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.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
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."
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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."
Sunday, September 8, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, July 8, 2013
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.
Friday, June 21, 2013
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
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
Saturday, May 11, 2013
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)
God Bless,
k
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)
God Bless,
k
Saturday, April 27, 2013
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
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
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