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.