Okay, I've sunk to a new depth. I have now let the ENTIRE month of November go by without a blog post. Long gone are the days of making sure I posted at least once a week. I let December sneak right up on me! But I do have several excellent excuses . . . I DO!
I had a women's ministry event to get ready for last night. And we're in the middle of collecting recipes and getting a cookbook to the publisher. And there are Sunday School lessons to study for. And I had a couple of speaking engagements this month. And I went for four days on a trip with my sweetie and some great friends and spent some of it doing NOTHING. And work was really, really busy before AND after the trip. And occasionally I just stopped what I was doing and read a book for no useful purpose whatsoever. And Younger Son ran out of socks so I had to do laundry eventually.
I've been quite busy. Really.
Younger Son had football practice three nights a week, but then he played in the Super Bowl! (Okay, so it's the Pee Wee Super Bowl, but they did get to play at the new high school stadium! On turf!) And he competes for the Aikin Idol title tomorrow night, and he's got a lead part as the Angel Harpo in the kids' musical at church this weekend. And he's learning multiplication tables and I had to assist with the Sir Francis Drake cereal box project. And he started practice for the indoor soccer tournament. And he's insisted on going over his Christmas wish list with me several times now.
Younger Son has been busy, so I have too.
Sweetie has been really busy at work. And he wants to eat something EVERY night which disrupts the diet I'm sure I planned to begin that day. And he's tried to hunt whenever he can, which I'm happy for him to do, although it disrupts Bambi's happy existence.
Sweetie's busy-ness impacts my busy-ness.
So, let's talk about disruptions. Life is full of them, obviously. Have you ever had one? I know, stupid question.
As for me, getting ready for an event disrupts the flow of life, but then life disrupts the preparation too. The trip disrupted everything, although I spent those four days not caring. Younger Son's activities disrupt work, and work disrupts the ability to get him where he needs to be. Multiplication tables disrupt my brain. Laundry and chores disrupt a bunch of stuff, but then I just retreat and read which disrupts the chores. The Christmas list is trying to disrupt my bank account.
Oh yeah, forgot to mention one whopper of a disruption . . . Elder Son just spent ten days in a Dallas hospital with blood clot problems.
Can you say . . . dIsRupTEd?
Two pulmonary embolisms disrupted our peace of mind. Two trips to the operating room and two nights in ICU disrupted the normal Thanksgiving plans. Several hotel nights disrupted the budget. Time in the big city without going to Target, not even once, disrupted my shopping philosophy. Sleeping in that chair/cot thing one night disrupted my spine.
Sometimes disruptions result in delight.
Because he lived. He got better. He got discharged yesterday. And we're delighted.
Plus I saved that money I might have spent at Target.
My Thanksgiving Day lunch was chicken salad with crackers and a side of mac and cheese in a hospital cafeteria. Not being a huge fan of turkey and dressing, I thought it was just fine. I got to share that meal with Younger Son, right after I left Sweetie and Elder Son enjoying traditional leftovers I had brought the night before from the Floyd family dinner. One of the joys was that the doctors put off a procedure until the next day so the boy could actually eat. Not even ICU could disrupt watching him enjoy some chocolate pie!
The trip we took earlier this month disrupted the routine. That's both the curse and the blessing, because it was a delightful disruption while it lasted! The chance to spend time with friends you love and have missed dearly is something not to be regretted. The opportunity to fellowship around a shared love for the Lord is precious. And the blueberry poppyseed salad dressing at my favorite restaurant in Branson is delightful too!
The chores got disrupted by the requests to listen to the ever-lengthening Christmas list. I think that's delightful enough to allow it to happen again.
A couple of thousand years ago, there were some poor shepherds hanging out on a hillside one night, just minding their own business, just doing their jobs. They probably hadn't experienced lots of delightful disruptions before. Shepherds didn't get to take vacations, because the sheep never took one. Sheep were their livelihood, and they demanded constant attention. These shepherds were probably accustomed to the same unchanging routine, day after day, night after night, over and over.
SUDDENLY . . . a delightful disruption!!! Scripture says in Luke 2 that an angel of the Lord appeared to them and they were surrounded by God's glory!!!!!
Surely, they were . . . delighted! Filled with joy! Excited, happy, full of celebration!!!
Nope. They were "sore afraid" . . . translated elsewhere as "terrified."
An angel? God's glory? Terrifying?
It's important to remember that delightful disruptions don't always look delightful at first.
We're no different two thousand years later.
God is the master of disruption. He loves us too much to let us just coast along in our comfortable little way. He's got business to conduct with us, and sometimes He has to shake things up to get it done! He hand-picked those shepherds to be the first to hear His good news! He didn't let them know through a letter or a news report . . . he disrupted their normal routine . . . it was that important!
How often are we terrified, or even angered, by God's disruptions, when all He really intends to do is deliver good news?
And what was that good news? Well, it was even more disrupting than that angel! And it was good news for more than just those shepherds! It was news of great JOY (delight) for ALL people! That's us, folks! And talk about a disruption!
Once we were sinners, condemned, deserving death. Jesus came to disrupt our sentencing, to take our punishment upon Himself, to set us free to live in that joy! He disrupted all of the enemy's plans . . . He shook everything up . . . He rocked our world!
A delightful disruption indeed.
Where in your life do you see only disruptions when God has plans for delight and joy? Post a comment below.
Christmas is a delightful disruption, a break in the routine, a chance to focus on the good, good news. Joy to the world! The Lord has come . . . the most delightful disruption of all time!
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Wasting Time Writing About Wasting Time
I'm back. Just now realized that I've let ANOTHER month go by without writing. I miss it, I really do. But other things crowd in and take over and it just falls by the wayside. It's not the only thing.
That seems to be a pattern.
Some of the things that have jumped ahead of writing are just ridiculous wastes of time. Like picking up my house. A ridiculous waste of time, if you ask me. If I put up the dog's toys, he's going to get them out again, I promise you. He's a dog, after all. If I put something in the dirty clothes basket, it will just have to be washed, dried, folded and put away. Might as well leave it on the floor and be done with it, don't you think? Honestly, I could live out of my closet for some time while I let the dirty clothes pile up on the floor. I may have to try it.
For many years, my philosophy was "why make the bed if I'm just going to get back in it tonight and mess it up again?" My mother obviously had no appreciation for philosophy. But then I grew up and lived in rebellion for a few years. These days, I DO make the bed. It sort of neatens up the room, hopefully counteracting the pile of laundry on the floor.
I'm beginning to feel the same way about cooking and eating sometimes too, like it might be a waste of time. Why keep doing it? And I usually like to eat! But sometimes we spend a ridiculous amount of time on it. And money. And calories. I heard somebody say once that Asian cultures treat food more like fuel and medicine than entertainment. I wish I could do that. I guess I could think like Paula Deen, that butter can cure anything that ails you.
But seriously, don't you ever feel the same way? Buy it, cook it, eat it, clean it up. Over and over. Over and over. And we get to feeling like every meal should be some kind of experience. Sometimes, it might just need to be fuel and medicine. There are honestly only so many ways to cook a pot roast. You can tweak this seasoning or change that ingredient, but in the end, it's still just a piece of meat. And in a few hours, I'll want something else.
It's enough to make me consider an IV.
Of course, there are probably some of you superchicks out there who might say the housecleaning and cooking are getting crowded out rather than doing the crowding out. Well, stuff some dirty laundry in it.
To be honest, which I should be, I can't blame most of my not writing on cooking and housecleaning. Or at least that's what my husband would say. I've done the bare minimum of either.
Here's what I can blame it on, and I guess these are good enough excuses:
I've been to all but one of my kid's soccer and football games. And I've enjoyed myself too. And one day I was headed to Walmart while they headed to practice. And I got to thinking how I need sunshine worse than I needed groceries, so I turned around and went to practice and sat in the sunshine and even walked around the track some and watched my kid do football drills. Of course, then I still had to go to Walmart. But I wasted some time and it was fine.
I've had to study to teach Sunday School. It's pretty hard to call this wasting time. I've wasted a LOT of time on other things instead of doing this in the past. I studied before and read my Bible, but now I'm accountable. If I fail to do it, I fail. Can't teach what you don't know.
I've gotten in bed earlier some nights and snuggled up to my husband instead of snuggling up to my laptop. (Okay, okay . . . sometimes I take the laptop to bed. The glare of the screen doesn't bug him once he's asleep.)
I've watched me some World Series! And I don't even LIKE baseball unless I'm watching one of my boys play. May never watch it again, but the Rangers in the World Series for the first time, plus hanging out with my husband and kid around the TV, make it an okay waste of time every now and then. And we obviously can't do it with the Cowboys these days. And the way the Rangers are playing right now, we might not be doing it much longer this week either.
I'm taking a short trip with my sweetie and some close friends. I've said I want to spend some time doing as little as possible, and can't seem to get away with that here. Absolutely do NOT have the time for a trip and don't need to spend the money. Doing it anyway. So there.
And here I am, wasting time by writing this blog post about wasting time. Shocker.
What's your favorite time-waster, the one you don't really care to apologize for?
That seems to be a pattern.
Some of the things that have jumped ahead of writing are just ridiculous wastes of time. Like picking up my house. A ridiculous waste of time, if you ask me. If I put up the dog's toys, he's going to get them out again, I promise you. He's a dog, after all. If I put something in the dirty clothes basket, it will just have to be washed, dried, folded and put away. Might as well leave it on the floor and be done with it, don't you think? Honestly, I could live out of my closet for some time while I let the dirty clothes pile up on the floor. I may have to try it.
For many years, my philosophy was "why make the bed if I'm just going to get back in it tonight and mess it up again?" My mother obviously had no appreciation for philosophy. But then I grew up and lived in rebellion for a few years. These days, I DO make the bed. It sort of neatens up the room, hopefully counteracting the pile of laundry on the floor.
I'm beginning to feel the same way about cooking and eating sometimes too, like it might be a waste of time. Why keep doing it? And I usually like to eat! But sometimes we spend a ridiculous amount of time on it. And money. And calories. I heard somebody say once that Asian cultures treat food more like fuel and medicine than entertainment. I wish I could do that. I guess I could think like Paula Deen, that butter can cure anything that ails you.
But seriously, don't you ever feel the same way? Buy it, cook it, eat it, clean it up. Over and over. Over and over. And we get to feeling like every meal should be some kind of experience. Sometimes, it might just need to be fuel and medicine. There are honestly only so many ways to cook a pot roast. You can tweak this seasoning or change that ingredient, but in the end, it's still just a piece of meat. And in a few hours, I'll want something else.
It's enough to make me consider an IV.
Of course, there are probably some of you superchicks out there who might say the housecleaning and cooking are getting crowded out rather than doing the crowding out. Well, stuff some dirty laundry in it.
To be honest, which I should be, I can't blame most of my not writing on cooking and housecleaning. Or at least that's what my husband would say. I've done the bare minimum of either.
Here's what I can blame it on, and I guess these are good enough excuses:
I've been to all but one of my kid's soccer and football games. And I've enjoyed myself too. And one day I was headed to Walmart while they headed to practice. And I got to thinking how I need sunshine worse than I needed groceries, so I turned around and went to practice and sat in the sunshine and even walked around the track some and watched my kid do football drills. Of course, then I still had to go to Walmart. But I wasted some time and it was fine.
I've had to study to teach Sunday School. It's pretty hard to call this wasting time. I've wasted a LOT of time on other things instead of doing this in the past. I studied before and read my Bible, but now I'm accountable. If I fail to do it, I fail. Can't teach what you don't know.
I've gotten in bed earlier some nights and snuggled up to my husband instead of snuggling up to my laptop. (Okay, okay . . . sometimes I take the laptop to bed. The glare of the screen doesn't bug him once he's asleep.)
I've watched me some World Series! And I don't even LIKE baseball unless I'm watching one of my boys play. May never watch it again, but the Rangers in the World Series for the first time, plus hanging out with my husband and kid around the TV, make it an okay waste of time every now and then. And we obviously can't do it with the Cowboys these days. And the way the Rangers are playing right now, we might not be doing it much longer this week either.
I'm taking a short trip with my sweetie and some close friends. I've said I want to spend some time doing as little as possible, and can't seem to get away with that here. Absolutely do NOT have the time for a trip and don't need to spend the money. Doing it anyway. So there.
And here I am, wasting time by writing this blog post about wasting time. Shocker.
What's your favorite time-waster, the one you don't really care to apologize for?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Writing About Writing
It's been, like, eons since I posted a blog article. I'm sorry . . . if you are. I happen to have several convenient excuses though . . . I've been too busy, I couldn't decide what to write about, I've been too busy, I've neglected to make time for it, I've been too busy and my heart just hasn't been in it. Not to mention that I've just been too busy.
I'm like an old computer with limited hard disk space and not enough working memory. I can only process so much at one time, and I run pretty slow. Too many programs open in the background or whatever. It gets all cluttered, and then it locks up.
I think I locked up. Maybe I have a virus. Yeah, that's good . . . blame it on a virus.
Anyway, I decided to write about writing . . . and about not writing. At least until I drift off onto some other topic.
I guess writing makes you a writer. But I'm not "a writer" in the sense that you think of writers. I like it when I write. Other people seem to like it. I think I have a little bit of talent for it. I've gotten some coaching in it. I have a few things to say, usually, and a couple of those things might occasionally be worth saying. But I don't have some burning passion to do it. Matter of fact, one of the reasons I started this blog was to make myself accountable to get some writing done. And look how THAT turned out. Four weeks between posts. Ridiculous.
I write like I talk. People have told me that since way back when I wrote a weekly newspaper article and later a newsletter for my job. Since I talk a lot, that explains why I write long. Real writers will preach that you need to be concise, that less is more, that you should ruthlessly edit out every unnecessary word, that you should use "strong verbs" such as "she flew down the track" rather than "she ran really fast" because strong verbs take up less space. And they are more interesting.
But since I'm not "a writer," do I have to obey the writing rules?
Nah.
I add more words, not edit them out. I'll say "Okay, then, you really just need to go." I could have said "you need to go." I use "just" and "really" a lot. I also use those little dot dot dot things . . . see? I just used them right there. I think they're called ellipses, correct? I could research that to be sure, but it would mean following the rules "real writers" follow, and that's just not me. So I'll guess at it and let one of you correct me if I'm wrong. Be gentle, please. I'm not a real writer and I have a virus.
People keep telling me I need to write a book. One of my graduate professors said I should seriously consider writing. I think that was after a major paper on some really fun topic like narcissistic personality disorder. My husband thinks I should get a doctorate and write a book, so that when I speak, they would say "speaker and author, Dr. Kathy Floyd." That just does not light me up at all, really. And a couple of things he's not considering . . . (there, those ellipses again!) . . . doctorates cost a LOT of money, "dissertation" does not go well with "honey, I'll have dinner on the table shortly," and I would have to talk about him in any book I write because he's part of my material. He hates that. It drives him crazy to go to work and have the girls there tell him they know what he had for supper last night because it was on Facebook. (By the way, tonight he's having fried chicken, roasted red potatoes, baked beans and iced tea.)
One of my reasons for entering a year-long speaker/author mentoring program with speaker and author Shannon Ethridge (www.shannonethridge.com/blast/ if you're interested . . . and you should be) was to find out if speakers need to write books in addition to speaking, and if I personally am supposed to write a book. Probably yes to both. Okay, well, so there ya got it. Get to writing, Kathy Jo.
Uhhh . . . no. Not so fast.
I've come to several conclusions.
(1) It takes a lot of time to write. You write a bunch, and then edit like crazy. I could edit infinitely past the time when I push the "post" button. At some point, you just have to stop and publish. But not before several hours have gone by in the pursuit of just a few hundred good words and phrases.
(2) I don't have a lot of time. I know many of you can play "Can You Top That?" and whup me really good on what I'm about to say, but please humor me. There's the husband, the boy-child, counseling, speaking, writing, football AND soccer, a Sunday School lesson every week (because Sunday happens every week), the church's women's ministry, a house, a dog, some seriously piled-up laundry and the need to maintain a few friendships for my own sanity, although I'm not doing so well at it lately. I also simply MUST read some every day. I will neglect important things to read.
(3) You can't find time to write . . . you have to make time to write. I actually didn't come to that conclusion on my own. It's what all "the" writers say.
I'm making time to write right this minute, although I need to be making time to make dinner pretty quickly. I also made time to write some of this last night . . . WAY after most of you were snoozing. That's because there was no other time to make time. I'm motivated by the fact that if I don't get this posted this evening, I will have only written one post this whole month. I intended to write at least one every week! But I haven't been able to find the time this month. And that's the point.
We make time for what's important. At least that's what some of those superspiritual, hypermommy, Proverbs 31 women say. (And they say it while bouncing a baby on one hip, whipping up a full country dinner and homeschooling six children, all at the same time. Okay! Okay! Ya topped me!) Writing is important and I intend to stick with it. But it's obviously not the most important thing. Which makes another point . . .
How blessed am I to be a part of so many other important things? Awesome family, a career I love, ministry I'm dedicated to . . .
So maybe now you'll understand better why I write . . . and why sometimes I don't write. Because sometimes I just don't have time.
I'm now going to the kitchen to cook (heat) the fried chicken (tenders frozen in a bag), the roasted red potatoes with sea salt and cracked black pepper (frozen in a bag) and the baked beans (don't ya just love that secret Bush family recipe!). And I'll have some iced tea with that (Red Diamond in a jug). It speaks well of me that I make the time to prepare meals for my loved ones, don't you think? Maybe if I'm not too tired after all that cooking, I can find more time to write.
I'm like an old computer with limited hard disk space and not enough working memory. I can only process so much at one time, and I run pretty slow. Too many programs open in the background or whatever. It gets all cluttered, and then it locks up.
I think I locked up. Maybe I have a virus. Yeah, that's good . . . blame it on a virus.
Anyway, I decided to write about writing . . . and about not writing. At least until I drift off onto some other topic.
I guess writing makes you a writer. But I'm not "a writer" in the sense that you think of writers. I like it when I write. Other people seem to like it. I think I have a little bit of talent for it. I've gotten some coaching in it. I have a few things to say, usually, and a couple of those things might occasionally be worth saying. But I don't have some burning passion to do it. Matter of fact, one of the reasons I started this blog was to make myself accountable to get some writing done. And look how THAT turned out. Four weeks between posts. Ridiculous.
I write like I talk. People have told me that since way back when I wrote a weekly newspaper article and later a newsletter for my job. Since I talk a lot, that explains why I write long. Real writers will preach that you need to be concise, that less is more, that you should ruthlessly edit out every unnecessary word, that you should use "strong verbs" such as "she flew down the track" rather than "she ran really fast" because strong verbs take up less space. And they are more interesting.
But since I'm not "a writer," do I have to obey the writing rules?
Nah.
I add more words, not edit them out. I'll say "Okay, then, you really just need to go." I could have said "you need to go." I use "just" and "really" a lot. I also use those little dot dot dot things . . . see? I just used them right there. I think they're called ellipses, correct? I could research that to be sure, but it would mean following the rules "real writers" follow, and that's just not me. So I'll guess at it and let one of you correct me if I'm wrong. Be gentle, please. I'm not a real writer and I have a virus.
People keep telling me I need to write a book. One of my graduate professors said I should seriously consider writing. I think that was after a major paper on some really fun topic like narcissistic personality disorder. My husband thinks I should get a doctorate and write a book, so that when I speak, they would say "speaker and author, Dr. Kathy Floyd." That just does not light me up at all, really. And a couple of things he's not considering . . . (there, those ellipses again!) . . . doctorates cost a LOT of money, "dissertation" does not go well with "honey, I'll have dinner on the table shortly," and I would have to talk about him in any book I write because he's part of my material. He hates that. It drives him crazy to go to work and have the girls there tell him they know what he had for supper last night because it was on Facebook. (By the way, tonight he's having fried chicken, roasted red potatoes, baked beans and iced tea.)
One of my reasons for entering a year-long speaker/author mentoring program with speaker and author Shannon Ethridge (www.shannonethridge.com/blast/ if you're interested . . . and you should be) was to find out if speakers need to write books in addition to speaking, and if I personally am supposed to write a book. Probably yes to both. Okay, well, so there ya got it. Get to writing, Kathy Jo.
Uhhh . . . no. Not so fast.
I've come to several conclusions.
(1) It takes a lot of time to write. You write a bunch, and then edit like crazy. I could edit infinitely past the time when I push the "post" button. At some point, you just have to stop and publish. But not before several hours have gone by in the pursuit of just a few hundred good words and phrases.
(2) I don't have a lot of time. I know many of you can play "Can You Top That?" and whup me really good on what I'm about to say, but please humor me. There's the husband, the boy-child, counseling, speaking, writing, football AND soccer, a Sunday School lesson every week (because Sunday happens every week), the church's women's ministry, a house, a dog, some seriously piled-up laundry and the need to maintain a few friendships for my own sanity, although I'm not doing so well at it lately. I also simply MUST read some every day. I will neglect important things to read.
(3) You can't find time to write . . . you have to make time to write. I actually didn't come to that conclusion on my own. It's what all "the" writers say.
I'm making time to write right this minute, although I need to be making time to make dinner pretty quickly. I also made time to write some of this last night . . . WAY after most of you were snoozing. That's because there was no other time to make time. I'm motivated by the fact that if I don't get this posted this evening, I will have only written one post this whole month. I intended to write at least one every week! But I haven't been able to find the time this month. And that's the point.
We make time for what's important. At least that's what some of those superspiritual, hypermommy, Proverbs 31 women say. (And they say it while bouncing a baby on one hip, whipping up a full country dinner and homeschooling six children, all at the same time. Okay! Okay! Ya topped me!) Writing is important and I intend to stick with it. But it's obviously not the most important thing. Which makes another point . . .
How blessed am I to be a part of so many other important things? Awesome family, a career I love, ministry I'm dedicated to . . .
So maybe now you'll understand better why I write . . . and why sometimes I don't write. Because sometimes I just don't have time.
I'm now going to the kitchen to cook (heat) the fried chicken (tenders frozen in a bag), the roasted red potatoes with sea salt and cracked black pepper (frozen in a bag) and the baked beans (don't ya just love that secret Bush family recipe!). And I'll have some iced tea with that (Red Diamond in a jug). It speaks well of me that I make the time to prepare meals for my loved ones, don't you think? Maybe if I'm not too tired after all that cooking, I can find more time to write.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wheaties and Weedies
Well, I wrote this days ago and have just realized I didn't post it. Such is my life these days.
First of all, a shout out to Gene Anderson who will now understand that the quickest way to get mentioned in one of my talks or on the blog is to say "as long as you don't mention me on your blog!!!!" Or you can do something really goofy and I'll talk about you then too. My best material comes from my friends who do and say goofy, hilarious stuff. They try not to do it in front of me because they know I'll put them in a presentation!
Heard a good sermon last Sunday (thank you, Dr. Steven Smith from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary) about Jesus's parable of the wheat and the tares in Matthew 13. Tares are weeds, a type of ryegrass called darnel. Roman law in Jesus's day prohibited someone sowing darnel in another person's field because it could destroy their crop. To do so was a terroristic act. The problem was that the tares would grow up right alongside the wheat, looking remarkably similar. If you wanted to pull out the tares, it was going to be nearly impossible to keep from pulling up the wheat as well, since wheat isn't planted in rows with walking paths between, and since the root systems of the wheat and tares would be intertwined. So what was a farmer to do? He was really left with no choice but to leave things alone for a while.
In this parable, the wheat was representing believers planted in the world by God. The weeds were evil and planted under cover of darkness by Satan, and Jesus states that He intends to let the two crops grow together for a time. When both are ready for harvest, the seed pods of the wheat will be distinguishable from those of the weeds, so the weeds can be gathered separately and burned while the wheat will be stored in the barns. In other words, the wheat will be bearing fruit and the weeds won't.
But it's that part about letting Wheaties and Weedies grow together that hangs a lot of us up. We want to be DONE with that. We say "Why, O Lord?" a lot and wonder what He's up to when he lets evil exist next to righteousness. We look at the plants springing up next to us and try to figure out if they're weeds and exactly what species they are. (Do weeds come in species? Can't remember that science class.) We may even feel the overwhelming desire to reach over and pluck them up ourselves. After all, they're not acting just like we believe they should. They voted for the wrong candidate or they like different worship music or they drink wine with dinner or the mommy works and doesn't homeschool the kids or whatever.
Before I go all weed-whacker here, I probably should consider a few first things first:
1. Am I a Wheatie or a Weedie? Thankfully I settled that at age 8 at church camp. I'm one of the Wheaties.
2. Are you a Wheatie? I sure do hope so! If you're not, God is in the weed-changing business.
3. Is it my job to pull up Weedies? Or those I perceive to be Weedies? Hmmm. Probably not. Well, shucky darn.
I'm not much of a gardener. My mother has a green thumb which she got from my grandfather. My father has a green thumb which he got from my grandmother. My thumbs are a gangrenous black color. I have killed cactus once and mint twice. Get it? I'm not much of a gardener.
But I could be a weed-puller, don't ya think? You need to be a little self-righteous to be a weed-puller, and I have been a little bit of that maybe once or twice. Maybe more. Except that I don't like that part of gardening either. Mostly, I just like to look at colorful flowerbeds and manicured lawns and enjoy the view, then go back inside where the air conditioning is. But weeds do need to be dealt with. People manufacture products to deal with pesky weeds. So maybe that's the answer . . . get out the Round-Up! I don't like to plant flowers or pull weeds, but I could have some fun spraying stuff around!
Nope, that won't work either, because if I go spraying Round-Up all over, I may kill a few weeds, but I may also kill . . . ME. And I like me too much for that.
You see, weeds really need to be targeted directly to be dealt with. There are some broader applications that may work well for prevention, but once the weed has sprung up, it needs a direct shot of something to eliminate it. And that's a task often best left to experts if the infestation is serious. If we get a little crazy Rounding-up those weeds ourselves, we may mess up whole crops / gardens / lawns at a time.
Kind of like when we Christians get to looking around ourselves and thinking that person over there looks a little weedy or this one over here isn't blooming to suit us. We want to go pulling them out by the roots or spraying a little poison around, thinking we'll be helping the Gardener out by ridding Him, and us, of the pesky little problem.
God takes a look at the weed next door and, for now, says, "Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow!" He might have a plan for that weed.
My Wheatie-self replies, "Well, what's up with that, Lord? I thought you wanted life to be easy and happy for me, and these weeds are pesky and are causing me some issues! Besides, their color of green doesn't match mine and they're distracting from me looking good. What are you trying to do here?" Well, maybe . . .
1. God knows that I need a little motivation. A weed growing alongside might help me get the fruit-bearing process kicked into action. After all, I wouldn't want to be outdone by a Weedie!
2. God knows I need a little humility, which can be gained by being exposed to the Weedies. After all, it probably really is NOT all about me.
3. God is in the weed-changing business and He's allowing time for supernatural transformations to happen. I once was lost (Weedie) but now am found (Wheatie).
4. God knows my judgment is faulty and that I might pluck up or Round-up the wrong plant. Someone might look weedy to me and I might look weedy to them and we both might actually be born-again Wheaties who just don't have the clear perspective of how things really are. After all, one could like beige carpet and one could like green carpet and both be Wheaties. One might wear a suit to the worship service and one might wear flip flops and both be Wheaties. One could like hymns and one could like praise choruses and both be Wheaties. Don't shoot me, but there are Republican Wheaties and Democrat Wheaties.
On the other hand, someone could attend every time the church doors are open, visit the sick, give to the poor, pray eloquently aloud and vote right-wing every time . . . and still be a weed.
While I fully believe that as Christians we should be engaged in our society as God leads, whether that be politics, education or public service, I confess I find myself getting a little impatient with Wheaties who spend copious amounts of energy pointing out weeds and trying to scream them into extinction. No wonder we can't get them to come to church. I wonder what would happen if more of that energy was spent on bearing fruit and looking like wheat? I don't mean to imply that we're to be doormats and not speak up where injustice and injury occur, but we so often get our spiritual knickers all wadded up and don't show our best side to the world. You know, the side that looks like Jesus.
A couple of examples:
Hellywood . . . umm, I mean Hollywood . . . makes a movie with themes that are not Christian. We can do one of several things:
1. We can raise a ruckus, boycott the movie and talk ugly about the producers and those who go see it. I'm not talking about a realistic critique of the movie. I'm talking about when we attack people directly and not just the issues. That'll win 'em over every time. Condemnation is such a good evangelistic tool.
2. We can, and often do, go see this movie ourselves. Because after all, we're Christian, but not fanatical or anything. And besides, everyone else is going to see it.
3. We could support the movies that have wholesome themes so that maybe somebody will see there is a market for these products and make more of them. Some pagans will watch The Chronicles of Narnia because they like good literature. How cool if they notice Aslan the lion is really Jesus in a fur coat?
Or, second example . . . we don't like the politics of this or that candidate or officeholder. So we vilify, castigate, call names and otherwise let our opinions be known, usually repeatedly. In conversation. On email. Facebook is great for this too. That'll win 'em over every time. And their followers too. Condemnation is such a good evangelistic tool.
One of two things could be happening.
1. We're calling it like it is . . . they're ungodly, unspiritual, unrighteous, unsaved and downright lost. But why do we expect the unrighteous to act righteous, especially when we don't act too righteous ourselves? Except for self-righteous, of course. That's different, right?
2. Or we're missing it altogether, and the ones we're vilifying, castigating and calling names are, in fact, brothers or sisters. And maybe to them, we look like the weeds. OUCH.
So who do we think we are to take on the weeding duties ourselves? Who died and made us God? Certainly not God! Jesus did, however, die to make us Wheaties. Only He knows for sure what needs to be nurtured and what needs to be whacked . . . what is suitable for gathering and what is suitable for burning. Wheaties should take care to look like wheat and act like wheat and be wheat, so that when the harvest comes, the harvesters know the difference from the weeds.
If the weeding was up to me, you'd be at the mercy of a black-thumbed crop murderer who has killed cactus and mint.
First of all, a shout out to Gene Anderson who will now understand that the quickest way to get mentioned in one of my talks or on the blog is to say "as long as you don't mention me on your blog!!!!" Or you can do something really goofy and I'll talk about you then too. My best material comes from my friends who do and say goofy, hilarious stuff. They try not to do it in front of me because they know I'll put them in a presentation!
Heard a good sermon last Sunday (thank you, Dr. Steven Smith from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary) about Jesus's parable of the wheat and the tares in Matthew 13. Tares are weeds, a type of ryegrass called darnel. Roman law in Jesus's day prohibited someone sowing darnel in another person's field because it could destroy their crop. To do so was a terroristic act. The problem was that the tares would grow up right alongside the wheat, looking remarkably similar. If you wanted to pull out the tares, it was going to be nearly impossible to keep from pulling up the wheat as well, since wheat isn't planted in rows with walking paths between, and since the root systems of the wheat and tares would be intertwined. So what was a farmer to do? He was really left with no choice but to leave things alone for a while.
In this parable, the wheat was representing believers planted in the world by God. The weeds were evil and planted under cover of darkness by Satan, and Jesus states that He intends to let the two crops grow together for a time. When both are ready for harvest, the seed pods of the wheat will be distinguishable from those of the weeds, so the weeds can be gathered separately and burned while the wheat will be stored in the barns. In other words, the wheat will be bearing fruit and the weeds won't.
But it's that part about letting Wheaties and Weedies grow together that hangs a lot of us up. We want to be DONE with that. We say "Why, O Lord?" a lot and wonder what He's up to when he lets evil exist next to righteousness. We look at the plants springing up next to us and try to figure out if they're weeds and exactly what species they are. (Do weeds come in species? Can't remember that science class.) We may even feel the overwhelming desire to reach over and pluck them up ourselves. After all, they're not acting just like we believe they should. They voted for the wrong candidate or they like different worship music or they drink wine with dinner or the mommy works and doesn't homeschool the kids or whatever.
Before I go all weed-whacker here, I probably should consider a few first things first:
1. Am I a Wheatie or a Weedie? Thankfully I settled that at age 8 at church camp. I'm one of the Wheaties.
2. Are you a Wheatie? I sure do hope so! If you're not, God is in the weed-changing business.
3. Is it my job to pull up Weedies? Or those I perceive to be Weedies? Hmmm. Probably not. Well, shucky darn.
I'm not much of a gardener. My mother has a green thumb which she got from my grandfather. My father has a green thumb which he got from my grandmother. My thumbs are a gangrenous black color. I have killed cactus once and mint twice. Get it? I'm not much of a gardener.
But I could be a weed-puller, don't ya think? You need to be a little self-righteous to be a weed-puller, and I have been a little bit of that maybe once or twice. Maybe more. Except that I don't like that part of gardening either. Mostly, I just like to look at colorful flowerbeds and manicured lawns and enjoy the view, then go back inside where the air conditioning is. But weeds do need to be dealt with. People manufacture products to deal with pesky weeds. So maybe that's the answer . . . get out the Round-Up! I don't like to plant flowers or pull weeds, but I could have some fun spraying stuff around!
Nope, that won't work either, because if I go spraying Round-Up all over, I may kill a few weeds, but I may also kill . . . ME. And I like me too much for that.
You see, weeds really need to be targeted directly to be dealt with. There are some broader applications that may work well for prevention, but once the weed has sprung up, it needs a direct shot of something to eliminate it. And that's a task often best left to experts if the infestation is serious. If we get a little crazy Rounding-up those weeds ourselves, we may mess up whole crops / gardens / lawns at a time.
Kind of like when we Christians get to looking around ourselves and thinking that person over there looks a little weedy or this one over here isn't blooming to suit us. We want to go pulling them out by the roots or spraying a little poison around, thinking we'll be helping the Gardener out by ridding Him, and us, of the pesky little problem.
God takes a look at the weed next door and, for now, says, "Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow!" He might have a plan for that weed.
My Wheatie-self replies, "Well, what's up with that, Lord? I thought you wanted life to be easy and happy for me, and these weeds are pesky and are causing me some issues! Besides, their color of green doesn't match mine and they're distracting from me looking good. What are you trying to do here?" Well, maybe . . .
1. God knows that I need a little motivation. A weed growing alongside might help me get the fruit-bearing process kicked into action. After all, I wouldn't want to be outdone by a Weedie!
2. God knows I need a little humility, which can be gained by being exposed to the Weedies. After all, it probably really is NOT all about me.
3. God is in the weed-changing business and He's allowing time for supernatural transformations to happen. I once was lost (Weedie) but now am found (Wheatie).
4. God knows my judgment is faulty and that I might pluck up or Round-up the wrong plant. Someone might look weedy to me and I might look weedy to them and we both might actually be born-again Wheaties who just don't have the clear perspective of how things really are. After all, one could like beige carpet and one could like green carpet and both be Wheaties. One might wear a suit to the worship service and one might wear flip flops and both be Wheaties. One could like hymns and one could like praise choruses and both be Wheaties. Don't shoot me, but there are Republican Wheaties and Democrat Wheaties.
On the other hand, someone could attend every time the church doors are open, visit the sick, give to the poor, pray eloquently aloud and vote right-wing every time . . . and still be a weed.
While I fully believe that as Christians we should be engaged in our society as God leads, whether that be politics, education or public service, I confess I find myself getting a little impatient with Wheaties who spend copious amounts of energy pointing out weeds and trying to scream them into extinction. No wonder we can't get them to come to church. I wonder what would happen if more of that energy was spent on bearing fruit and looking like wheat? I don't mean to imply that we're to be doormats and not speak up where injustice and injury occur, but we so often get our spiritual knickers all wadded up and don't show our best side to the world. You know, the side that looks like Jesus.
A couple of examples:
Hellywood . . . umm, I mean Hollywood . . . makes a movie with themes that are not Christian. We can do one of several things:
1. We can raise a ruckus, boycott the movie and talk ugly about the producers and those who go see it. I'm not talking about a realistic critique of the movie. I'm talking about when we attack people directly and not just the issues. That'll win 'em over every time. Condemnation is such a good evangelistic tool.
2. We can, and often do, go see this movie ourselves. Because after all, we're Christian, but not fanatical or anything. And besides, everyone else is going to see it.
3. We could support the movies that have wholesome themes so that maybe somebody will see there is a market for these products and make more of them. Some pagans will watch The Chronicles of Narnia because they like good literature. How cool if they notice Aslan the lion is really Jesus in a fur coat?
Or, second example . . . we don't like the politics of this or that candidate or officeholder. So we vilify, castigate, call names and otherwise let our opinions be known, usually repeatedly. In conversation. On email. Facebook is great for this too. That'll win 'em over every time. And their followers too. Condemnation is such a good evangelistic tool.
One of two things could be happening.
1. We're calling it like it is . . . they're ungodly, unspiritual, unrighteous, unsaved and downright lost. But why do we expect the unrighteous to act righteous, especially when we don't act too righteous ourselves? Except for self-righteous, of course. That's different, right?
2. Or we're missing it altogether, and the ones we're vilifying, castigating and calling names are, in fact, brothers or sisters. And maybe to them, we look like the weeds. OUCH.
So who do we think we are to take on the weeding duties ourselves? Who died and made us God? Certainly not God! Jesus did, however, die to make us Wheaties. Only He knows for sure what needs to be nurtured and what needs to be whacked . . . what is suitable for gathering and what is suitable for burning. Wheaties should take care to look like wheat and act like wheat and be wheat, so that when the harvest comes, the harvesters know the difference from the weeds.
If the weeding was up to me, you'd be at the mercy of a black-thumbed crop murderer who has killed cactus and mint.
Praise Jesus, it's not up to me, but to a merciful God who is a Master Gardener.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Oh My!
OH MY!
I've been aware in the rush of things that I was overdue posting to my blog. I'm horrified to see HOW overdue. So sorry. If you care.
That only makes it more appropriate that my topic for today is "relaxing." It's such a foreign concept to me anymore that I had to look up a definition to be sure I really knew what it meant. Dictionary.com defined "relax" as:
to become less tense, rigid, or firm; to become less strict or severe; grow milder; to reduce or stop work, effort, application, etc., esp. for the sake of rest or recreation; to release oneself from inhibition, worry, tension, etc.
Relaxation has been a struggle for me for quite some time. I teach it and preach it but I don't do it. I feel it's necessary for good health but then am able to justify neglecting this area of my own health. There's just so much to DO, right? And if I can't get it all done, I can't relax. The problem is it never all gets done. EVER. Or even anywhere close.
I used to read to relax. I love, love, love to read. Given the chance, I will neglect important things to read. Now I read, but it most often involves something I NEED to read.
Well, I set out on a trip this week intending to relax intentionally. I guess saying "intending" and "intentionally" in the same sentence would be a double something-or-other-I-should-remember-from-grammar-class. But I said it to "intentionally" point out that I needed a double portion of relaxation. That's because life has been inTENSE, not necessarily intentionally. Becoming less tense is something anyone who's been hanging around me would say was needed, for sure.
Actually, this is a work trip for a speaking engagement with a couple of intentional relaxation / making-memories-with-my-kid days tacked on the front end, lest you think I was slacking too much in my intentional relaxation efforts. And it has made it more difficult to relax knowing that my husband, who couldn't get off work to join us, has been putting in extra-long hours in the 100+ degree heat. But I managed to do it anyway for short periods of time. Of course, I prayed for him and felt appropriately guilty.
I started our little road trip saying I was going to let my hair down and get a little crazy. Look back up at that definition to see that to relax can mean to release oneself from inhibition. Well, don't let that worry you too much. For me, that has meant yelling "wooooooh!" a couple of times while cruising down the highway. Also listening to a Houston 80's rock station cranked up a bit while singing my old favorites really loud and enjoying watching my kid roll his eyes. That's the extent of living uninhibited in my world these days.
I can tell you precisely four times in the past four years that I have been totally relaxed and still awake. One was a massage, four years ago this week. I think that massage therapist moved away and I have been unable to replicate the experience to quite that degree since then. I had asked her to spend the whole hour (and she went long) working on my back and neck, so I had laid on my belly with my face in that donut-thingy and my head slightly lower than my feet for the entire time. This resulted in her massaging all the muscle tightness and extra fluid right into the bags under my eyes. I was meeting my husband and son afterward for lunch, and I walked into the restaurant only to hear my husband exclaim, "Honey! What happened to you??!?!?!?!!!!!?" I looked like a less-than-victorious prizefighter with puffed up eyes, but I felt like a wonderfully limp noodle. I honestly shouldn't have even been driving.
The next time was in my living room. I remember we came home from somewhere, my men went off to the back of the house and I sat in the recliner. For an hour. And looked out the window at the sky. I kept thinking I should get up and do something, but I didn't. Oh well. And guess what? The world continued to revolve on its axis anyway.
The third time was last summer in Destin, Florida. One day we went to the beach late and remained there while others packed up their stuff and departed at dusk. My guys had brought flashlights and a bucket so they could chase little crabs across the sand after dark. I hollowed out a place in the sand close to the water's edge, pillowed my head on our float and let the sound of the ocean roar in my ears. It was just THE best worship time. I laid there singing "God of Wonders" and hoped nobody walking by would think I was drunk. I would look down the beach and see little beams of light approaching and pray it wasn't quite time for them to be done with the crab-hunting yet. I think I had about 45 minutes of total chill-out time. Somewhere in the Bible it mentions somebody "refreshing himself in the Lord." That's exactly what happened with me and I've never forgotten it.
The last time was two days ago, again on a beach. I couldn't quite make it match last year, but it was good enough for a little while. My kid played in the water in front of me. I had my rear settled in one chair and my feet in another. I had left my watch behind on purpose. I had my cell phone, but it was too much trouble to dig it out and look at the time. And I had no plans whatsoever until the next day, so who cared what time it was? It was overcast and not too hot, and there was that great sea breeze keeping me comfortable. It lasted until my kid wanted to go shopping. Shopping???? When you could be at the beach????? For once, shopping didn't even sound fun. Definitely not relaxing. And it wasn't really. Remember, it involved a 9-year-old boy who was really only interested in Academy Sports.
On a side note, while we were at the beach there were fins spotted out where we had been swimming just a little while before. People were moving back up to the shallower water and somebody was looking for a lifeguard. Then . . . I spotted . . . TWO fins.
Duh-duh.
Duh-duh.
Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh. (I'm trying to make you hear shark music.)
All of a sudden, right behind those two fins, a dolphin leaped out of the water! We got to watch them jump and play for a couple of minutes. A special blessing.
Today was another day with very little to do until dinner time. It involved sleeping late in a great, dark, cold hotel room with some awesome feather pillows, a super cool swimming pool, my kid, my dear friend and some UV rays resulting in just the right amount of "glow" on my pale complexion. It's so pale because I've taken no time this summer to relax and expose it to any rays. I'm ashamed to say this is August and I've been swimming exactly ONE time all summer until this week. Ridiculous!
I actually finished a novel this week too. I'm quite proud of myself. I haven't been allowing myself to have fiction books laying around because I might relax and read. This week I broke my rule. Living dangerously again.
Anyway, there were some good, although, brief, periods of relaxation this week. The question is whether my couple of days of relaxation will last. Will I go home chilled-out? Will I stay that way once I get there? Or will "life" take over and kill the mood? We'll see. I have a feeling I know the answer. But it was good while it lasted.
So why don't I do this relaxing business more often? And why do I feel guilty when I do?
Maybe it's not just me. There's a book written by a guy named Tim Hansel entitled "When I Relax, I Feel Guilty." I should read it, just a soon as I get everything done and find some time to relax.
Maybe next year, on a beach somewhere.
I've been aware in the rush of things that I was overdue posting to my blog. I'm horrified to see HOW overdue. So sorry. If you care.
That only makes it more appropriate that my topic for today is "relaxing." It's such a foreign concept to me anymore that I had to look up a definition to be sure I really knew what it meant. Dictionary.com defined "relax" as:
to become less tense, rigid, or firm; to become less strict or severe; grow milder; to reduce or stop work, effort, application, etc., esp. for the sake of rest or recreation; to release oneself from inhibition, worry, tension, etc.
Relaxation has been a struggle for me for quite some time. I teach it and preach it but I don't do it. I feel it's necessary for good health but then am able to justify neglecting this area of my own health. There's just so much to DO, right? And if I can't get it all done, I can't relax. The problem is it never all gets done. EVER. Or even anywhere close.
I used to read to relax. I love, love, love to read. Given the chance, I will neglect important things to read. Now I read, but it most often involves something I NEED to read.
Well, I set out on a trip this week intending to relax intentionally. I guess saying "intending" and "intentionally" in the same sentence would be a double something-or-other-I-should-remember-from-grammar-class. But I said it to "intentionally" point out that I needed a double portion of relaxation. That's because life has been inTENSE, not necessarily intentionally. Becoming less tense is something anyone who's been hanging around me would say was needed, for sure.
Actually, this is a work trip for a speaking engagement with a couple of intentional relaxation / making-memories-with-my-kid days tacked on the front end, lest you think I was slacking too much in my intentional relaxation efforts. And it has made it more difficult to relax knowing that my husband, who couldn't get off work to join us, has been putting in extra-long hours in the 100+ degree heat. But I managed to do it anyway for short periods of time. Of course, I prayed for him and felt appropriately guilty.
I started our little road trip saying I was going to let my hair down and get a little crazy. Look back up at that definition to see that to relax can mean to release oneself from inhibition. Well, don't let that worry you too much. For me, that has meant yelling "wooooooh!" a couple of times while cruising down the highway. Also listening to a Houston 80's rock station cranked up a bit while singing my old favorites really loud and enjoying watching my kid roll his eyes. That's the extent of living uninhibited in my world these days.
I can tell you precisely four times in the past four years that I have been totally relaxed and still awake. One was a massage, four years ago this week. I think that massage therapist moved away and I have been unable to replicate the experience to quite that degree since then. I had asked her to spend the whole hour (and she went long) working on my back and neck, so I had laid on my belly with my face in that donut-thingy and my head slightly lower than my feet for the entire time. This resulted in her massaging all the muscle tightness and extra fluid right into the bags under my eyes. I was meeting my husband and son afterward for lunch, and I walked into the restaurant only to hear my husband exclaim, "Honey! What happened to you??!?!?!?!!!!!?" I looked like a less-than-victorious prizefighter with puffed up eyes, but I felt like a wonderfully limp noodle. I honestly shouldn't have even been driving.
The next time was in my living room. I remember we came home from somewhere, my men went off to the back of the house and I sat in the recliner. For an hour. And looked out the window at the sky. I kept thinking I should get up and do something, but I didn't. Oh well. And guess what? The world continued to revolve on its axis anyway.
The third time was last summer in Destin, Florida. One day we went to the beach late and remained there while others packed up their stuff and departed at dusk. My guys had brought flashlights and a bucket so they could chase little crabs across the sand after dark. I hollowed out a place in the sand close to the water's edge, pillowed my head on our float and let the sound of the ocean roar in my ears. It was just THE best worship time. I laid there singing "God of Wonders" and hoped nobody walking by would think I was drunk. I would look down the beach and see little beams of light approaching and pray it wasn't quite time for them to be done with the crab-hunting yet. I think I had about 45 minutes of total chill-out time. Somewhere in the Bible it mentions somebody "refreshing himself in the Lord." That's exactly what happened with me and I've never forgotten it.
The last time was two days ago, again on a beach. I couldn't quite make it match last year, but it was good enough for a little while. My kid played in the water in front of me. I had my rear settled in one chair and my feet in another. I had left my watch behind on purpose. I had my cell phone, but it was too much trouble to dig it out and look at the time. And I had no plans whatsoever until the next day, so who cared what time it was? It was overcast and not too hot, and there was that great sea breeze keeping me comfortable. It lasted until my kid wanted to go shopping. Shopping???? When you could be at the beach????? For once, shopping didn't even sound fun. Definitely not relaxing. And it wasn't really. Remember, it involved a 9-year-old boy who was really only interested in Academy Sports.
On a side note, while we were at the beach there were fins spotted out where we had been swimming just a little while before. People were moving back up to the shallower water and somebody was looking for a lifeguard. Then . . . I spotted . . . TWO fins.
Duh-duh.
Duh-duh.
Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh. (I'm trying to make you hear shark music.)
All of a sudden, right behind those two fins, a dolphin leaped out of the water! We got to watch them jump and play for a couple of minutes. A special blessing.
Today was another day with very little to do until dinner time. It involved sleeping late in a great, dark, cold hotel room with some awesome feather pillows, a super cool swimming pool, my kid, my dear friend and some UV rays resulting in just the right amount of "glow" on my pale complexion. It's so pale because I've taken no time this summer to relax and expose it to any rays. I'm ashamed to say this is August and I've been swimming exactly ONE time all summer until this week. Ridiculous!
I actually finished a novel this week too. I'm quite proud of myself. I haven't been allowing myself to have fiction books laying around because I might relax and read. This week I broke my rule. Living dangerously again.
Anyway, there were some good, although, brief, periods of relaxation this week. The question is whether my couple of days of relaxation will last. Will I go home chilled-out? Will I stay that way once I get there? Or will "life" take over and kill the mood? We'll see. I have a feeling I know the answer. But it was good while it lasted.
So why don't I do this relaxing business more often? And why do I feel guilty when I do?
Maybe it's not just me. There's a book written by a guy named Tim Hansel entitled "When I Relax, I Feel Guilty." I should read it, just a soon as I get everything done and find some time to relax.
Maybe next year, on a beach somewhere.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Life is Like a Garbage Truck
Here's a paraphrase of a great quote I once heard:
Life doesn't cease to be funny in the bad times, any more than it ceases to be serious in the good times.
How true, how true. Life has had several serious happenings or circumstances this summer for me and mine. Add all of it to 105 degrees and the fact that there's no vacation to provide some relief, and I can get plumb cranky about it. And I have. And I will.
But I was thinking about how funny things happen in the middle of serious stuff, and since most of my posts lately have been about serious stuff (except a couple of weeks ago about dancing, although some would think that was serious), I wanted to share about something funny for a change.
I just hate it that "funny" and "for a change" are in the same sentence right now. That's serious!
Anyway, six years ago, I had a serious illness. It wasn't funny! I was in the hospital for a month and in therapy for most of a year after that. (Physical therapy, that is . . . not my kind of therapy!) I tried to keep life as normal as possible. That was not such an easy task, since just about everything changed. I wasn't working and never got to go back to the job I loved. I could barely walk. I didn't drive for six months. I couldn't do normal tasks like mop the floor or scrub the bathtub (oh, shucky darn about that one).
One thing I could do was get the bed made every day. It took a while, but I could look at it and feel I had accomplished something that day. I could lay in the recliner with my computer keyboard in my lap and work on my master's degree. I intended to teach myself sign language and go through my recipes, but that never happened.
And I could do a little bit of grocery shopping. We got into a routine whereby my husband would take me to Walmart, go inside and get the motorized scooter, bring it to me at the car and leave me for an hour. I'd do the shopping, he'd come back and find me, get us checked out and loaded into the car, and then he'd drive the scooter back inside.
When I rode the scooter, I got curious looks from people that seemed to say, "What's she doing on a scooter? Doesn't she know they're reserved for the people who need them?" My friend's little girl asked me one day why I was on it, and I told her my legs weren't working very well these days. She later told her mom, "I don't think her legs are broke. I just think she wants to ride."
Uh, no. Trust me. And why did it bother me so much what a five-year-old thought?
One day my husband got me a scooter and left me there, just like the usual routine, and I embarked on my shopping. I got about six aisles back in the grocery section when there was a departure from the routine. My scooter quit going forward.
I always checked at the beginning of my shopping to be sure my scooter was fully charged. If it had half a charge, it would go, but really slow. Well, I thought slow scooters were fine for older people, but I was young, and if I was going to have to ride the thing, I wanted to be a little zippy.
Well, on this day, I was charged all the way up and there was no zip at all in the forward direction. Hmmm. So now what?
I sat there a few minutes trying to decide what to do. I didn't have my walker or cane, because there wasn't room for them in the scooter basket. I did have my cell phone, but I felt it was a little ridiculous to call my husband from inside Walmart just because my scooter wouldn't advance. A nice lady asked if I needed help, and my pride forced me to tell her that I was just thinking through my grocery list for a minute. But eventually I decided I had to do what a girl's gotta do:
I backed up.
All the way to the front of the store.
About six aisles.
That looked goofy enough, and drew some stares all on its own. But there's more.
In reverse, the scooter goes, "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"
It sounds exactly like the garbage truck.
All the way to the front of the store.
When I got there (they could hear me coming early), the customer service people were very nice, got me another scooter and moved my groceries into it.
I looked up and a man I knew was standing over by the lettuce just laughing his head off. Seriously! I said, "You coulda helped." He said, "What do you think I was supposed to do?" Well, I don't know . . . but something!
Of course, I usually throw in a moral to the story, so here goes: Sometimes, just when you think you're moving ahead, and even when you think you're fully charged up to go, you end up going backwards. Hopefully there's a way to make a shift and you can get to going forward again. Sometimes you'll attract some stares and sound really loud, maybe even obnoxious like the garbage truck. Sometimes people will be willing to help. Sometimes they'll just stand by and laugh at you. There may be some that are even a little ticked that you got on the scooter to begin with.
But sometimes you've just gotta do what you've just gotta do. So beep away, baby!
Life doesn't cease to be funny in the bad times, any more than it ceases to be serious in the good times.
How true, how true. Life has had several serious happenings or circumstances this summer for me and mine. Add all of it to 105 degrees and the fact that there's no vacation to provide some relief, and I can get plumb cranky about it. And I have. And I will.
But I was thinking about how funny things happen in the middle of serious stuff, and since most of my posts lately have been about serious stuff (except a couple of weeks ago about dancing, although some would think that was serious), I wanted to share about something funny for a change.
I just hate it that "funny" and "for a change" are in the same sentence right now. That's serious!
Anyway, six years ago, I had a serious illness. It wasn't funny! I was in the hospital for a month and in therapy for most of a year after that. (Physical therapy, that is . . . not my kind of therapy!) I tried to keep life as normal as possible. That was not such an easy task, since just about everything changed. I wasn't working and never got to go back to the job I loved. I could barely walk. I didn't drive for six months. I couldn't do normal tasks like mop the floor or scrub the bathtub (oh, shucky darn about that one).
One thing I could do was get the bed made every day. It took a while, but I could look at it and feel I had accomplished something that day. I could lay in the recliner with my computer keyboard in my lap and work on my master's degree. I intended to teach myself sign language and go through my recipes, but that never happened.
And I could do a little bit of grocery shopping. We got into a routine whereby my husband would take me to Walmart, go inside and get the motorized scooter, bring it to me at the car and leave me for an hour. I'd do the shopping, he'd come back and find me, get us checked out and loaded into the car, and then he'd drive the scooter back inside.
When I rode the scooter, I got curious looks from people that seemed to say, "What's she doing on a scooter? Doesn't she know they're reserved for the people who need them?" My friend's little girl asked me one day why I was on it, and I told her my legs weren't working very well these days. She later told her mom, "I don't think her legs are broke. I just think she wants to ride."
Uh, no. Trust me. And why did it bother me so much what a five-year-old thought?
One day my husband got me a scooter and left me there, just like the usual routine, and I embarked on my shopping. I got about six aisles back in the grocery section when there was a departure from the routine. My scooter quit going forward.
I always checked at the beginning of my shopping to be sure my scooter was fully charged. If it had half a charge, it would go, but really slow. Well, I thought slow scooters were fine for older people, but I was young, and if I was going to have to ride the thing, I wanted to be a little zippy.
Well, on this day, I was charged all the way up and there was no zip at all in the forward direction. Hmmm. So now what?
I sat there a few minutes trying to decide what to do. I didn't have my walker or cane, because there wasn't room for them in the scooter basket. I did have my cell phone, but I felt it was a little ridiculous to call my husband from inside Walmart just because my scooter wouldn't advance. A nice lady asked if I needed help, and my pride forced me to tell her that I was just thinking through my grocery list for a minute. But eventually I decided I had to do what a girl's gotta do:
I backed up.
All the way to the front of the store.
About six aisles.
That looked goofy enough, and drew some stares all on its own. But there's more.
In reverse, the scooter goes, "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"
It sounds exactly like the garbage truck.
All the way to the front of the store.
When I got there (they could hear me coming early), the customer service people were very nice, got me another scooter and moved my groceries into it.
I looked up and a man I knew was standing over by the lettuce just laughing his head off. Seriously! I said, "You coulda helped." He said, "What do you think I was supposed to do?" Well, I don't know . . . but something!
Of course, I usually throw in a moral to the story, so here goes: Sometimes, just when you think you're moving ahead, and even when you think you're fully charged up to go, you end up going backwards. Hopefully there's a way to make a shift and you can get to going forward again. Sometimes you'll attract some stares and sound really loud, maybe even obnoxious like the garbage truck. Sometimes people will be willing to help. Sometimes they'll just stand by and laugh at you. There may be some that are even a little ticked that you got on the scooter to begin with.
But sometimes you've just gotta do what you've just gotta do. So beep away, baby!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Dangerous Grace
We sing a lot about "grace." Amazing grace . . . marvelous, infinite, matchless grace . . . grace that is greater than all our sin.
We read about it too . . . it is by grace that we are saved, called, justified. We say grace before we eat. We name baby girls Grace . . . it's such a pretty name! We receive it, wear it, walk in it. We can administer it to others.
We can also twist it into something it was never intended to be. We can fall away from it. We can miss it.
Grace is good. Not something you want to miss.
Grace was not always ours. Before grace, there was the law. God gave the law. Those Ten Commandments have some pretty clear instructions for how we are to live. They are good. But even good things, like grace and commandments, can be twisted into something they were never intended to be, such as when we add our own rules to God's law or change grace into a license to sin. And that twisting occurs because we forget about the original intent of the gift. The law was given so that we could see our inability to live inside of it. The Word says if we break one part of the law, it's as if we have broken the whole blooming thing. (The Word doesn't say "blooming" . . . that was mine.) We broke it early on . . . real good too! So then what . . . we're doomed? Yeah, we were doomed.
But God (I just LOVE that phrase) . . . sent grace. While we were still sinners, Christ (grace) died for us. We no longer live under the law. We dwell inside a white robe of righteousness now.
Or do we?
Where do you dwell . . . in grace? Or under the law?
I heard of a sermon which talked about the law as our old lover. We loved the law. It was safe. It helped us know the rules so we wouldn't break them . . . if we didn't want to, that is. And of course, we could earn our way into God's favor by keeping the law, right? Isn't that how it works? If I follow the rules, I'm accepted. If I don't, I'm thrown out. Following the rules = heaven. Not = hell. Well, no argument there . . . I guess I'll be keeping the rules!
Except that I can't.
Just a few of the rules I've broken: I wore pants to church. I danced. I drank wine at weddings. I played games involving dice, including Monopoly, Candyland and Bunko. (I played cards too. Recently.) I participated in mixed bathing, something I usually call swimming. (I do not bathe in mixed company.) I wore flip-flops in the sanctuary. I wore a two-piece bathing suit (but NOT in the sanctuary). I trick-or-treated as a kid (although at least it wasn't in a devil suit like my little brother.) I skipped night church when I was 11 or 12 to watch the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl. I married a man who would also skip night church to watch the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl. Or even lose it. I spoke in a church before men. (Does it count that the pastor and piano player sat down in the back to listen and I couldn't help it? Does it condemn me that I didn't mind, or ask them to leave?) I prayed with my eyes open and my hands unfolded. I looked around during the invitation. I listened to Christian rock music. I ate bacon. I don't cover my head with a veil during the worship service.
Oh, that it only took a veil to be righteous. If I wore one long enough, it might cover my wicked heart. I could wear a really pretty veil to distract from what is underneath. I could wear a thick veil so no gaze could penetrate it. I could wear a prickly veil so I couldn't be examined too closely. A veil would be so easy. All my earthly garments might be left behind in the Rapture, but surely I could keep my veil!
Back to rules . . . a few lesser ones I've broken: I've cussed, lied, cheated, stolen, dishonored my parents (although not often because they didn't let that slide), put idols ahead of God, failed to keep His day holy and murdered another person with my mouth. I've gossiped, slandered, caused division and been unsubmissive to my husband (you can ask him if you have any trouble believing that). I have let the fruit of the Spirit rot on the vine. I have not counted it all joy when I have fallen into various trials. I have neglected to hate evil and cling to what is good.
It's interesting how we categorize the rules, just like we categorize sin. That first group consisted of rules made by humans. They are surely the worst of the worst to break . . . much worse than failing to keep those lesser standards in the second group, correct?
Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention . . . I've been adulterous. (Please continue reading lest you get the wrong idea.)
The truth is . . . I'm married to Jesus now. I live in grace with Him. I live in Him. Grace lives in me.
But I keep going back and cheating on Him with my former lover, the law. Why? Because I lived with the law for so long! It's familiar! Because the law lures me back! Because there are people I love, religious people, in relationship with the law too, so it must be a good thing, right? Because the law is safe.
Grace is not safe. Grace is dangerous.
Many years ago, my grandmother was dying out-of-town. I kissed her for the last time and came home to await the phone call. I tried to drive fast enough to make it in time for Wednesday night church (not breaking the speed limit, of course, because that is a rule). Back then, I attended a small church full of precious Godly people. Who didn't wear pants in church. Well, the men did of course, but not the ladies. Ever. I arrived at five minutes past the service time, wearing pants, not having time to go home and change first. My grandmother was dying. I needed to be in God's house, surrounded by God's people . . . that's why I drove fast (not breaking the rule, of course). I had on pants. I thought about it for a while in the parking lot. Law, or grace? I fought the law, and the law won. My veil wasn't long enough to cover my pants. I drove home.
I've heard it said that law is about WHAT WE DO, while grace is about WHAT HE HAS DONE. Gee, so what's the question? (Add that one to my list of broken rules . . . I said "gee." I've said "gosh" before too. So stone me.)
I apologize for that slightly sarcastic comment, but not enough to remove it. Not that we should ever sin more so that grace may abound . . . but what if we were to just LET grace abound? Are you in the mood to talk to me about that sarcastic comment? Not that you shouldn't, if I need it and you do it in love, extending grace. But don't we tend to try to stomp out grace sometimes? Or at least put it back in its place? That's because grace is dangerous, and we want to play it safe.
I heard a story once of a young man, a new Christian, eager to be in God's house, who entered wearing a ballcap. An older gentleman came over, pulled it off his head, and rebuked him, saying, "Don't you know better than to wear a cap in church?" Keeping the law was safer somehow than extending grace.
The religious crowd dragged a woman before Jesus who had been caught in adultery. (Did you ever wonder why they didn't drag her lover in as well?) They wanted Jesus to abide by the law. He extended great grace instead. That was very dangerous, not nearly as safe as keeping the law.
Which way would you rather do it? Which way do we want the Lord to do it? If the God wanted to do it by the law, that's very dangerous for us, because we deserve judgment under the law, not mercy under the system of grace. Put God's law in the hands of people to be twisted, and it becomes hazardous indeed. So ultimately the law isn't all that safe, and I'd much prefer a dangerous grace than a dangerous law.
In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (The Chronicles of Narnia) by C.S. Lewis, one of the characters asks if Aslan, the lion who is a picture of Jesus, is safe. Mr. Beaver replies, "Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”
Grace isn't safe . . . it's dangerous. But it's good.
Normally, I'd end with a little verse of Scripture here that applies to the topic. There are too many to list. Go to www.biblegateway.org, type in "grace" as a keyword and search. You'll be amazed.
Haha . . . amazing grace. No pun intended. Maybe.
Thanks and blessings to KH and JH for the great discussion which led to this blog post.
We read about it too . . . it is by grace that we are saved, called, justified. We say grace before we eat. We name baby girls Grace . . . it's such a pretty name! We receive it, wear it, walk in it. We can administer it to others.
We can also twist it into something it was never intended to be. We can fall away from it. We can miss it.
Grace is good. Not something you want to miss.
Grace was not always ours. Before grace, there was the law. God gave the law. Those Ten Commandments have some pretty clear instructions for how we are to live. They are good. But even good things, like grace and commandments, can be twisted into something they were never intended to be, such as when we add our own rules to God's law or change grace into a license to sin. And that twisting occurs because we forget about the original intent of the gift. The law was given so that we could see our inability to live inside of it. The Word says if we break one part of the law, it's as if we have broken the whole blooming thing. (The Word doesn't say "blooming" . . . that was mine.) We broke it early on . . . real good too! So then what . . . we're doomed? Yeah, we were doomed.
But God (I just LOVE that phrase) . . . sent grace. While we were still sinners, Christ (grace) died for us. We no longer live under the law. We dwell inside a white robe of righteousness now.
Or do we?
Where do you dwell . . . in grace? Or under the law?
I heard of a sermon which talked about the law as our old lover. We loved the law. It was safe. It helped us know the rules so we wouldn't break them . . . if we didn't want to, that is. And of course, we could earn our way into God's favor by keeping the law, right? Isn't that how it works? If I follow the rules, I'm accepted. If I don't, I'm thrown out. Following the rules = heaven. Not = hell. Well, no argument there . . . I guess I'll be keeping the rules!
Except that I can't.
Just a few of the rules I've broken: I wore pants to church. I danced. I drank wine at weddings. I played games involving dice, including Monopoly, Candyland and Bunko. (I played cards too. Recently.) I participated in mixed bathing, something I usually call swimming. (I do not bathe in mixed company.) I wore flip-flops in the sanctuary. I wore a two-piece bathing suit (but NOT in the sanctuary). I trick-or-treated as a kid (although at least it wasn't in a devil suit like my little brother.) I skipped night church when I was 11 or 12 to watch the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl. I married a man who would also skip night church to watch the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl. Or even lose it. I spoke in a church before men. (Does it count that the pastor and piano player sat down in the back to listen and I couldn't help it? Does it condemn me that I didn't mind, or ask them to leave?) I prayed with my eyes open and my hands unfolded. I looked around during the invitation. I listened to Christian rock music. I ate bacon. I don't cover my head with a veil during the worship service.
Oh, that it only took a veil to be righteous. If I wore one long enough, it might cover my wicked heart. I could wear a really pretty veil to distract from what is underneath. I could wear a thick veil so no gaze could penetrate it. I could wear a prickly veil so I couldn't be examined too closely. A veil would be so easy. All my earthly garments might be left behind in the Rapture, but surely I could keep my veil!
Back to rules . . . a few lesser ones I've broken: I've cussed, lied, cheated, stolen, dishonored my parents (although not often because they didn't let that slide), put idols ahead of God, failed to keep His day holy and murdered another person with my mouth. I've gossiped, slandered, caused division and been unsubmissive to my husband (you can ask him if you have any trouble believing that). I have let the fruit of the Spirit rot on the vine. I have not counted it all joy when I have fallen into various trials. I have neglected to hate evil and cling to what is good.
It's interesting how we categorize the rules, just like we categorize sin. That first group consisted of rules made by humans. They are surely the worst of the worst to break . . . much worse than failing to keep those lesser standards in the second group, correct?
Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention . . . I've been adulterous. (Please continue reading lest you get the wrong idea.)
The truth is . . . I'm married to Jesus now. I live in grace with Him. I live in Him. Grace lives in me.
But I keep going back and cheating on Him with my former lover, the law. Why? Because I lived with the law for so long! It's familiar! Because the law lures me back! Because there are people I love, religious people, in relationship with the law too, so it must be a good thing, right? Because the law is safe.
Grace is not safe. Grace is dangerous.
Many years ago, my grandmother was dying out-of-town. I kissed her for the last time and came home to await the phone call. I tried to drive fast enough to make it in time for Wednesday night church (not breaking the speed limit, of course, because that is a rule). Back then, I attended a small church full of precious Godly people. Who didn't wear pants in church. Well, the men did of course, but not the ladies. Ever. I arrived at five minutes past the service time, wearing pants, not having time to go home and change first. My grandmother was dying. I needed to be in God's house, surrounded by God's people . . . that's why I drove fast (not breaking the rule, of course). I had on pants. I thought about it for a while in the parking lot. Law, or grace? I fought the law, and the law won. My veil wasn't long enough to cover my pants. I drove home.
I've heard it said that law is about WHAT WE DO, while grace is about WHAT HE HAS DONE. Gee, so what's the question? (Add that one to my list of broken rules . . . I said "gee." I've said "gosh" before too. So stone me.)
I apologize for that slightly sarcastic comment, but not enough to remove it. Not that we should ever sin more so that grace may abound . . . but what if we were to just LET grace abound? Are you in the mood to talk to me about that sarcastic comment? Not that you shouldn't, if I need it and you do it in love, extending grace. But don't we tend to try to stomp out grace sometimes? Or at least put it back in its place? That's because grace is dangerous, and we want to play it safe.
I heard a story once of a young man, a new Christian, eager to be in God's house, who entered wearing a ballcap. An older gentleman came over, pulled it off his head, and rebuked him, saying, "Don't you know better than to wear a cap in church?" Keeping the law was safer somehow than extending grace.
The religious crowd dragged a woman before Jesus who had been caught in adultery. (Did you ever wonder why they didn't drag her lover in as well?) They wanted Jesus to abide by the law. He extended great grace instead. That was very dangerous, not nearly as safe as keeping the law.
Which way would you rather do it? Which way do we want the Lord to do it? If the God wanted to do it by the law, that's very dangerous for us, because we deserve judgment under the law, not mercy under the system of grace. Put God's law in the hands of people to be twisted, and it becomes hazardous indeed. So ultimately the law isn't all that safe, and I'd much prefer a dangerous grace than a dangerous law.
In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (The Chronicles of Narnia) by C.S. Lewis, one of the characters asks if Aslan, the lion who is a picture of Jesus, is safe. Mr. Beaver replies, "Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”
Grace isn't safe . . . it's dangerous. But it's good.
Normally, I'd end with a little verse of Scripture here that applies to the topic. There are too many to list. Go to www.biblegateway.org, type in "grace" as a keyword and search. You'll be amazed.
Haha . . . amazing grace. No pun intended. Maybe.
Thanks and blessings to KH and JH for the great discussion which led to this blog post.
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