Books
I have appreciated the book lists which were posted by Phil and Greg; many of which I have read and found equally insprational and influential.
I would like to encourage people to read the books they listed ,but also, add a few books that I believe might inspire or encourage. They were great to read as I began a journey initiated by Jesus calling me off the Christian Bandwagon and placing me under his yoke where I belong. The books are an honest, very non-academic, down to earth spirituality. I have listed them and some quotes.
Soul Survivor: How My faith Survived the Church ,Philip Yancey: Talking about the thirteen people that helped him regain his faith (and what a host of individuals they are and were), Yancy writes, "I became a writer, I now believe, to sort out and reclaim the words used and misused by the Christians of my youth. These are the people ( the thirteen) who ushered me into the Kingdom. In many ways they are why I remain a Christian today, and I want to introduce them to other spiritual seekers.
Messy Spirituality, Mike Yaconelli: Spirituality is not a formula; it is a relationship. Spirituality is not about competency; it is about intimacy. Spirituality is not about perfection; it is about connection. The way of the spiritual life begins where we are now in the mess of our lives. Accepting the reality of our broken, flawed lives is the beginning of spirituality not because the spiritual life will remove our flaws, but because we let go of seeking perfection and, instead, seek God, the one who is present in the tangledness of our lives. ( this man was so precious, he recently died in an auto accident.... I wish I had known him.)
Seeing God in the Ordinary; A theology of the everyday: Michael Frost ( I love this book and recommend it to other Bohemians especially ones bringing the poerty of the gospel to dark places): " The gospel is......a truth widely held, but a truth greatly reduced. It is a truth that has been flattened, trivialized and rendered inane. Partly, the gospel is simply an old habit among us, neither valued or questioned. But more than that, our technical way of thinking reduces mystery to problem, transforms assurance into certitude, quality into quantity and so takes the categories of biblical faith and represents them into manageable shapes. (Frost quoting Brueggemann).
Oh and by the way......the fog is lifting
Friday, January 23, 2004
A picture
I frequently check the shelves of the used book section at the Summerlin library. It is amazing what patience and persistence has brought to me as a reward . One of my great finds was a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. It cost me a dime and has given me some moments of pleasure. As I glanced through it today, I came across one of his more famous poems: Fog. Whether meant to be or not, It paints a metaphorical picture of how I experience cyclothymic-depression. The picture is neither good , bad nor to be judged by me or any other individual-----it simply is.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I have lived through many fogs.
I frequently check the shelves of the used book section at the Summerlin library. It is amazing what patience and persistence has brought to me as a reward . One of my great finds was a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. It cost me a dime and has given me some moments of pleasure. As I glanced through it today, I came across one of his more famous poems: Fog. Whether meant to be or not, It paints a metaphorical picture of how I experience cyclothymic-depression. The picture is neither good , bad nor to be judged by me or any other individual-----it simply is.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I have lived through many fogs.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
You are cordially invited to a party (please read the fine print)
If you received that invitation from me and then at the bottom, in fine print, it said the theme of the party was a pity party with me as the guest of honor would you come? No you would not, because no matter how great the decorations, food or location the baggage attached would turn the dip and champagne into bitter swill.
That is exactly how I feel about gifts that come with baggage. Is a trip with all expenses paid to paradise a gift if you will have to endure dysfunction, awkwardness and be with out those who bring the only meaning in your life?
Is it a gift to sit in a café in France with someone who will only complain about the brie being too dry? No, some times to have a stale crust of bread in peace and meaningful companionship instead of a steak in paradise with strife and ulterior motives is a much better gift. I am sick to death of so called opportunities that come with conditions.
Fine Print: You have just unknowingly been a guest at my pity party. I apologize.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Descending
I guess since my last entry about my belief in hope I am being put to the test as a mild depression seems to be approaching. Since stopping medication for my mood disorder last march--- (A feat I consider, so far, successful as I have not yet been committed and my family seems to be fairly well intact) the way I navigate this territory has taken on a fairly routine rhythm. I make sure to increase gym days…I do more running, take higher doses of certain nutrients, and eat a more restricted diet and lower expectations of energy level as well as other things. Most importantly, I try my best to practice a discipline of crying out to God, a kind of intense (at least more than normal) clinging to Him. I also check all the belief systems of my self talk which becomes very negative, pessimistic and guilt ridden against Jesus himself. It really helps. You can be depressed but you don’t have to believe the lies associated with it.
Oh well, here’s to hope, grace and prayers.
On a less dismal note, my youngest child trying to relieve herself from the boredom of her 2nd grade reader, published by the Amish community, read the story of “Whiskers" the farm’s pet goat in a near perfect imitation of Doug Citizen’s Story Time with Christopher Walken. Today, she will have a comprehension test on the reading. I am curious to see how she does.
I guess since my last entry about my belief in hope I am being put to the test as a mild depression seems to be approaching. Since stopping medication for my mood disorder last march--- (A feat I consider, so far, successful as I have not yet been committed and my family seems to be fairly well intact) the way I navigate this territory has taken on a fairly routine rhythm. I make sure to increase gym days…I do more running, take higher doses of certain nutrients, and eat a more restricted diet and lower expectations of energy level as well as other things. Most importantly, I try my best to practice a discipline of crying out to God, a kind of intense (at least more than normal) clinging to Him. I also check all the belief systems of my self talk which becomes very negative, pessimistic and guilt ridden against Jesus himself. It really helps. You can be depressed but you don’t have to believe the lies associated with it.
Oh well, here’s to hope, grace and prayers.
On a less dismal note, my youngest child trying to relieve herself from the boredom of her 2nd grade reader, published by the Amish community, read the story of “Whiskers" the farm’s pet goat in a near perfect imitation of Doug Citizen’s Story Time with Christopher Walken. Today, she will have a comprehension test on the reading. I am curious to see how she does.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
The Pianist
Some time ago, Joe blogged a reaction to the film The Pianist. It was funny that at the time he and his tribe were watching it at the big house; I was watching it in my very small one, alone. I was so moved by the movie that night; I told Gregg I had to blog my thoughts on it. But Joe had beaten me to it….and shared similar responses which I had as well.
One thing that he didn’t mention, which for me was the crux of the entire film was the music of Chopin. I felt the music, whether it was intended to be or not, symbolized God. It was the unseen yet palpable entity haunting this film. It was the beauty in the main character’s life that drove him to survive.
Since then, I have had the CD (which I bought over a year ago) playing everyday and have watched the movie three times as well. I think this film is really a film about hope and grace. Hope and grace for me are realities that often can only be appreciated when they are cast against a background of darkness and despair. The scene in the movie that so artfully demonstrates this for me is when Szpilman (Main character) plays Chopin for the German officer among the ruins and insanity of war. The beauty of God in that moment rises up leveling delusions of human superiority or domination over another. The two men are in the presence of something far greater and for one sustained moment, God has broken through in the most unlikely surreal moment. That scene is somewhat of a life picture for me of the meaning of hope and grace.
Since before Christmas, I think God has been trying to teach me about hope in very concrete events,,,,this film being one of them. I guess, along with my praises of this movie, and strong suggestion to watch it for anyone who hasn’t, I want to share that hope and grace are profound realities. As I type that sentence, my flesh says how simplistic and overly optimistic, given the headlines and the aging image I see of late in the mirror staring back at me every morning; But my spirit knows otherwise. And I suppose none of the people reading this have ever endured what the man in this movie did, but like him, we have had and are having our share of darkness and despair, but we must stand on the reality, though we lose our balance so easily that God will, at the right time, enter the moment and allow us to hear the music of his essence sustaining our attention in order that we may know that HE IS and we are able to survive
Some time ago, Joe blogged a reaction to the film The Pianist. It was funny that at the time he and his tribe were watching it at the big house; I was watching it in my very small one, alone. I was so moved by the movie that night; I told Gregg I had to blog my thoughts on it. But Joe had beaten me to it….and shared similar responses which I had as well.
One thing that he didn’t mention, which for me was the crux of the entire film was the music of Chopin. I felt the music, whether it was intended to be or not, symbolized God. It was the unseen yet palpable entity haunting this film. It was the beauty in the main character’s life that drove him to survive.
Since then, I have had the CD (which I bought over a year ago) playing everyday and have watched the movie three times as well. I think this film is really a film about hope and grace. Hope and grace for me are realities that often can only be appreciated when they are cast against a background of darkness and despair. The scene in the movie that so artfully demonstrates this for me is when Szpilman (Main character) plays Chopin for the German officer among the ruins and insanity of war. The beauty of God in that moment rises up leveling delusions of human superiority or domination over another. The two men are in the presence of something far greater and for one sustained moment, God has broken through in the most unlikely surreal moment. That scene is somewhat of a life picture for me of the meaning of hope and grace.
Since before Christmas, I think God has been trying to teach me about hope in very concrete events,,,,this film being one of them. I guess, along with my praises of this movie, and strong suggestion to watch it for anyone who hasn’t, I want to share that hope and grace are profound realities. As I type that sentence, my flesh says how simplistic and overly optimistic, given the headlines and the aging image I see of late in the mirror staring back at me every morning; But my spirit knows otherwise. And I suppose none of the people reading this have ever endured what the man in this movie did, but like him, we have had and are having our share of darkness and despair, but we must stand on the reality, though we lose our balance so easily that God will, at the right time, enter the moment and allow us to hear the music of his essence sustaining our attention in order that we may know that HE IS and we are able to survive
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Daddy’s Snow
On December 6, 1998 on a quiet morning, a pure, mystical snow fell. It covered the ground in serene, white completeness. As I watched it fall, my spirit was told to pay attention……this was no ordinary snow.
On that unique Sunday morning five years ago, my stepfather and only person I ever called, "Daddy," was dying. My sister and I had brought him to live with us from Pennsylvania after he reached out in peace following many years of estrangement. “Daddy,” had been for those years, a bad legacy of memories filled with profound alcoholism, gambling, mental, and verbal and at times, physical abuses. Sometimes, however, they were good. He gave the best piggyback rides, took us to fun places, and had a wonderful sense of humor; and now he was totally dependent on our help. The reconciliation was miraculous in itself, but the miracle was yet to unfold.
As the unlikely snow fell, a doctor called me from the hospital to say it would be in Daddy’s best interest to discontinue treatment to prolong his life.
I knew it was over too, and authorized the suggested medical assignments for him. I called my sister and we grieved, especially, because we were not comforted by his eternal destiny.
My sister spent the day with Daddy. As the evening wore on, he grew restless and uncommunicative, in and out of lucidness and hallucination. My sister, Lynn, grew more and more distraught. As she prepared to leave for the evening, a nursing assistant had been assigned to him because of his hallucinatory behavior. She was a small, feisty, black woman, named Bunny and could see that Lynn was upset. Lynn poured out Daddy’s story to her. Bunny took Lynn’s hands and prayed for my sister and Daddy. My sister went home with peace.
She was awakened Monday morning at 6am by a call from Bunny. She said in the middle of the night Daddy became lucid and they began talking. She said, “John you need to make peace with God.” and he said, “I know.” She said, “Lynn, I want you to know your father prayed with me and received Jesus.” She went on to say that after their prayer, he fell asleep and then suddenly awoke and in the darkness she heard him saying the Lord’s prayer and there was peace.
The following day, we admitted Daddy to hospice, still in and out of lucidity, he occasionally spoke to us. But the strange thing is as I left him, that night, he asked, “Can I walk on those steps?” What steps?” I asked. “Those,” he said, pointing to the ceiling of his room. “They look like ice, like crystal…they are beautiful.” Those are the last words I remember. From that day until the morning he died on thursday, he only spoke in his native Polish tongue; it was strange.
That Sunday, following his death, there was a guest speaker at church…and he was speaking about grace. He quoted Isaiah 1:18, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord. Though your sins are like scarlet they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson they shall be like wool." And it was then I realized the meaning of the out of the ordinary grace that was falling from the sky that Sunday prior. It was grace falling into Daddy’s life. With that snow came reconciliation, cleanness, utter peace and salvation. It was a Christmas gift to my sister and I beyond measure.
I think about Daddy often, especially at this time of year. I have, however, of late had troubled thoughts and doubts about my miracle those five years ago. Was daddy just delirious? Had Bunny lied? Was it true? I shared my doubts with my sister and confessed I had asked God in my “Heidi way” to reassure me about Daddy by letting it snow that same way again; a pretty frivolous and theologically scandalous request I admit. I told her after I had petitioned Him; I dreamt it snowed on Christmas. But, as we stood in her kitchen Christmas night , rain was the only thing falling from the sky. We drove home and I thanked God anyway for rain on Christmas.
On December 30,2003 at 2:41 am this morning a glow kept awakening me as it crept in through a slit in the drapes. I thought it was the sunrise but it was all wrong since that window faces south. Then I thought in my dozing mind, it looks like a glow from a fire…and then my cat, who is also my personal psyche nurse, began meowing incessantly. I got that feeling I get from the Lord when he says----”Pay attention I have something to say to you.” So I got out of bed to see where the orange glow was coming from. I pulled open the drapes and my backyard was completely blanketed in snow. The trees were bowing from the weight of the whiteness resting on them. It was eerie, mysterious and beautiful at the same time. It was Daddy’s Snow. It was calm, white and quiet. I was overwhelmed by the thought and presence of how good God is. I then remembered how earlier that day I was walking out of the gym and an old man was walking by and said to another man complaining of the cold that it looked like snow. I turned, looked at the old man and he smiled at me.
What peace and calm it was and I was awake and paying attention. I lay on my bed, spoke psalms wept and received the gift that I had asked from Him.
Merry Christmas from the hand of the one I am truly waiting for, the one who fulfills completely. As I write this that snow is melting. My sister said to me this morning how frivolous the love of God is to His children.....she was awakened at 3am by her dog and a glow as well.
I can’t explain this and I must confess that my flesh has tried to quench the gift that came for me in God’s own timing. I can only thank Him and continue to receive his gift of grace, his peace, his calm and to you reading this I want you to know ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE WITH GOD;PAY ATTENTION AND THOUGH IT TARRY, WAIT FOR IT.
On December 6, 1998 on a quiet morning, a pure, mystical snow fell. It covered the ground in serene, white completeness. As I watched it fall, my spirit was told to pay attention……this was no ordinary snow.
On that unique Sunday morning five years ago, my stepfather and only person I ever called, "Daddy," was dying. My sister and I had brought him to live with us from Pennsylvania after he reached out in peace following many years of estrangement. “Daddy,” had been for those years, a bad legacy of memories filled with profound alcoholism, gambling, mental, and verbal and at times, physical abuses. Sometimes, however, they were good. He gave the best piggyback rides, took us to fun places, and had a wonderful sense of humor; and now he was totally dependent on our help. The reconciliation was miraculous in itself, but the miracle was yet to unfold.
As the unlikely snow fell, a doctor called me from the hospital to say it would be in Daddy’s best interest to discontinue treatment to prolong his life.
I knew it was over too, and authorized the suggested medical assignments for him. I called my sister and we grieved, especially, because we were not comforted by his eternal destiny.
My sister spent the day with Daddy. As the evening wore on, he grew restless and uncommunicative, in and out of lucidness and hallucination. My sister, Lynn, grew more and more distraught. As she prepared to leave for the evening, a nursing assistant had been assigned to him because of his hallucinatory behavior. She was a small, feisty, black woman, named Bunny and could see that Lynn was upset. Lynn poured out Daddy’s story to her. Bunny took Lynn’s hands and prayed for my sister and Daddy. My sister went home with peace.
She was awakened Monday morning at 6am by a call from Bunny. She said in the middle of the night Daddy became lucid and they began talking. She said, “John you need to make peace with God.” and he said, “I know.” She said, “Lynn, I want you to know your father prayed with me and received Jesus.” She went on to say that after their prayer, he fell asleep and then suddenly awoke and in the darkness she heard him saying the Lord’s prayer and there was peace.
The following day, we admitted Daddy to hospice, still in and out of lucidity, he occasionally spoke to us. But the strange thing is as I left him, that night, he asked, “Can I walk on those steps?” What steps?” I asked. “Those,” he said, pointing to the ceiling of his room. “They look like ice, like crystal…they are beautiful.” Those are the last words I remember. From that day until the morning he died on thursday, he only spoke in his native Polish tongue; it was strange.
That Sunday, following his death, there was a guest speaker at church…and he was speaking about grace. He quoted Isaiah 1:18, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord. Though your sins are like scarlet they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson they shall be like wool." And it was then I realized the meaning of the out of the ordinary grace that was falling from the sky that Sunday prior. It was grace falling into Daddy’s life. With that snow came reconciliation, cleanness, utter peace and salvation. It was a Christmas gift to my sister and I beyond measure.
I think about Daddy often, especially at this time of year. I have, however, of late had troubled thoughts and doubts about my miracle those five years ago. Was daddy just delirious? Had Bunny lied? Was it true? I shared my doubts with my sister and confessed I had asked God in my “Heidi way” to reassure me about Daddy by letting it snow that same way again; a pretty frivolous and theologically scandalous request I admit. I told her after I had petitioned Him; I dreamt it snowed on Christmas. But, as we stood in her kitchen Christmas night , rain was the only thing falling from the sky. We drove home and I thanked God anyway for rain on Christmas.
On December 30,2003 at 2:41 am this morning a glow kept awakening me as it crept in through a slit in the drapes. I thought it was the sunrise but it was all wrong since that window faces south. Then I thought in my dozing mind, it looks like a glow from a fire…and then my cat, who is also my personal psyche nurse, began meowing incessantly. I got that feeling I get from the Lord when he says----”Pay attention I have something to say to you.” So I got out of bed to see where the orange glow was coming from. I pulled open the drapes and my backyard was completely blanketed in snow. The trees were bowing from the weight of the whiteness resting on them. It was eerie, mysterious and beautiful at the same time. It was Daddy’s Snow. It was calm, white and quiet. I was overwhelmed by the thought and presence of how good God is. I then remembered how earlier that day I was walking out of the gym and an old man was walking by and said to another man complaining of the cold that it looked like snow. I turned, looked at the old man and he smiled at me.
What peace and calm it was and I was awake and paying attention. I lay on my bed, spoke psalms wept and received the gift that I had asked from Him.
Merry Christmas from the hand of the one I am truly waiting for, the one who fulfills completely. As I write this that snow is melting. My sister said to me this morning how frivolous the love of God is to His children.....she was awakened at 3am by her dog and a glow as well.
I can’t explain this and I must confess that my flesh has tried to quench the gift that came for me in God’s own timing. I can only thank Him and continue to receive his gift of grace, his peace, his calm and to you reading this I want you to know ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE WITH GOD;PAY ATTENTION AND THOUGH IT TARRY, WAIT FOR IT.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Passages
I am going to my sister’s for Thanksgiving and all guests are requested to say what they are thankful for as they light a candle. I have been pondering what to say for some time and even though the standard niceties; my family; my health; abundance; a loving community etc., are what I should say, all that seems to come to mind is a sense of loss; I do not think this is necessarily ungrateful.
I feel that this year has been a series of losses, not only for me personally, but for people that I have come to know and care about. Loss is very painful and creates for each individual a unique cluster of bewildering emotions as well as undesired awarenesses of the might-have-beens and man’s lack of control over even the simplest of circumstances.
Suffering makes me aware that I stand on the edge of a passage and at times the only guides through are tears and wrenching grief. Many times on this journey God remains remote and sometimes he is vivid. Somehow I am compelled to light my candle and read something that Henri Nouwen wrote:
One of the most radical demands for you and me is the discovery of our lives as a series of movements or passages. Your whole life is filled with losses, endless losses. And every time there are losses there are choices to be made. You choose to live your losses as passages to anger, blame, hatred, depression, and resentment, or you choose to let these losses be passages to something new, something wider, and deeper. The question is not how to avoid loss and make it not happen, but how to choose it as a passage, as an exodus to greater life and freedom.
And then I am going to say, I am thankful for the Love of God and Passages.
I am going to my sister’s for Thanksgiving and all guests are requested to say what they are thankful for as they light a candle. I have been pondering what to say for some time and even though the standard niceties; my family; my health; abundance; a loving community etc., are what I should say, all that seems to come to mind is a sense of loss; I do not think this is necessarily ungrateful.
I feel that this year has been a series of losses, not only for me personally, but for people that I have come to know and care about. Loss is very painful and creates for each individual a unique cluster of bewildering emotions as well as undesired awarenesses of the might-have-beens and man’s lack of control over even the simplest of circumstances.
Suffering makes me aware that I stand on the edge of a passage and at times the only guides through are tears and wrenching grief. Many times on this journey God remains remote and sometimes he is vivid. Somehow I am compelled to light my candle and read something that Henri Nouwen wrote:
One of the most radical demands for you and me is the discovery of our lives as a series of movements or passages. Your whole life is filled with losses, endless losses. And every time there are losses there are choices to be made. You choose to live your losses as passages to anger, blame, hatred, depression, and resentment, or you choose to let these losses be passages to something new, something wider, and deeper. The question is not how to avoid loss and make it not happen, but how to choose it as a passage, as an exodus to greater life and freedom.
And then I am going to say, I am thankful for the Love of God and Passages.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Legend: Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair
I realized as I sat listening to a string concert yesterday at Ham Hall, how long it had been since my soul had been nourished. The nourishment was pure worship in spirit and in truth for me. I do not intend to be offensive when I say not much of the music in contemporary church leads my soul to worship. For me, listening to Vivaldi’s: Stabat Mater or anything he wrote for that matter ;Beethoven’s 9th, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Bach , Mozart, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, and hundreds of other dead guy’s music that no one reading this will know or be able to relate to, feeds something deep within.
A few years ago, during a counseling session for my mood disorder with Kevin Odor, I was told to surround myself with the things that bring nourishment to my soul. Kevin thought a great deal of my depression was a lack of balanced soul food. Sitting in the concert reminded me of how malnourished I had become.
As I heard and watched that group play a piece entitled, Legend: Black is the Color of my True Love's Hair; and the sum of the orchestra far surpassed its parts, a beautiful picture of God’s Glory came to me. I saw what the body of Christ was like as it relates to the Trinity. Through the music, I could envision how it is the work of each member to play his part to the best of his or her ability----not someone else’s part or instrument (that would be chaos), but the one given to him. I sensed what it might be like in heaven; a pure celebration of the divine romance of the Trinity. All glory going to them as we play our part, telling their story; the passion, tragedy and triumph of all they have endured. And yet, within that body of music makers, there are many stories of individuals with his or her own tale which uniquely glorifies the Father, Son and Holy Spirit; in particular, the story of one little girl; my little girl.
Caitlin went through grueling auditions to make it into this select group of musicians. She had no experience in an orchestra and sight read very little; but she could play her fiddle and practiced seriously. Midway into rehearsals and practicing two and sometimes three hours per day, she was told because she was homeschooled, she should not have been allowed in the group (it is a public school program). The orchestra chair person said she would be allowed to play this time, but asked her not to audition next year. She was hurt, but decided to continue on to the next hoop in this orchestral experience, the dreaded Re- seating auditions. This is a blind audition where the musicians play the most difficult parts of the pieces and are scored and placed according to their ability in the orchestra. Now, it is an honor to even be in this ensemble. That is why it is called, Honors Orchestra and sitting in any seat is to be cherished, even if it is in the last row.
The glory of God comes through her story when on Thursday night after over a week of wondering where her audition placed her; Caitlin went to rehearsal looking for her newly appointed seat. She was looking in the back because of her age, and lack of experience, (sixth graders are usually in the back). She could not find her name. We assumed she was out. She asked one of the teachers if she was on the list and he showed her where she was to sit. She had been judged and scored on the first stand, second chair of II Violins. Her stand was one of a group which forms an inner circle around the conductor. My little girl sat center stage, a breath away from the conductor.
What a glorious day! I watched and admired a little girl who had been through so much to sit in that place of honor, and ultimately, she played her part in harmony with the others and the Glory of God was revealed in the music as it sung my soul a Legend: Black is the Color of my True Love’s........(My Jesus’ )Hair.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Being Myself
I was thinking about, or rather, I was made aware of how careless I can be in my prayer life. I find myself praying the old standard: help me to be more like Jesus in my life……… yadah, yadah, yadah, you know how it goes. But, as I was in my location of a higher spiritual plane, that is, in the kitchen, washing dishes, a little small voice was challenging my perfunctory request. I was made aware of what a big thing it is to desire, request or attempt to be like Jesus.
Simply, (without revealing too many details of a complicated issue) I was asked why I was content to do one thing for one individual that I would not do for another with the same need. Both I and the Spirit knew the answer, but it needed to be asked; it was a timing thing. Also, the Spirit had a more detailed and expanded answer for me.
So, the answer was that I want to be like Jesus when it involves a sacrifice that benefits me or makes me appear better than I am. I love being like Jesus when it involves casting demons out; telling Pharisees where to go; healing the sick and feeding five thousand (all via the wave of a hand .) I especially love being like Jesus when it comes to being right in all things, of course!
But, when it comes to caring for another’s burden at a cost to my convenience, or being tolerant with someone who is treating me heinously, or shutting my mouth when my children make foolish, immature decisions; accepting criticism and rejection with grace; saying no to a material thing to allow a spiritual thing to bloom; being completely forgiving when all I want to do is to discuss how badly I have been offended and critical of behaviors I am in bondage to myself........when it comes to this......the Spirit said.........You love being yourself.
Sometimes one of the steps to a deeper relationship with your Teacher is to be shown and be convinced how totally other He is from you. Seems paradoxical that the best way to relate to God is to embrace the stark chasm between your natures and rather than become discouraged, you draw closer.
Father forgive me, for I do not know what I am doing.
I was thinking about, or rather, I was made aware of how careless I can be in my prayer life. I find myself praying the old standard: help me to be more like Jesus in my life……… yadah, yadah, yadah, you know how it goes. But, as I was in my location of a higher spiritual plane, that is, in the kitchen, washing dishes, a little small voice was challenging my perfunctory request. I was made aware of what a big thing it is to desire, request or attempt to be like Jesus.
Simply, (without revealing too many details of a complicated issue) I was asked why I was content to do one thing for one individual that I would not do for another with the same need. Both I and the Spirit knew the answer, but it needed to be asked; it was a timing thing. Also, the Spirit had a more detailed and expanded answer for me.
So, the answer was that I want to be like Jesus when it involves a sacrifice that benefits me or makes me appear better than I am. I love being like Jesus when it involves casting demons out; telling Pharisees where to go; healing the sick and feeding five thousand (all via the wave of a hand .) I especially love being like Jesus when it comes to being right in all things, of course!
But, when it comes to caring for another’s burden at a cost to my convenience, or being tolerant with someone who is treating me heinously, or shutting my mouth when my children make foolish, immature decisions; accepting criticism and rejection with grace; saying no to a material thing to allow a spiritual thing to bloom; being completely forgiving when all I want to do is to discuss how badly I have been offended and critical of behaviors I am in bondage to myself........when it comes to this......the Spirit said.........You love being yourself.
Sometimes one of the steps to a deeper relationship with your Teacher is to be shown and be convinced how totally other He is from you. Seems paradoxical that the best way to relate to God is to embrace the stark chasm between your natures and rather than become discouraged, you draw closer.
Father forgive me, for I do not know what I am doing.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
And On and on she goes; random thoughts written over a period of time
When depressed people feel happiness, it is not wasted or taken for granted.
When I am stressed by a situation I can’t finish my thought or sentence.
Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night I have a strange feeling that I don’t exist.
Sometimes I wish I could be an anorexic again…but an hour later , I say hmmmmmm????? Indian food sounds good tonight.
I get depressed about what gravity is doing to my body.
Sometimes my brain feels like a squashed pumpkin.
Sometimes I think Gregg deserved someone much better.
When I cry in bed at night my cat sits on my chest.
Sometimes it is just easier to believe a lie than the truth.
I know that my depression is going to leave when I dream I am flying over great areas especially the ocean.
I really love the song His banner over me is love.
I have a huge problem with anger.
I worry that my children may have inherited my illness.
Keanu Reeves has short legs and a long body…… whoa.
I have a crush on Ralph Fiennes.
If I was an actress I would want Kate Blanchette’s voice.........even if I wasn't....I would....I covet Kate's vocal cords, I think that is supposed to be bad.
Since I can remember I have read people’s personality by their hands, shape , size, nail beds and movement……….
Unchecked ambition can destroy relationships
My mother refers to her bipolar illness as Hay fever; she also thinks that if you have ever eaten meat you will lose your teeth and be punished.
After my mother's father( who also had hay fever) died of lung cancer, she thought he had come back as a bird so she feeds birds all the time
I love birds…but I don’t think they are any preexisting relatives.
I bore easily……..Gregg says there is no such thing as being bored.
The only two consistent things I do without fail is wear a watch and drink coffee each morning.
Are IQ and physical strength really inverse of each other…? Is Gregg right when he says, retard strength?
Is the complexity of a culture’s language an indication of their intelligence?
One day when I was in third grade my mother felt lonely and kept me home from school. She took me to the beach and we ate bread, cheese, chicken legs and lemon pudding. She let me sip her beer too. We stayed all day long. She was nice to me.
Will my mind ever become quiet?
When depressed people feel happiness, it is not wasted or taken for granted.
When I am stressed by a situation I can’t finish my thought or sentence.
Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night I have a strange feeling that I don’t exist.
Sometimes I wish I could be an anorexic again…but an hour later , I say hmmmmmm????? Indian food sounds good tonight.
I get depressed about what gravity is doing to my body.
Sometimes my brain feels like a squashed pumpkin.
Sometimes I think Gregg deserved someone much better.
When I cry in bed at night my cat sits on my chest.
Sometimes it is just easier to believe a lie than the truth.
I know that my depression is going to leave when I dream I am flying over great areas especially the ocean.
I really love the song His banner over me is love.
I have a huge problem with anger.
I worry that my children may have inherited my illness.
Keanu Reeves has short legs and a long body…… whoa.
I have a crush on Ralph Fiennes.
If I was an actress I would want Kate Blanchette’s voice.........even if I wasn't....I would....I covet Kate's vocal cords, I think that is supposed to be bad.
Since I can remember I have read people’s personality by their hands, shape , size, nail beds and movement……….
Unchecked ambition can destroy relationships
My mother refers to her bipolar illness as Hay fever; she also thinks that if you have ever eaten meat you will lose your teeth and be punished.
After my mother's father( who also had hay fever) died of lung cancer, she thought he had come back as a bird so she feeds birds all the time
I love birds…but I don’t think they are any preexisting relatives.
I bore easily……..Gregg says there is no such thing as being bored.
The only two consistent things I do without fail is wear a watch and drink coffee each morning.
Are IQ and physical strength really inverse of each other…? Is Gregg right when he says, retard strength?
Is the complexity of a culture’s language an indication of their intelligence?
One day when I was in third grade my mother felt lonely and kept me home from school. She took me to the beach and we ate bread, cheese, chicken legs and lemon pudding. She let me sip her beer too. We stayed all day long. She was nice to me.
Will my mind ever become quiet?
Friday, October 17, 2003
Saying goodbye to my friend
I will miss Carolyn. She has moved away. I met her in housechurch. Through a series of unfortunate events, she left house church and so did I. In the midst of it all; we became close. We tread very familiar ground and we can speak of hard things without diminishing one another’s spirits. It has always been easy to be in her presence.
The people that have chosen to remain in my inner circle do so at great risk because of my frailties and thorns. She has been a true friend, tolerant of my manic; soapbox outbursts, abysmal listening skills, and reclusive lapses. I have learned so much from her, about unconditional love, perseverance, gentle speech, trust , mercy and honesty.
I know in my heart that her leaving is an important call from the Lord. I don’t know what it is God has for her and her family, but I know He will be good in all He does and will be her treasure alone.
I will miss Carolyn. She has moved away. I met her in housechurch. Through a series of unfortunate events, she left house church and so did I. In the midst of it all; we became close. We tread very familiar ground and we can speak of hard things without diminishing one another’s spirits. It has always been easy to be in her presence.
The people that have chosen to remain in my inner circle do so at great risk because of my frailties and thorns. She has been a true friend, tolerant of my manic; soapbox outbursts, abysmal listening skills, and reclusive lapses. I have learned so much from her, about unconditional love, perseverance, gentle speech, trust , mercy and honesty.
I know in my heart that her leaving is an important call from the Lord. I don’t know what it is God has for her and her family, but I know He will be good in all He does and will be her treasure alone.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Inspired
I watched Anne Lamott on C-SPAN’s Mid-West Writing Festival last night. She wrote Traveling Mercies, a book about her journey to God. It is one of the most beautifully honest and real descriptions of the spiritual life on life’s terms I have ever read. She is not your garden variety believer. To many mainstream evangelicals, she would be …….oh let’s see…..Out…… basically. She is a left wing activist…swears like a sailor and scandal of all scandals, often refers to God using feminine pronouns. But as you hear her speak, or read her books……you just know Jesus is all over her life. She is pushing 50, wacky, hippyish, tangential, extremely broken and profound at explaining the ineffable things of life through her writing.
I am reading her book, Bird by Bird about writing and it is hysterically funny. Her life screams authentic.
I was so inspired watching her talk about her Christianity, writing and life. She helped me momentarily be glad I was getting older and more gelatinous, that tangential-ness can almost look charming, that brokenness of mind could be a useful tool in writing and that God is the victor in the lives of the unlikely.
While I watched her, I had a fan crazed moment, I kind of mentally turned to Jesus as he lay there couch-potatoing next to me and said, “I’d love to have lunch with her some day.” He nodded in that, could- happen kinda gesture as he picked something out of his teeth with a toothpick.
I am considering taking her advice on writing:
1. Carry a pen and index card with you every where you go because you will never remember that thought you had standing in the grocery line again.
2. Write something everyday no matter how bad it is.
3. Don’t write for the purpose to succeed.
Read her books if you ever get a chance
I watched Anne Lamott on C-SPAN’s Mid-West Writing Festival last night. She wrote Traveling Mercies, a book about her journey to God. It is one of the most beautifully honest and real descriptions of the spiritual life on life’s terms I have ever read. She is not your garden variety believer. To many mainstream evangelicals, she would be …….oh let’s see…..Out…… basically. She is a left wing activist…swears like a sailor and scandal of all scandals, often refers to God using feminine pronouns. But as you hear her speak, or read her books……you just know Jesus is all over her life. She is pushing 50, wacky, hippyish, tangential, extremely broken and profound at explaining the ineffable things of life through her writing.
I am reading her book, Bird by Bird about writing and it is hysterically funny. Her life screams authentic.
I was so inspired watching her talk about her Christianity, writing and life. She helped me momentarily be glad I was getting older and more gelatinous, that tangential-ness can almost look charming, that brokenness of mind could be a useful tool in writing and that God is the victor in the lives of the unlikely.
While I watched her, I had a fan crazed moment, I kind of mentally turned to Jesus as he lay there couch-potatoing next to me and said, “I’d love to have lunch with her some day.” He nodded in that, could- happen kinda gesture as he picked something out of his teeth with a toothpick.
I am considering taking her advice on writing:
1. Carry a pen and index card with you every where you go because you will never remember that thought you had standing in the grocery line again.
2. Write something everyday no matter how bad it is.
3. Don’t write for the purpose to succeed.
Read her books if you ever get a chance
Saturday, September 27, 2003
A dream
This is a dream my sister shared with me a long time ago. I have been thinking about it lately. I am going to narrate the dream as if it were a scene from a movie to help me tell it better.
SCENE:
The camera pans through a crowded city of people numbly going about their business. In the midst of this city, there is a room. It is transparent, made, perhaps, of glass. From time to time, individuals compelled by something in the room, wander to it and momentarily stop doing what they are occupied with to distantly gaze at the scene inside. A monotone, emotionless voice can be heard saying, “Yes, there is the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world,” as it comes from an observer pressed against the glass. After the hollow acknowledgement, the individual returns to the activity of the city.
The camera now focuses on the space left by the observer. It closes in on a very old man within. As he hovers over a sacrifice on a massive stone altar, his tears fall on the body lying there. The ancient man’s sobs are anguished and mournful as he cries out to the crowds beyond his glass box……
“This is my child....... who will love my Son. Who will love my Jesus, slain from the foundation of the world?
Please....... love my Lamb.”
His grief is overwhelming……..the separation profound.
Today, I am thinking about how the veil was torn from top to bottom when Jesus breathed his last breath as the ultimate sacrifice. I was thinking about how the Holy of Holies which lies behind that curtain is passionately desired by His Father for us all. The experience is Jesus himself, overwhelming, breathtaking, intimate and raw………not his blessings or riches or perfect marriages, good kids, or successful ministry or personal fulfillment, but Himself alone.
But somehow, the veil has been replaced by another barrier, a barrier of knowledge, doctrinal correctness, attainment of godly things, worship of church, trying to make life work…..and the box gets bigger.
May I break the glass created by myself and others to keep God in a safe, reasonable place in order to keep my eye on Him as I go about my business. This is risky; I may be wounded in the process. Will I ever break through and fully comprehend the love of the Father for His child, the depths of what it really cost Him.
Somehow I intuit that the secret to a life of glorifying the Father lies in the simple act of cherishing, meditating on His offering and testimony about His Son. To enter into the scene only for the sake of being in His presence, to weep with Him……the Ancient One, and tell Him I love Him, I love His Son, His Baby, who was slain from the foundation of the world.
1 John 5:1:
Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Christ is born of God, and everyone who loves the father loves his child as well.
This is a dream my sister shared with me a long time ago. I have been thinking about it lately. I am going to narrate the dream as if it were a scene from a movie to help me tell it better.
SCENE:
The camera pans through a crowded city of people numbly going about their business. In the midst of this city, there is a room. It is transparent, made, perhaps, of glass. From time to time, individuals compelled by something in the room, wander to it and momentarily stop doing what they are occupied with to distantly gaze at the scene inside. A monotone, emotionless voice can be heard saying, “Yes, there is the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world,” as it comes from an observer pressed against the glass. After the hollow acknowledgement, the individual returns to the activity of the city.
The camera now focuses on the space left by the observer. It closes in on a very old man within. As he hovers over a sacrifice on a massive stone altar, his tears fall on the body lying there. The ancient man’s sobs are anguished and mournful as he cries out to the crowds beyond his glass box……
“This is my child....... who will love my Son. Who will love my Jesus, slain from the foundation of the world?
Please....... love my Lamb.”
His grief is overwhelming……..the separation profound.
Today, I am thinking about how the veil was torn from top to bottom when Jesus breathed his last breath as the ultimate sacrifice. I was thinking about how the Holy of Holies which lies behind that curtain is passionately desired by His Father for us all. The experience is Jesus himself, overwhelming, breathtaking, intimate and raw………not his blessings or riches or perfect marriages, good kids, or successful ministry or personal fulfillment, but Himself alone.
But somehow, the veil has been replaced by another barrier, a barrier of knowledge, doctrinal correctness, attainment of godly things, worship of church, trying to make life work…..and the box gets bigger.
May I break the glass created by myself and others to keep God in a safe, reasonable place in order to keep my eye on Him as I go about my business. This is risky; I may be wounded in the process. Will I ever break through and fully comprehend the love of the Father for His child, the depths of what it really cost Him.
Somehow I intuit that the secret to a life of glorifying the Father lies in the simple act of cherishing, meditating on His offering and testimony about His Son. To enter into the scene only for the sake of being in His presence, to weep with Him……the Ancient One, and tell Him I love Him, I love His Son, His Baby, who was slain from the foundation of the world.
1 John 5:1:
Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Christ is born of God, and everyone who loves the father loves his child as well.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Slice of life
I am sitting here and surfing blogs and Bronwyn is cruising around the flood positioned funiture on her razor scooter and Gregg says,"Hey,did ya know Joe is directing the Christmas show?" "Maybe I'll audition".. .....I'll play a workaholic."
"No," says Bronwyn, " You should be the psycho Chritmas elf," as she scooters by.
I am sitting here and surfing blogs and Bronwyn is cruising around the flood positioned funiture on her razor scooter and Gregg says,"Hey,did ya know Joe is directing the Christmas show?" "Maybe I'll audition".. .....I'll play a workaholic."
"No," says Bronwyn, " You should be the psycho Chritmas elf," as she scooters by.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
A Grand Conversion
I finished reading my husband’s blog. I spotted a spelling error that struck me. I believe he intended to spell the word ‘conversation’ not conversion, when he said he had a “grand conversion with Bronwyn.” I think that the right word is there and should not be corrected.
It is in these things that I find Jesus and His sparrow moments. I think the beauty of Jesus was serendipitously articulated in that spelling error. Gregg really was undergoing a “Grand Conversion” with his six year old. Any time one can be pulled away from the lies of linearity, our own ability to right all things, the have- to’s and the urgent things, one is experiencing the breaking in of the Kingdom and is being converted towards Jesus. Our conversions are often catalyzed by the most unlikely vessels.
The authenticity of Jesus often remains imperceptible and a rare experience for me. Mainly because my attention is on the things, ideas or formulas that will never form Christ in me. They may make me look good to my Christian culture or convince me that I have it all together (even though everyone can see my cheese is falling off my cracker). They can fill me with spiritual pride and delusion of a better life, but never will help me fall in love with people or be caught up in the Trinitarian romance. They will never allow me to experience that God more often converts me through submission to things that require an exercise of my own intimacy with Him, myself and others. Life is so full of Burning-Bush-moments…...
I wrote this poem in my "private thoughts "book a year ago….
Earth’s crammed with heaven
And every common bush afire with God
But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries
Elizabeth Barret Browning
I finished reading my husband’s blog. I spotted a spelling error that struck me. I believe he intended to spell the word ‘conversation’ not conversion, when he said he had a “grand conversion with Bronwyn.” I think that the right word is there and should not be corrected.
It is in these things that I find Jesus and His sparrow moments. I think the beauty of Jesus was serendipitously articulated in that spelling error. Gregg really was undergoing a “Grand Conversion” with his six year old. Any time one can be pulled away from the lies of linearity, our own ability to right all things, the have- to’s and the urgent things, one is experiencing the breaking in of the Kingdom and is being converted towards Jesus. Our conversions are often catalyzed by the most unlikely vessels.
The authenticity of Jesus often remains imperceptible and a rare experience for me. Mainly because my attention is on the things, ideas or formulas that will never form Christ in me. They may make me look good to my Christian culture or convince me that I have it all together (even though everyone can see my cheese is falling off my cracker). They can fill me with spiritual pride and delusion of a better life, but never will help me fall in love with people or be caught up in the Trinitarian romance. They will never allow me to experience that God more often converts me through submission to things that require an exercise of my own intimacy with Him, myself and others. Life is so full of Burning-Bush-moments…...
I wrote this poem in my "private thoughts "book a year ago….
Earth’s crammed with heaven
And every common bush afire with God
But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries
Elizabeth Barret Browning
Monday, September 22, 2003
Today
Today is a difficult day. I am trying to keep all the plates spinning but most seem to never even get off to a wobble and the others are crashing in pieces to the floor.
Today is one of those days where I must accept that, sometimes, life just does not work.
I don’t want a solution I don’t want a miracle…….I would miss the lesson if I asked for it all to be fixed……
I just want Jesus.
As I sit in a puddle of my own tears, ignorance, rebellion, like a child after a tantrum; half dressed one shoe on, hair matted and a dozen plates strewn across the room in various broken pieces, I will reach out to the only One that makes sense to me.
Today is a difficult day. I am trying to keep all the plates spinning but most seem to never even get off to a wobble and the others are crashing in pieces to the floor.
Today is one of those days where I must accept that, sometimes, life just does not work.
I don’t want a solution I don’t want a miracle…….I would miss the lesson if I asked for it all to be fixed……
I just want Jesus.
As I sit in a puddle of my own tears, ignorance, rebellion, like a child after a tantrum; half dressed one shoe on, hair matted and a dozen plates strewn across the room in various broken pieces, I will reach out to the only One that makes sense to me.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
A Tribute
I just finished reading my friend Kristine's most recent blog. Although she is not aware of some of the recent conversations and events related to my friends in Saga, and would be horrified that I am referencing her blog as well as posting a picture of her I love, I thought it particularly providential that she wrote the thoughts she did. They express, so well, what in my heart, I believe to be the actual reality of the non-linear pilgrimage of a true disciple of Jesus. I have known her for some years now and her journey to the depths of Jesus has profoundly blessed my life.
See Joe, you are not alone.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Grief
I am grieving for Jennifer Palmer. Her physical body died this morning and I am so grieved for this loss for her family and friends. She is a complete stranger to me but I was drawn to her story through the blogging community. I have been allowed to, in some small way, be a part of her story. Her husband Mark so graciously and courageously kept her journey documented as he shared her pain and trial as well as the outpouring of love and prayers from their community and other believers who did not know them.
When I gain my composure I would like to blog about some of the things that their story taught me.... and I am sure will continue to teach me.
I am grieving for Jennifer Palmer. Her physical body died this morning and I am so grieved for this loss for her family and friends. She is a complete stranger to me but I was drawn to her story through the blogging community. I have been allowed to, in some small way, be a part of her story. Her husband Mark so graciously and courageously kept her journey documented as he shared her pain and trial as well as the outpouring of love and prayers from their community and other believers who did not know them.
When I gain my composure I would like to blog about some of the things that their story taught me.... and I am sure will continue to teach me.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
The Wonder Of It All
I was reading to the girls today from a little nature manual about the nest building skills of the paper wasp and the mud wasp. I became fascinated with the architectural ability of the paper wasp to not only chew up bits of wood and with its own chemistry and anatomy turn it to paper, but then, to build, with no blueprint or permit, an architectural marvel of hundreds of cells in which to lay its progeny.
As it always does, my mind began to ponder how such complexity and efficiency can come from such a thing so small, unassuming and disconnected from my everyday existence: a thing, to my vain thinking, inconsequential, and a pest to avoid because of its venom. It is so easy to misunderstand man's position in creation.
The paper wasp is the perfect builder...a good example for Kingdom Life. She builds her nest in a safe place and then remains with her young, caring for them. When they grow up, they help her form a colony and build and clean the nest creating more room for new paper wasps. Winter comes as a time of testing. Some wasps grow cold and die and others leave to set off alone. They seek shelter and endure the cold until warm weather resumes and they emerge from their hiding places as new mothers building their own nest to start a new colony.....Nature has so much to teach me.
I think the paper wasp (and most of Gods non-human creatures) is a sobering example from the Creator. God has deposited the miraculous in the most unlikely places.........this fascinates me.........humbles me. The older I get the more I respect the small things and see my need to slow down and observe the wonder of the unnoticed. I am not talking about watching it on the discovery channel either….but to go out and intentionally hear the flutter of dove wings and wonder what unseen insect is causing the blades of grass to sway as it passes.
A quote:
"If you speak of a fly, a gnat, a bee, your conversation will be a sort of demonstration of His power whose hand formed them: for the wisdom of the workman is commonly perceived in that which is of little size. He who has stretched out the heavens, and dug out the bottom of the sea, is also He who has pierced a passage through the sting of the bee for the injection of its poison." Basil, Bishop of Caesarea
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