perhaps "safe" is not freedom from harm or injury.  Perhaps "safe" is me "with" you.  And in the ugly of pain we will discover the beauty of connection.  In the horrible of suffering we will find the loveliness of belonging.  You to me and me to you.

And neither of us will be alone.  And we will both me "safe".

Deeply Graced by God......

I love the phrase "deeply graced by God".  If feels like a a warm blanket all wrapped up safe and snug.  I heard it from a woman who describes her past as the "deepest pit of sin".  It made me reflect on my own life.  And compare mine to hers.  I cannot say that I've ever been in what we might call a deep pit of sin, at least not by human standards.

The combination of my temperament and circumstances created a "good girl" in me.  I was not rebellious or defiant.  Quiet and compliant I kept the rules, did what I was supposed to do.  I was good, "perfect" my mother would tell me.  I never gave her or my young husband any trouble.  And it wasn't a Pharisaical "goodness"; me being above everyone else, looking down my nose at the lowlifes who smoked and got bad grades, or those who were divorced or "controlling".  Rather it was a "goodness" coat, used to cover the "nothing" I felt inside.  Zipped up nice and tight.  It wasn't fancy or flashy.  No, it was strong and sturdy,  not ugly, just practical.  And it covered me from head to toe

But here's the thing.  Sin is not defined by a behaviour or state of being.  Sin is the chasm between me and comfort, between me and safety, between me and Love. . . . between me and God!  And it doesn't matter whether that chasm is dug with the shovel of bad deeds or the backhoe of "goodness".  They are equally as heinous and equally as deadly.

But today, I sit snuggled and warm in a fuzzy blanket.  Comforted, safe, loved . . . I breath in the freshness of life renewed, released and freed.                      
                             I too am deeply graced by God.
   

Safe

I woke up last Sabbath morning feeling normal.  I've felt normal every since.  6 days of normal.  It's so relieving   I've existed under this weight, so heavy on my chest, for over three months. . . . the last month being the worst, suffocatingly so.

I read Psalm 134 yesterday; part of my quiet time Bible study.  It's a call to "bless the Lord".  What struck me was that it is for those who "stand in the Lord's house at night."   A strange picture is drawn in my head.  Normally  I think of coming to the Lord's house in the day time, sun shining, flowers blooming, a bounce in my step, joy springing from my soul.  But this. . . this picture is at night.

 It's dark, only street lamps light the way.  Dim ones that cast a faint yellow glow.  The air is foreboding.  Darkness presses in.  I walk the streets.  A cloak covers my body, a hood over my head.  I shiver, not from the cold, but from the darkness of the night.  I know where I'm going.  The shadows dance at a distance.  I turn the corner, the House of the Lord stands tall before me, majestic, made of stone.  The rose window luminescent under the night sky.  I lower the hood off my head and undo the clasp of my cloak as I walk up the numerous steps to the massive wooden doors that stand between me and the House of the Lord.  I grip the long brass handle and pull.  Heavy, I pull hard.  The door opens silently.  I enter.  Candles light the House or the Lord.  The breeze caused by opening the door causes the light to flicker.  Removing my cloak I place it over the back pew.  A deep breath escapes my body.  Slowly I walk to the front; each step brings greater release.  My shoulders relax, the anxious anticipation seeps out of my heart.  Though my soul is heavy I find rest.  I sit in the front pew.  And here I am, in the House of the Lord . . . at night . . . and I am safe.

That has been my experience.  During this time, where what seemed like heavy hands pressed harder and harder on my chest, pushing the very life out of me, I found solace in one place.  Most mornings I would awake early; before the night gave way to the sun.  I did it on purpose, so I could be alone.  And as the sun slowly arose to light the world I sat in my rocking chair and spent time with Jesus.  My own private "House of the Lord".  I didn't find relief from the suffocating pressure, but I did find rest.  It wasn't even necessarily "comforting", but it was safe.  

I don't know whether this time of respite will remain or if it is simply temporary.  And it really doesn't matter. For this I DO know.  I WILL bless the Lord when I come to His House in the night.... and there I will find rest . . . . . . and I will be safe.

Trash

I was watching Beth Moore on video last night.  She was talking about a move she made from the home her children grew up in.  She lived there for 27 years.  The day of the move, her husband sent her a picture.... of all the trash on the porch, left behind and waiting for the garbage men to come pick it up.  It got me to thinking, what is the trash I left behind in my move?  What pieces of garbage stayed there, waiting for trash day to carry it away?

After lights out, snuggling with my man I asked him the question.  His answer was quick and decisive, insecurity.  It's his story to tell but the piece of that in my story is that I am having a harder time figuring out the rubbish I left there.  I don't have a quick, decisive answer.  And the answer most certainly is not insecurity. . . . cuz I still carry some of the around; not as much but at times I still find my pockets full.

When we moved to our last district (almost 5 years ago now) I was a new Pastor's wife.  Graduate school and 2 years of clinical experience covered I was just getting my professional license.  There was adjusting and adventures and lots of "newness".  After some settling took place I found myself in a difficult situation.  One that conflicted with the very core of who God called me to be, as a woman, a wife, a mom and especially as a Pastor's wife.

To explain I have to go further back in history.  Throughout my childhood and early adulthood I carried a tremendous amount of shame.  I covered that shame by hiding behind perfectionism, striving to be the perfect daughter, perfect wife, perfect mother.  Proverbs 31 was my goal.  Being that kind of woman made me worth something.  I didn't know that was what I was doing.  Didn't realize how destructive that was or that I even felt the way I did.  I had deluded myself, living in this bubble of sweetness and enthusiasm.... it was a nice little bubble, all happy and sunshiney but it lacked substance, it lacked true friendship and closeness - even with my husband, it lacked "real".

Then in grad school... I came face-to-face with it all.  My therapist confronted me with "what's with all this perfection?"  (I had sent him an email.  In two sentences, less than 10 words, I wrote "perfect" 3 times.)  (O and when you study to be a therapist, it's generally best to go to a therapist to work on your own stuff.... which what I was sent to do.  With NO idea what my true "stuff" was.)

For a year and half I worked on it.  Slowly shedding the pieces of armour, the layers that kept me "SAFE", but kept me isolated and really, alone.  It was freeing.  I moved from a "human doing" to a "human being".

Enter now a new church district and (again) Beth Moore.  A new friend urged me to go to a Beth Moore conference.  We found one, specifically designed for Pastor's wives.  (She is not a pastor's wife but serves in children's ministry and we went together.)  What an experience.  I cannot tell you. To be surrounded by hundreds of women, all ministering by their husbands' sides.  Of course being new to this "job" I hadn't yet experienced the full impact of what a pastor's wife's life looks like.  But that is a blog for another day.

Beth talked about being Real.  Repression will make you sick.  Rebellion will make you stupid.  God wants Reverent Realness.  I KNEW that was what God had called me to.  What He wanted of me.  To be Real, Transparent.  It's what God wanted and what His church needed.  (and needs)

And of course. . . that was soon challenged.  I found myself eyeball to eyeball, in a situation that forced me to make a choice.  The conflict that ensued.  The misunderstanding and hurt.  Its not what I wanted.  I loved these people, I cared, I wanted them to embrace and find the same freedom I had found.  The freedom to just "be". . . . . to live, to breathe, to be ok. . . . not to be all tied up in perfection and rigidity.  Only that is not what they thought they were.  No, instead I was the bad one.  I was accusing them of stuff that just wasn't true.  They blessed people.  They were good.  Nothing was wrong with them.  Yet when I was with them I had to hide.... I went back to that teenager that covered herself head-to-toe, physically covered herself to hide and then hid in her room. . . . with them I was doing that emotionally.  No freedom, no peace, no contentment,  just strive, strive, strive. . . be perfect, sing perfect, look perfect, just like the rest of us. . . .

To live to my calling I had to remove myself from close proximity.  I couldn't put myself in a situation that continuously put me in direct opposition to my calling.  God's voice for me to be Real . . . . .Transparent.  It was so difficult.  They felt rejected.  I felt misunderstood.

In time I was put in situations where I could be transparent.  Safe places where we shared. . . received and gave encouragement. . .  loved and let people be who they are . . . . no masks, no hiding. . . . . . arms open in acceptance..

So the trash I left behind...... the hiding...... Garbage bags full of it..... I left it there, to be carted off to the dump where it belongs.

He said my name.

What a morning...!  We got up early to go to our church's SonRise service.  Tough to do but after a cup of coffee I was ready...

It's bizarre when your (my) husband is the Pastor and he's speaking right to you (me).  It just doesn't seem right to have a personal message (he didn't plan it that way).  I sat there thinking, "you're supposed to be speaking to them... I'm ok.  Feed them."  I always absorb what the Spirit says through my man... but today. . . today it was for ME.

Tim spoke of early that resurrection morning, before light Mary walking to Jesus' tomb.  One more time she wanted to be near Him, to minister to Him, to anoint Him.  And He was gone.  Tim's words, "How can you add despair to despair?"  Totally brokenhearted, she did not know where her Jesus was.  Desperate to rub His brow, clean the blood off His cold, dead body.  One last chance to be with Him.

The One she presumes to be the Gardener asks her why she's crying.  Weeping and in anguish she tells Him they have taken away her Lord's body and she doesn't know where to find Him.  And then the Gardener says one word.  One name.  And in that one word He says EVERYTHING.  "Mary" He says...

He says her name.

He said MY name.  And in saying my name He tells me everything I NEED to know.  I am defined by His saying my name.  All I am, All I do . . . absolutely EVERYTHING is because He says my name.  O, I wish I could explain it in words.  But words are completely and utterly incapable of expressing the richness, fullness, completeness of Jesus saying my name.  There, in that moment is peace.... and more than peace, safety.... and more than safety, rest.

And although I knew all this, I've let Jesus define me for years.  This was a moment that transcended my God-given temperament, moved beyond Him shaping my character to be more like His sweet self.

This moment, as I slowly raised my eyes to look into His face...... Jesus tenderly said MY Name.

The Time In Between

Three days.... three blissful day of reprieve and relief...  I was hoping, but it didn't last long.  It felt so good to smile and mean it.  It felt so good to enjoy the sunshine, to laugh with my husband, to feel hope again.... but,  well...............

A woman once described it as a cat sitting on her chest.  I get what she means.... but for me it more like a black hole heavy on my chest.  The weight of it... pushing down, I feel like I'm suffocating and breathing at the same time.

The thing of it is I'm in a good place.  Life is going well.  My kids are thriving, my husband is in his sweet spot.  I belong to a wonderful church full of loving people.  My home is turning into what I've always dreamed of, open and spacious, calm and comforting.

But this depression - there! I've said it, mercy I hate it.  Oh, I can say I feel sad, or I'm grieving .... but depression.... o boy does that chafe.... goes against my fiber... I want to rip it out.... I want to reach into my chest and tear it off and throw it, violently throw it... down, away, anywhere.... get it off of me, out of me....

Our move was months ago.  I should be fine.  I should feel settled, rested and peace. I've already gotten mad at what I've lost, already cried about it.... and I'm ok with where we are, I'm ok with what we are doing, I'm ok with all of it.....as a matter of fact it's better than where we were.  Such a community of love and acceptance.  Amazing people, ready and eager.  Thirsty for God to live and move and work in them and through them.  Hungry for God's word.  Their arms open in embrace.... to us.

I don't want to feel the loss...... ok, I don't want to feel depressed anymore.  I don't want to whine about what I've lost, what I've left behind.... I'm faithful!  God, I'm faithful.  I walk in obedience.  I don't walk begrudgingly ... no bitterness, no resentment... no "Why Lord?"

For a while, way back... a year ago... yes, I wondered.  I was confused.  But I KNEW what God wanted... I knew ... and I made peace with it.... of course I want to obey the voice that says, "this is the way, walk ye in it."  Seriously!  am I going to do anything else....  He's my God... the desire of my heart... it's an honour, my greatest pleasure... total surrender.  I'm ALL His.  I'm joyfully His.

The best part of my day.... early in the morning, cup of coffee in hand, Bible on my lap, books about Him and how He works.  My time with Jesus.... such sweetness... such rest

Which is why I don't want to feel, be depressed.  It seems wrong, dishonouring.

My heart begs to list all I've lost.... yet .... asks "is that ok?"  My head says, "nope", don't do it... God would not be pleased.... or at the very least it would not honour Him.... or would it?

O Yes Jesus it would!

I"ve lost everything that was mine, everything that was Me.  My business, which is more than a business... it's the very calling of my life, bringing healing to lives to marriages... extending compassion and mercy and calling people to live ... to live more fully.  I've lost teaching at the academies.... o my favourite.... using the platform of psychology to teach young people about the unending love of Jesus.... telling them the truth of God's everlasting Word... pouring myself out, loving these fantastic kids, each one reaching into my heart and settling there, they changed me... beautiful children... each class different...each class wonderful, more than I could have dreamed of.... o how I miss them.    I've lost my Sabbath School class.... wonderful women, willing to be transparent, desperate to have the WORD of the Living God transform them.  Praying together, crying together, connecting together, supporting each other ... every Sabbath morning a refreshing reminder of what the body of Christ is supposed to be... and I've lost being in the same town as my best friend, which doesn't seem like a big deal... I actually see her more now than I did the last year living there, and of course there's the phone... but it's not the same... there's just something about being near ...  even if we didn't see each other.... she was there, close by.  And I've lost my son, two years before I thought I was going to... and though I know it's better and working out just fine, he's thriving and growing and it was "right"... it's still a loss and I feel the emptiness and love it when he's home.

But...... yet........ and nevertheless...... I WILL walk the road before me.  The one laid out before me by the hand of God.... I want nothing else....


"So I stand here lifting empty hands
For You to fill me up again"

Free.....

                Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there lived a little slave-girl.  She was an average little slave-girl, ragged and dirty.  There was nothing really spectacular about her.  She didn’t have any special talent, nor was she exceptionally beautiful.  She was just a regular slave-girl.  She wasn’t a slave-girl by choice, neither did she fall into slavery, nor was she taken captive.  No, she was a slave-girl in a family of generations of slaves, as far back as she could trace her family had been a family of slaves.  Slavery was so ingrained it was in her very nature.  But she didn’t want to be a slave.

          Though life as a slave was tolerable, it was hard, sometimes very hard.  It was not so much the physical assaults, the occasional sickness, or even the poverty that made it so hard.… no it was more the mental torture of what it meant to be a slave and the echoes of the Slave-master’s voice, “you are nothing but a slave, you are nothing.”

          At night, however, when she lay in bed at night, she could hear the whispers of the wind saying, “you can be free.”  And something would stir in her heart… a longing, a craving, an insatiable hunger to be free.

          One morning after a night of listening to the wind the little slave-girl decided to find out how she could be free.  And this is what she found.  There were three ways she could pay for her freedom; death, strictly following the “Code Book to Freedom” and someone rescuing her by paying her price.  Well, death didn’t seem like a viable option.. and well… being rescued didn’t hold much luck either; who would want to rescue a dirty little slave girl, with nothing to offer but the debt of her slavery.

          So the little slave-girl decided her best option was to follow the Code Book.  And she did, she cleaned herself up, did her jobs without complaining and began to practice all the character traits the Code Book said she had to have… kindness, patience, self-control.  The Slave-master passing by, would stop and watch her as she followed the Code Book, would cross his arms, stand back and wear sinister smile on his face.

          One day the Slave-master approached the little slave-girl.  “So, you want to be free.”  The little slave-girl nodded her head.  “And you have been following the Code Book.”  More eagerly she nodded again.  “Well,” said the Slave-master, “let’s go to the Magistrate.”  So she took his hand and together they walked to the Magistrate’s office, hope building in her heart that she could be free.

          She presented her case to the Magistrate, he nodded and listened.  “I see, you have been following the Code Book, you look nice and clean, you work hard without grumbling and what patience and kindness you’ve shown.… very good indeed.”  The little slave-girl’s face broke out into a smile, but before she could jump for joy at her new found freedom the Slave-master spoke.  “Yes Magistrate, she has done all those things, she even has excellent self-control, but… she harbours hatred in her heart and as much as I’d like her to be free, you know that disqualifies her.”  The Magistrate looked at the little slave-girl and she hung her head and left.

          Returning home the little slave-girl purposed in her heart that she would try even harder and one day, one day she knew she would be free.

          Year after year this pattern continued.  She and the Slave-Master would go to the Magistrate with all the good things she had done.  And Yes she was good, but the Slave-master would remind them all that she just wasn’t quite good enough…. Never quite good enough… her debt of slavery was too high a price…  she was never quite good enough to pay it.

          And then came Jesus…

One day He came to the little girl’s house.  He knocked on her door.  As she opened the door a rush of wind blew in, she smoothed the hair out of her eye and looked into the face of Jesus, He said, “I understand you want to be free.”  Confused and a little shy, she nodded her head.  Then Jesus said, “I can do that for you. Can I come in? I’d like to tell you about it.”  Though puzzled and a little unsure, something deep in her heart remembered the wind; she stepped back from the door and let him in…

They sat together at the kitchen table.  Although the little girl was quiet her thoughts raced with questions, ‘What is He talking about?   Free me?   How can He free me?  My debt is so high, the cost exorbitant.  ….and besides, I’m just a dirty slave-girl, I have nothing to give back, I can’t repay.  And I’m never good enough.’

          As if reading her mind Jesus told her how very long ago, before anyone could remember, her ancient parents were not slaves and lived in paradise.  As a matter of fact her ancient parents were of THE Royal Bloodline and that meant she wasn’t really a slave but truly royalty.  And that He, Jesus, was of that same royal bloodline and that not only was He ENOUGH to pay the price of her slavery, He wanted to.  Really, really wanted to and all she had to do was say so.

          She listened, her mind reeling.. ‘this makes no sense, I’m nothing, nothing but a slave girl’.…    Jesus placed His hand over hers… she quieted….shyly she looked up into His face…. Hope stirred in her heart… she slowly nodded and barely spoke. “please rescue me”

          Jesus, stood up, “well good then” and He took off His coat and put it on the little girl.  The little girl sat there, stunned as Jesus began to rearrange the furniture in her house so He could move in,  he dusted off a few shelves, found a few blankets and made himself a bed on the couch, then He went to the kitchen to make supper.

          The little girl regained her composure.  “But what do I have to do?”  Jesus stopped what He was doing walked over and crouched down in front of the little girl.  He held her face in His hands and looked piercingly into her eyes.  “You don’t have to do anything.  You just wear my coat and I will take care of the rest.”  Jesus then walked over to where the little girl had put the Code Book.  He picked it up and as He put it away on the shelf He said, mostly to Himself, “I’ve got this one covered.”

          Jesus and the little Girl lived together and worked together; Side by side, day after day.  Whenever the little girl hurt herself, Jesus would make sure she got all bandaged up.  When she was hungry, He fed her.  When she was tired He let her rest.

          Jesus would also tell the little girl stories… stories of paradise, stories of His Father, stories how He and His Father made this rescue plan long ago, just in case the little girl’s ancient parents got tricked by the Slave-master.  How they did get tricked by the Slave-master.  He told her how the land she lived on really wasn’t the Slave-master’s it was actually hers and how He would buy it back for her.  He told how precious she was to Him and how much He loved her.  And how He could easily pay the price of her slavery, because He was of the Royal Bloodline and was ENOUGH, and she didn’t need to worry.

One day Jesus told the little girl that soon they would be going to the Magistrate’s office.  Fear gripped the little girl, “the Magistrate, she had forgotten all about him.”  Jesus, gently put His arm around the little girl and pulled her into a close embrace.  “Don’t worry,” He said, “I’m going with you.  You just keeping wearing my coat.  I’ve got this.”

          It was hard not to worry, but she trusted Jesus so she went to sleep that night dreaming of the Magistrate, the Slave-master and Jesus.

          A few days later, the little girl (wearing Jesus’ coat), and Jesus walked hand-in-hand to the Magistrate’s office.  What the little girl found strange is that even though the Slave-master walked with them, he walked on the other side of the street.  And he looked a little scared.

          Once in the Magistrate’s office Jesus led the little girl to the side bench to sit down.  The little girl, confused said, “but I have to go before the Magistrate.”  Jesus bent down, pulled His coat a little tighter around the little girl’s shoulders, looked her directly in the eye and said, “No, not today.  I’ve got this.”

          The little girl sat perfectly still, the court room was quiet, she held her breath as Jesus and the Slave-master stood before the Magistrate.  They just stood there, silent.  The clock ticked in the background.  The Magistrate looked at Jesus, Looked at the little girl wearing Jesus’ coat then looked to the Slave-master.  The Slave-master never said a word, NOT ONE WORD.  The Magistrate grabbed his gavel and crashed it on the table.  “She’s free.” 

The little girl was stunned.  Then she watched as Jesus and the Slave-master turned away from the Magistrate’s desk.   She saw as Jesus looked right at Slave-master and said, “You took my little girl.  And I AM GOING TO CRUSH YOU.”  Then He turned and walked over to the little girl, took her hand and they walked out of the Magistrate’s office never to return.

          That afternoon Jesus explained all had happened in the Magistrate’s office.  He told her that the price of her slavery was paid.  That she wasn’t a slave anymore, that she was free and even if she still wore the chain of slavery for a little while longer she could live as if she was free.  He told her that one day, not today, not tomorrow but one day that chain would come off.  He told her that He would keep the promise He made to the Slave-master.  The Slave-master would be destroyed, and then she would live in total peace and paradise would be restored.

          But in the meantime, while she waited for that one day, she needed to keep His coat on.  And if it seemed like a long time and things got hard she needed to remember that He would ever leave her and He would always, always, always take care of her. 

          And as the sun set over the little girl’s house, still wearing Jesus’ coat she curled up on Jesus’ lap.  As He gently rocked her He told her how much He loved her and how precious she was to Him and almost pleading He said “don’t ever forget, don’t ever forget what I promised you.”  Half between awake and asleep the little girl mumbled, “I won’t forget, I promise, I won’t forget…….. and just before sleep took her the little girl whispered, “I love you too.”  And there in the arms of Jesus she fell asleep to lullabies sung to the music of the wind…

“The Word of God has spoken we are changed forever, the Word of God has spoken WE ARE FREE.  We are running to salvation, we have been delivered the Word of God has spoken WE ARE FREE.” (Travis Cottrell)

Tears

I do this thing, I've done it for as long as I can remember.... I do it . . . and I hate it, and I don't understand it, I even went to therapy to learn how to "manage" it . . . I cry

I don't cry because I'm sad . . . I just cry

It's like I have this invisible instrument, cello-like, with deep resonating sounds,   buried,   hidden in my chest.  Right there in the center.   And when a string is plucked the sound waves reverberate,    the cavity within my chest cannot hold it. . . cannot hold it in.   It rises,  it climbs,  higher and higher,  faster and faster. . . and . . . it spills, drips down my cheeks.

And sometimes . . . sometimes it's like this invisible hand reaches in and begins to play,   the music expands, grows louder,    overwhelms.  It rises,  creates pools in my eyes that fill to overflowing and roll down my face.

When I was younger, when the pieces that were me were fragmented and broken,    scattered.       The music came from the outside ,   the waves of sound would hit me , jar me , and the tears would tumble.

But now,  now that the fragmented pieces have been welded together, the vessel whole;  the music vibrates from the inside,   deep in that hollow where only music can survive.

And what I don't understand is, what is it about me?  Why can't I hold it in?  Why, o why does it have to spill out, can I not just feel it and keep it . . . safe...  That's it!   When it spills I feel vulnerable,  exposed and very unsafe.

I've had people tell me they wished they could cry like I can.  That it would be freeing for them.  But they've so trained themselves to hold it in.
I feel like their tears would be more precious.  That my tears are so common in occurrence and perhaps others see them a common in meaning.  But they are not common, the tears ,  they come at a cost.  And they mean . . . EVERYTHING.

And because they are everything, another piece of me.  .  .  she holds them, open-handed, she let's them be. . . be what they are.

I guess, if I wanted, I could work harder at suppressing them, holding them back, covering them up before they rise.  But I resist.  I resist because a tender voice tells me that if I did I would lose an essence.   It says my tears are needed. . . and that voice, so soft and gentle, the hum of a lullaby . .

    . . . makes me cry

Discrepancies

I've been thinking a lot lately about the discrepancy between how people see themselves and how we see ourselves...  it all started with a Facebook post back on January 1st.  I posted how boring I was because rather than stay up till midnight I went to be early and slept through "ringing in the New Year".  A comment came back saying I was the least boring this person knew, that I was vivacious and alive, engaged and energetic.      
(???SERIOUSLY???? I don't think so, I'm really rather boring.)
Recently I've been told that I'm "nice" - it's a genuine affirmation after I guess what could been seen as a kindness.  My response is pretty much always, "no, not really".  I don't mean it to be flippant or that I'm a total meanie-butt. . . . but really, I don't think so.

Another example is my daughter.  I see her as compassionate, delightful, determined, and funny... (I could go on.  If you want to read all about it, check out Nov 18th post.).  Her response, "I wish I knew her, she sounds awesome."  I wanted to scream, "BUT IT IS YOU, ALL YOU"

I don't understand the discrepancy.  Its not that I want to feel all puffed-up and self important at how fabulous I am. . . It just seems. . . . hmmmmm. . . . . . . inconsistent.  I don't like inconsistent.

I'm not sure there is an answer here... cuz I'm really not nice (you should hear the commentary that goes on in my head) and I really am boring (I'd rather sit at home, in the quiet and knit than go out and be with people).  Yet somehow, in the realm of the miraculous when I'm with people... really WITH them... something different happens.  I'm engaged, I'm 'nice'. . . . . it's really what I to be. . . . no, it's WHO I want to be. . . .

Cameo asked me the other day, "Is who we want to be really who we are?"  Good question.  I didn't really have an answer, so I texted back "probably".  My head was saying, 'I sure hope so'.    Talking to Tim about it, he said, 'yes', "it's who God wants you to be too.  And He created you to be that."
  And then there's that verse - I think it's in Phillipians - God works in you to WILL and to DO His good pleasure.   So there it is, maybe that's the answer. . . . God created us, a hard-wired temperament in our brains, He places us in homes and provides us with experiences that affect us, but we are all tainted and disfigured.  A chaotic mess, a black hole of pain and sin, weakness and yuck (there's no better word)  

. . . . but. . . . . if we are still. . . . . and if we listen and surrender..... He will heal us and mold us, shape us. Holding our temperament, our experiences our pain and weakness gently, ever so gently.  He kneads us adding the water of His extravagant  lavish love, His tenderest mercy, His enduring strength.  He creates something that transcends to the realm of the miraculous. . . . and then, in us, the tiny seed of desire begins to sprout and as He continues to heal the desire grows. . . . and in the shadow of mystery and miracle. . . . . the fruit of that healing becomes nourishment for others...
and we become what we desire to be. . . . not through our striving. . . . but through miracle. . . . and the true beauty of it all lies in the fact that we don't see it in ourselves, or feel it. . . . but ARE it anyway, despite ourselves.

I'm going to end with a little story.  
Last Wednesday at Prayer Meeting, I sat on the floor with sweet Piper (she's 3 years old).  We coloured and made pictures with stickers.  Dressed Minnie Mouse and drew more pictures of caterpillars and ladybugs. . . I didn't do it to be nice, it wasn't hard, it took no effort. . . . I just did it (it helped her Mom concentrate on Prayer Meeting and I was still able to listen and interact too).  Towards the end of the meeting Piper leaned over - I thought she was going to whisper something in my ear as she had done a few times already - but instead... her  little lips touched my cheek.....in the realm of the miraculous.... the moment transcended to a different plain, an unseen reality......... a sweet kiss from Heaven

I'll be seeing ya

I've been thinking a lot about mercy.  On a day-to-day basis, what does mercy look like?  How do I extend mercy to the people around me moment by moment.  Sure there are the grand gestures, like feeding the hungry, sponsoring a child in  3rd world country, or like I heard recently on the radio, allowing a homeless family to live in your home for a year at no cost while you live in your parent's basement.  But we can't always do those things, I can't always do those things.  So what CAN I do?  How does mercy become the way I live, the WHO I am?

I read a blog recently where the woman said she was no longer going to live hiding in shame... she was going to allow herself to be imperfect and not berate herself for making mistakes, not fear if things don't turn out as expected and even if everything falls apart, she will practice life with courage... I was moved to tears... I too want to live my life that way... courageous, I want to show up, not hide in the shadows, cowering in fear, ruminating over all the 'what-ifs'.  I want to be present, I want to be seen....

..... and then it hit me!

If everyone is busy being seen, who is doing the seeing?  Please don't misunderstand me.  When I talk about being seen I'm not condemning anyone.  I'm not talking about arrogant, puffed-up, prideful people who force everyone to look at them.  I'm talking about what Brene Brown refers to a "wholehearted living".  Being vulnerable, willing to be flawed, living transparently, with an open heart.... showing up, being present...   but it can't stop there.  If I'm going to show-up and been seen, am I willing to "see" as well?

One of my favourite stories in the Bible is when Hagar and Ishmael get sent away by Sarah and Abraham.  Ishmael is left by a tree and Hagar goes a way off because she cannot watch her son die.  Then God speaks, He tells her to get up, to keep going, He will not let Ishmael or her die... Hagar's response is "I have seen the God who SEES me".  Don't we all want someone to really SEE us.  I love it when I am in a crowded room and I hear a familiar faint whistle and look across the room to Tim looking right at me, then he'll wink.  In the midst of ALL those people, he SEES me.... he sees ME.

So here's the kicker.... to "show-up and be seen" and to "see" are not mutually exclusive, and I might go so far as to say they walk in tandem.

I will show-up in my life.  I will live with courage and a wholeheart.  But I will also live "seeing".  And maybe that is how I can live mercy.  I want to "see"  really "SEE" the people around me.  I want to "SEE" you.

I cannot solve world hunger, I cannot stop crazy men from going into schools and killing young children.  I cannot alleviate suffering.  But I CAN see your suffering.  And I can sit with you in your suffering and provide the small comfort that you are "not alone", that you are "seen".  That someone is by your side.

I can also rejoice with you, laugh with you.  Be grateful and praise God when your life is beautiful and all is well with you.  Triumph in your triumphs.

So I've decided that to live a life of mercy.... is to "see", truly "see" those around me....

I'll be seeing ya,
k

Mercy

Several days ago a friend posted on Facebook about choosing a word to live by in 2013 rather than making a new year's resolution.  I've never made a new year's resolution, I've felt they are rather foolish.  This idea... living by a word, intrigued me.

I thought about it for a while, played with some words in my head, but nothing grabbed me.  So I put the idea aside....

On New Year's Eve my husband and I went to see the movie Les Miserable.  I was disturbed throughout the entire movie.  So much suffering, so much pain... I couldn't contain it.  I felt it every where, in my shoulders, in my guts.  I shivered and tensed, my heart literally hurt.

For those of you who do not know the story.  The opening scene is of Jean Verjean being put on parole and let out of prison (for stealing a loaf of bread).  He travels in the cold, looking for work, looking for food, looking for warmth, everywhere he goes he is rejected and turned away because his "papers" say he is a convict.  He ends up at a monastery... the priest invites him in, feeds him, gives him a warm fire to sleep by and a bed.  In the night Jean Verjean steals the silver from monastery and runs away.  He is caught and brought back to the monastery.  The police say that Jean says he was given the silver.  The priest, validates Jean's story, "yes we gave him the silver, but Jean you were in such a hurry your forgot the best pieces"  the priest picks up the two silver candlesticks on the table and hands them to Jean Verjean.

As you can imagine Jean Verjean has NO idea what to do with that "mercy".  He wrestles with God and decides to change his life.  To "change" his name and legacy.

Years later, under a new name, he is the mayor of a town.  He sets up a factory for women so they don't have to prostitute themselves.  We even see him, in his fine clothes free a man from being crushed by a beam that falls on him....

As I watched this man do whatever he could to ease people's suffering constantly extending mercy.  Reaching out, lifting up, soothing, protecting.... I was moved... I too want to ease suffering.  There is so much suffering, so much pain.  Can I be "living, breathing mercy"?  Oh, I want to be.  I want to be the hand that soothes, the voice that encourages, the arms that hold another's pain gently so as not to bruise.

A bruised reed He will not crush, a smoldering wick He will not snuff out (Isaiah 42:3).  Let me be mercy, Dear God, let me be mercy!

So my One Word... the word I want to live by ... is MERCY.