Small Graces Easter

It is Easter Sunday.

I was raised in a theatrical Christian faith. Prosperity gospel is founded on large miracles. Big Faith motivates everything. If you don’t have Big Faith, then God can’t work. God seemed to be this Giant Wizard sitting on a throne waiting for me to obey just the right command. Then and ONLY then could he bless me. For years, I strained against this yolk of Christianity. Wondering what was wrong with me. 

Jesus said, “My yolk is easy and my burden is light.”

I felt heavy and constantly failing. 

Then Easter would come. I would be reminded of the BIG miracles all over again. Around and around this faith Merry-go-round I rode.

Much has changed for me over the last 20 odd years.  My disillusionment with the Big Miracles revealed Small Graces.  

God reveals himself to me in fingerprints.

So when it comes to Easter. The biggest holiday of our religious year, it isn’t the rolling stone that excites me anymore. I don’t need the fainting Roman Soldiers or the Magic Jesus appearing in the room. 

The Jesus I’ve come to know and see in my life is the one who:

Came to Mary when she was alone and distraught in the garden. She sat next to the tomb wondering where He was. Agonizing over what she would do next. Jesus met her first. Alone. Before anyone else. In a small intimate, loving moment he says her name. Once Mary is comforted, I imagine Jesus smiles at her lovingly then disappears. In joy she rushes to the upper room to tell the Disciples in hiding that Jesus is alive.

The Jesus who walked along the Road to Emmaus talking with Cleophas and another Disciple. They were very discouraged and confused. Jesus joins them on the path, asks what’s troubling them then explains it all.  By the time they get to their destination the two men understand who Jesus is. All doubts and fears cleared away. In this small moment of walking and talking, Jesus revealed who he was, comforted them. I imagine Jesus just smiles at them lovingly and disappears. They in joy return to Jerusalem to tell the others.

The Jesus who sits patiently on the shore. Peter, wrapped inself-loathing, figured it was all over. Jesus was gone. No more changing theworld. Confused with his What’s Next, he returned to his original job. Fishing.  Peter, sitting on the boat, frustrated after a dark morning of no fish. 

Peter heard a familiar call from shore, “Throw the nets on the other side.:

Suddenly the nets were full of fish. Peter jumps out of the boat and runs to shore. Most people talk about the magic fish, or the usual Feed My Sheep redemption sermon. 

Not me. 

It’s the small miracle of Jesus, just sitting on the shore. With a basket of fish, cooking breakfast for Peter.over a fire.

In all three of these Easter moments, Jesus met them where they were. To me that is the Miracle of Easter. God, the Divine, an Unconditionally Loving Higher Power come to meet me right where I am.

The Small Graces

Mary in a garden. Distraught.

The Divine comes to say my name with reassurance and let me know I am not alone or forgotten at the mouth of death.

Cleophas and another walking, probably home, disillusioned.

The Divine comes to help me understand when I am confused at how life didn’t work out. I am granted guidance when I am lost in what to do next.

Peter back at his day job. Humiliated and confused.

Most of all, the Divine comes to nourish me when I am depleted. When I feel like an absolute and utter failure. The Divine comes to simply sit with me until I am restored.

*The first 10 who subscribe to my YouTube channel and leave a comment here on the blog are eligible to receive a free digital download of the Small Graces Tryptic. * Sunday April 12 only. Giveaway closed.

These works are available on my Etsy today.

Palm Sunday in Social Distance

It’s been a while since I’ve written about Christianity stuff. Honestly, I still struggle.

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday.

For the past few years, I have avoided the falderal. Mainly because I think our American Christianity misses the point.

We are celebrating in the same way the Jews did in Jesus’ day.

Palm leaves and singing.

Children dancing in the aisles.

Choirs singing Hosanna.

We walk out of the service excited about the week to come. It’s a holiday week. Kids home from school, vacation. Time off from work. A Big Easter dinner and egg hunt. Family Gathering. All the trappings and glitter.

Keep in mind, I’m not saying these things are bad. I think they are wonderful.

Just…

Every year, as I listen to sermons about Jesus riding on the donkey colt in the Triumphal entry through the Eastern Gate of Jerusalem. I just never see what everyone else does.

I don’t see we Christians knowing everything now That Jesus WAS entering Jerusalem as a Triumphant King, of an Eternal Heavenly Kingdom. Jesus was Our Christian King. Those poor, simple Jews were blind, looking only for an Earthly king. 

I see something different. To me, Jesus was following protocol.

Go to the East side of Jerusalem.- Check

Get this donkey- “Hey you two Disciples, go to that village up there. Find a donkey with a colt next to her at this house. Untie them and bring them here to us. If anyone says anything, just say… ‘The Lord needs them and whoever they belong to will let you take them.’”

Disciples get the donkeys. No problems. -Check

Ride the donkey- “Hey Disciples, I need to ride this donkey colt.”

Disciples: “Ok, well, let’s put our coats on him.”

Coats on donkey - Check

People start showing up - Check

No clear announcement, other than in the folklore and religious texts. They said someday a man would come and perform miracles. That man would one day show up at a Passover time and ride on a colt with coats on it into Jerusalem through a gate on the East side of the city. The stories suggested that this man would free the Israelites from foreign rule, at this moment Rome. Israel would be a free and independent country again. Easy Peasy!

 They would finally be a Political Superpower, if you will.

This man would come to save their city from evil invaders. Cleanse their home from sinners. No more sickness, or poor, or hungry or suffering. All would be right with God.

These people lining the road, celebrating, waving Palm Branches. Heralding a new age of political, social, emotional, spiritual, physical, economic, and religious freedom.  These people, including the Disciples, thought Jesus was the man who would solve their every problem.

Their man of the hour.

But what does Jesus say when HE gets to the top of the hill? When he overlooks the city of Jerusalem? What does Jesus think of this Triumphal Entry?

Jesus wept.

He wept for all those people. 

The celebrating masses, including the disciples.

Why?

Because they misunderstood who he was. They projected onto him what they wanted him to be. They didn’t take the time to know who he was. They wanted peace in their lives at no cost to themselves. The people just wanted a fancy magic trick and for all the bad things to disappear.

They wanted the easy way out of a difficult situation.

I really don’t understand why we celebrate Palm Sunday.

It was a day that made Jesus cry.

I always feel somber and reflective. Are Christians today so different from the crowds or the disciples of that day? Am I? I wonder what it is that I am missing about Jesus’ message to me? How am I misrepresenting Him in my life? 

I take this week to think about these things. To prepare for Maundy Thursday.

Shards of Words

Waves crashed in the background as the kids and I sat down for a scrumptious barbeque. We chatted about our Made-Up Holiday and our bonfire plan. 

All laughed in unison, “AND NO TRASH!" 

Then came the usual question, “Did you get that scar here? On this beach?” 

I smiled.

I was 20.  Freshly graduated, boxes were piled in an apartment. The new job started Monday. My first night of adult independence. My date and his friends picked me up, stopped at a store to buy libations, then off we went to the beach. They encouraged me to pick something.

“We’ll buy it. You’ll be fine! In a month you’ll be 21. It won’t matter!”

I protested, but their arguments seemed logical. I had followed the rules up to this point.

What havoc would one bottle unleash? I picked a fruity Bartles and James wine cooler. 

The Jaunty Jeep parked near the beach bonfire area. We walked until a recently abandoned one was discovered. The guys gathered trash to quickly pile it on the faintly glowing embers. The guys blew full lungs of air on the smoking pile, suddenly flames roared to life. We crackled with excitement about the summer plans and savored those flavors of adulthood.

Near the fire’s edge, an rim of red peeled a paper bag. There lay a capped beer bottle. 

I queried, “Guys, should we take that bottle out of the fire?”

Date said, “Na… it’s only coals. The fire isn’t hot enough to do anything. It’s fine.”

 His logic seemed wise. Girls don’t play with fire, I thought. Boys do. He probably knows better.

The ocean breeze grew cold. Date gave me his ski jacket and took the thin windbreaker I was wearing. Our conversation lulled like the coals. Friend Guy started to kick the capped bottle around the embers.

The glass cracked a bit and foam eased out.

Jeep Driver said, “We should move it. That doesn’t look right.”

Easy conversation continued about our futures, crazy college stories, and again our voices grew quiet.  

Embers nearly cold now, Friend Guy gingerly pulled the bottle into the center with his foot.

Then rolled it around. 

Not too much. 

Just... 

enough, 

to watch the beer foam from the cracks in the glass. They commented on how cool it was to watch the foam ease out of the fissures. The cool science of pressure relief continued. I tuned them out and listened to the waves wash the shoreline. 

POP!

I saw them jump back and brush their chests. They were all over six feet tall, so I was confused. Why didn’t I feel anything in my chest? 

Then I realized my face was their chest height.

I put my hand to my left jaw.

I didn’t feel anything.

But I felt a knot in my stomach. 

“Um…. Guys… I think I’m bleeding?”

With eyes wide, they raced over. I lifted my chin. 

Date said, “Don’t bleed on my jacket!”

"Oh! I’m sorry.”  I rushed to take it off trying not to get anything on it. “Here.”

I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. But... it was his jacket I was borrowing, it kinda made sense.

I shivered a little, “Um… what can I bleed on?” 

He handed me the windbreaker, his tone softened, “Here, you can use this.”

Jeep Driver said, “We should go.”

“I don’t have any insurance. When I moved out my Parentals told me so. If we go to a hospital, they’ll know I’ve been drinking and arrest me. I can’t afford to pay for the hospital. My job doesn’t start until Monday.” I panicked. 

Someone said, “It will be ok. You have to go to the hospital.”

We piled in.

The Jittery Jeep’s racing engine was the only sound through those dark curvy roads. Loud thoughts lectured me about the mess I was in. This was God’s judgment on me for drinking. Now the Parentals would know. What would they do? What would they say? I was terrified.

Well...maybe now he will listen to me. Maybe my opinion will mean something. This scar on my face will show him that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it will be worth it. It could be a blessing in disguise.

At the ER and in the care of nurses and doctors, my face was draped. A gentle nurse held my hand and talked to me because I couldn’t see. A compassionate doctor numbed my jaw and gave me 10 stitches.

My retelling of the scar story was interrupted.

“Mom! How could you think like that?” We all laugh at that young, gullible, innocent girl. 

Now, I can laugh at myself about it all.

I know a Loving Higher Power would not throw a glowing hot glass shard at my face, narrowly missing my jugular vein simply to punish me for drinking a wine cooler a month before my 21^st birthday. Of course, an action like that would never be a blessing. 

 My part in this whole tragedy of errors is the bottle was an issue for me. 

I should have taken it out.

I didn’t feel safe with a full, capped, carbonated glass bottle sitting in embers. I didn’t believe in the value of my own words. I held no value in my own opinion. This scar on my face reminds me that I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t see my own worth. I’ve learned the importance of my words. If I’m going to speak, it needs to mean something to me. I practice confidence in my voice.  If I’m not being heard, I stop arguing, evaluate the topic for either a redirect or to simply drop it.

That scar on my face is a gift. It gives character to every word I’ve spoken since.

Field and Seeds

The Parable of the Sower seems to be that default Bible Story.

Each time I read it or hear it my heart breaks for the Hard, Rocky or Stony Soil. That Good Soil just seems so lucky.

Good Soil, the carefree, open to anything God has field of dirt. No doubts or impediments.

Of course when the inevitable question is asked,

“Are you the Good Soil? Do you accept Jesus’ Good News? Do you know your eternal destination?”

I feel like a fraud saying yes. Of course I agree. I want the seed of Good News to grow within me. Freely and unencumbered. But… sometimes I have doubts, distractions, and discouragements.

Girly and I began working through the Gospels this year using Concordia Press. In the study of Matthew last week we covered the Infamous parable. The second question in the study asked us to first consider the “earthy picture.”

We are surrounded by farmland in the Central Valley. I imagined the labyrinth of warn paths farm workers use to get round, not to disturb the freshly tilled areas. Just off the path are areas of roughly tilled ground, places the plow broke open but not softened. Then the corners of the field where irrigation quenches and weeds grow. Spots often missed by weeding.

And it occurred to me…

What if the Parable of the Sower isn't a destination parable? Did Jesus really tell this story as a onetime opportunity? We've all known of people who “Come to Faith,” then walk away. Instead of asking why, it is chalked up to:

They must have been Rocky Soil. Their heart was too hard to accept the Good News. Poor them.

They must have been the Thorny Soil. Serving two masters got in their way of growing in Christ.

Or, my favorite:

Their heart was hard like the seed thrown on the path. You know God hardens hearts sometimes. Too bad for them.

The whole thing reminds me of Puddy and Elaine in Seinfeld.

That aside, I imagined myself walking alongside the farmer in his field. It wasn't the first time it was tilled and planted. Places which were Hard Path last year could be Good Soil this year. Places which grew well before might be littered with weeds now. Last year's Good Soil could be this year’s rock pile. The field would change parameters based upon the season. Yet each year, the farmer would throw the seed. That seed would grow for him to harvest.

Instead of feeling guilty or overwhelmed when I struggled with faith, maybe I simply need to have that part of my heart cleared. Especially when I am wrestling to understand something of the Kingdom of God.

Because, the Creator knows my heart better than I. Where I feel parched and struggling I can ask for understanding. Where am I being stubborn or willful I can for the stones to shift. When I am overwhelmed I can pray to see where the entanglements are. I can seek the grace to have the thorns removed. Being Good Soil is a process, just like the farmer and his field is a process of seasons. 

An Era of Threads Part 6

On January 16th, Grandma Edna passed away. According to Dad, over the last few weeks she communicated her readiness to go Home. Without much fanfare her soul left this mortal coil in the middle of January. At peace with those close to her. Dad said it was beautiful.

I went to the funeral.

It was the end of an era.

A season of family and fallout. Wounds and healings. A permanent parting of ways for the two branches of this family.

The sky was a thick gray as I stood on the outskirts of the grave side ceremony. The tule fog simply waiting to be unfurled and blanket the little town once the sun set.  I watched her family and friends laugh, wipe tears and shared knowing looks. Grandma was a woman well loved by those around her and I was glad. I felt for my Dad who shared stories and scripture verses. Caught between a family that was and a family that is cannot be easy for him. Grief is just different in that situation.

\

The service ended and I walked to the quiet end of her casket. I thanked her for the example of strength-the way she defended her own ethic without compromise. I admired how she could communicate what she thought of people. I loved how she liked everyone she met, then decided whether to dislike them later. Her sense of style was impeccable. With a steely grace she would walk into a room. Her daily crossword puzzles and Yahtzee kept her mind sharp until the end.  I honored her as my Grandmother. 

Then I said goodbye for the last time.

Turning around I met Aunt2 and Uncle2. They live out of state now. With a warm hug we caught up on their new life. The task at hand and the gloomy cold that is Central Valley fog.

Then I set my gaze to the other side of Grandma’s casket. The family she loved deeply stood together. It would be the last time I would ever see them. I walked over and waited for conversations to ebb. Uncle looked at me with no hint of recognition. I reminded him of who I was and in surprise he said hello. It was good to see him again. I gave him a quick hug and he turned to address those standing behind me.

Aunt was next. My heart brimming with love for her, I hugged her. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and I said,

“Sorry for your loss.”

Her soft reply was, “Sorry for yours.”

My heart broke for Aunt. Grandma was her best friend. They had a very close Mother/Daughter relationship. I waited for the right words, “But you two had something special.”

Aunt’s eyes welled up. Her arms reached and I melted into them. For a moment I was a little unscathed girl being held by an aunt who loved deeply. We savored that moment then parted.

“Goodbye.” I simply said. She nodded.

The quiet ride home I watched groves of orange trees blur for acres. My eye followed the power line as it seamlessly flowed alongside the road. Never again would I have to travel there again. I could leave the pain and take the lessons with me. Let the bad leave its’ scar and walk forward in strength.

It was finished. 

An Era of Threads Part 4

As the case against Uncle dragged on, laws changed within the molestation epidemic. By the time it came to trial, the cousins’ and my testimony was no longer admissible. Statute of limitations had passed. Two Sisters would face the trial. The case continued to drag until the last moment when Uncle plead No Contest. His sentence was Community Service.

Legalities settled, Grandma Edna renewed her vigilant pressure of bringing the family together. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. All of us in different places of healing.

I found myself not caring about what she thought. Her discomfort did not bother me.

This resolve was something I learned from her.

What I did dread however were the funerals. Only three important ones remained. My Great-Grandmother.

Grandpa Johnny

And Grandma Edna’s.

Each I would need to attend and pay my last respects. Honor their lives and support my Dad as he grieved the loss.

Great-Grandmother went first. She was an immigrant from Switzerland. I spent a few nights with her when I was little. Within her was a sweet resolve. A similar fierceness to Grandma Edna, but a gentleness and grace. I greatly admired that quiet dignity. With only a few years of, I attended her service and wake. It was the first time I had seen Uncle. I felt a little sick, but not falling apart. He stayed on one side of the room and we the other.

By the time Grandpa Johnny passed away, I understood a little about forgiveness. Giving up my right to get even, be vindicated or even see justice was a start. The longer I wished him ill. I understood the verse, “Vengeance is mine, says the LORD.”

It was God’s job to judge. I don’t know what wounds Uncle carried which influenced his choices. Who knows, maybe Uncle simply paid forward a violation he received.

I needed to stop being afraid.

I needed to get out of God’s way as judge.

For my own healing, I needed to forgive

So, at Grandpa Johnny’s graveside, I approached Uncle.

With shaking hands and a trembling heart, I looked into his eyes. I said, “I forgive you.” Then hugged him. A peace flooded my soul. The words, “It is finished” breathed within me. Then I walked away.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean a Do Over. It doesn’t mean access to my life. It simply means I accept the same God that judges me, will judge him. The same sun that warms me, warms him. The same air I breathe, he breathes.

That’s all.

An Era of Threads Part 2

My admiration of Edna grew as I got older.  Any time Edna included me in was an adventure an uncomfortable feeling was always present. When the aerobics craze exploded in the 80s, she committed completely. With the legs of Tina Turner, Edna would walk into a conversation. Then tell everyone how great going to the gym was and they needed to go too.

Her car was a beige Buick. When Edna pushed the gas pedal you could hear fuel pouring into the engine by the gallon. Often if a driver offended her, the window would be rolled down. Her fist shook out with a string of obscenities following behind it. Edna could never understand why someone would get in her way.

As former produce ranchers, Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny employed migrant workers during harvest seasons. They believed their workers were treated well and fairly. However, when Caesar Chavez began to unionize the labor force. They felt betrayed. Many a holiday table was filled with this topic. The turning point for them was during the grape boycott. 

My Grandmother with great pride told the story over a dry turkey. Driving by a market In her gas guzzling Buick , she saw protesters out front.

She turned a tight corner.

Parked.

Stormed into the store.

Purchased a bag of grapes.

Then strolled through the protesters, slowly eating the grapes in front of them.

I thought Grandma Edna was fierce.

Even though I didn't agree with her-and THAT car ride home was filled with my parents discussing how wrong that was. I admired her fearlessness. The way she could walk through life, not carrying about what people thought. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t popular. It was the way Edna thought things should be, so the world just better keep up.

I wanted to be as strong.

Parents tried to protect us from Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny’s opinions. We never heard all of them, but I heard enough to understand what prejudice and bigotry was. The hour ride home after a gathering at their house was filled with conversation about people. How we shouldn’t judge people by the color of their skin, but by their character. That Grandma Edna could have her opinions but to keep the secret that those opinions were wrong.

When we stayed for the weekend while Parents were away, it was quiet. If I spoke to Grandma Edna, my words were weighed carefully. Conversation was weighed and measured within my mind. It was always careful.

The rhythm went like this: one night with the Grandparents. One night with the Aunt and Uncle. Aunt had a bubbly laugh and made me feel sparkly and special. Uncle was friendly and busy. The houses were like dark and light. Careful and carefree.

Then something mysterious happened.

An Era of Threads Part 1

Edna, the oldest of five children, grew up through the Great Depression. Her belief as the eldest was to keep everything running. It was her job to help raise he siblings. As a young adult in movie theater, during a news reel saw a friend die while storming the beach at Normandy. Did her part to support the cause of World War II.

Edna married Johnny and they had three kids. When Johnny’s Step Mother asked him to help run an Orange and Olive ranch, the family moved. All three kids have stories to tell about squirrel shooting, burning tires on frosty nights to save the oranges and working together.

Photo by Sgarton 

When Edna and Johnny retired, they moved back to the Central Valley small town. Edna went to work at a doctor’s office. Johnny worked in an appliance store. If there was something in their community to be involved in, Edna was there. Somehow she held command of a room filled with people.

I met Edna in the late 1970s. We moved from Utah to California. My Dad, fresh from the military, looked diligently for employment. My Mom early in pregnancy, a little sister who was three and I in third grade lived together in the spare room. It was an adjustment for all of us. She and my Grandpa Johnny had strong opinions about everything. Often exchanged views in the kitchen. Edna made it very clear to me what rooms I was allowed into and where I was not. What could be touched and what was to be left alone.

Both of my parents were visibly uncomfortable when they left for their weekly card games and bowling league. Often they smelled strangely when they came home. Parents reluctantly explained to me about cigarettes and alcohol.

As much as Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny scared me, I was also intrigued by them. In the quiet my parents discussed their need for salvation, but we all attended church together. I liked their pastor. The Congregational Church seemed to have air within its walls, music and we could all sit together.  Children were welcome in service. After a time of worship, the pastor would call all the kids up for a story. Then we would run to our classes. It felt like an honest, whole body.

The Aunt and Uncle who lived in town seemed nice. Aunt was Grandma Edna’s daughter. Their relationship seemed filled with love and laughter. Aunt and Uncle had two teenage kids. Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny doted on them.

My Dad found a job and we moved into a neighboring town. Sister Three was born, Sister Two toddled around and I landed into my Third school of the year.  Three schools in Third Grade is a story for another time. Two years later Sister Four entered the world

Once in our own rhythm, the visits with Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny were limited to holidays and an occasional weekend when Parents needed to go out of town. The relationship, however, never changed. It was cordial always but what Grandma said went. No one disagreed with her. We watched golf and played Yatzee for fun. Otherwise we were expected to be quiet and play with our own toys.

Gentle Lent-A Good Friday

This year's great plans for Gentle Lent have fallen short. In my failure to complete them, truth emerges.

Outward Focus: Open to Divine Appointments and Kindness Risks I feel less isolated. Each and every time I pause to talk to a person, I feel a little more open. The whole house is not cleaned and decluttered, but I have a great start for the summer.

Inward Focus: The getting up on time, abstaining from social media right when I wake up did not go so well. That plan was interrupted when Counting Mutant took himself to the ER.  However, I am more mindful of the time I spend, a quick glance then my feet hit the floor.

I’ve done well in the “no cheats.” So well it uncovered a bigger problem, I have to keep it. This last monthly cycle I had no PMDD triggered anxiety. The few days of food cravings were curbed by asking this question:

Will future me appreciate the present me indulging in this?

However, my first day experience was much less than ideal. My conclusion is: I need to keep clean eating regularly and cheat only once a month and investigate supplements.

Upward Focus: The quiet meditation for five minutes hasn’t worked out. My daily devotionals were hit and miss. I attended Lenten services. I still feel nervous going to the Lutheran church but anxiety is waning. The boundary of liturgy during the service melts away my fear.

The result is, found myself not wanting to rush to Sunday.

I want to savor this Friday. Participating in Maundy Thursday’s communion and watching the altar be cleared by women. The emptiness the building we call church without its focus. My own emptiness.

That cross held a priest I could identify with:

False accusations have been thrown at me. My role in Wonderland was a scapegoat. There is no redemption for a scapegoat. If something went wrong, it was my fault. It was my responsibility to fix it. People believe false testimony about me and chose to cut tie, rejecting a relationship with me.

I have been abused and wounded. Whether by family members who needed to feel in control of their own reality, an icky uncle, a lost boy looking for meaning, each left a deep and lasting wound.

In turn, wrapped in a cloak of my own brokenness I gave root to that seed of wickedness within myself. Unforgiveness and resentments are a deceptive shield. In moments of anger I falsely accused, lied and attempted to control. I repaid evil for evil.

But by His stripes I am healed.

All of these are placed on him. As I kneel near that Cross today my shame melts. I see my wounds on him and weep with Mary, her sister,  Mary of Clopas, Mary Magdalene and I am not alone. My sin did not put him there. It did not kill him. Kneeling at the foot of that Cross my burden of shame is lifted. Love put him there because God desired my freedom. My Creator saw my suffering.

Divine Love made a way: a transfusion of Holy blood to wash away my own tainted nature. Through faith I can cry and grieve the wrong done to me and the wrong I have done. I imagine myself sitting with them as they gathered in that upper room sitting Shiva as they facing life without him.

I feel humble. I feel grateful.

April Truth Set Me Free

It happens every time.

In high school, it was rock music. The debate about whether the subliminal messages or the ruckus beat interfered with a Christian’s spiritual growth. In junior high I watched as my mom smashed her Beatles, Monkeys, The Carpenters and a few miscellaneous others all for our spiritual protection.

At church our youth group was filled with musicians. Some even became professional in adulthood. They listened to rock music and played it during jam sessions. When I worshiped alongside them, I felt Holy Spirit’s presence. It was just as strong as when I listened to my Mother play and lead worship in corporate service.

To say I was confused was an understatement.

Then came:

Abortion.
Sex before marriage.
Cohabitation.
Divorce.
Dress codes.
The correct way to pray.
Interpretations of Revelation.

I could go on…

Each and every time a culture war erupted, my heart would grieve. Like a black hole in my chest, I could feel God cry.

Mourning the hate.
Lamentening for those who were the focus of the anger.
Angry about how God was being portrayed.

AND most important, how God’s redemptive story compromised for absolute rules.

Last week was no different. World Vision and the Noah movie left me feeling like I had been kicked in the chest.

Monday I woke up under a cloud of depression. I forced myself to walk the dogs. To eat. To fulfill my chores around the house, then that afternoon, a cry for help.

Molley at A Mother Life began sharing a potential injustice. She, an immigrant, was facing investigation from Homeland Security. It consumed my afternoon. Checking her Facebook and Twitter, my heart found a new focus of lament.

My imaginary interweb friend faced being ripped from her family. I began to pray. With breathless hope I prayed,

For justice.
For mercy.
For our divine Mediator to bring peace.
For confusion to become clear.

With these prayers in my heart I fell asleep. My night filled with nightmares of myself being abducted by aliens. The Mutant standing by helplessly as my kids were ripped from my arms. Aliens taking me in their ship to Ayers’ Rock and depositing me in the middle of that wilderness. The rest of the dream was filled with my crawling back to my family and home.

Throughout the whole dream I knew it wasn’t about me, it was about Molley. I continued to pray through the whole night.

Next morning first thing I did was message her to tell her about my prayers for her. Not something I usually do.

She messaged me back right away with a Thanks and a link: The Truth Shall Set Me Free.

It did.

In ways she never intended.

You see, the whole thing was a rouse. An April Fool’s prank.

I sat on my bedroom floor and felt: angry, relief, exhaustion and finally JOY. With tears I laughed. I giggled all day long. The cloud of depression was cleared away by my tears of relief and laughter. I realized it all works for good. God’s Good.

If I focus on my calling-to love my neighbor-God takes care of the rest. 

Zany: A Boy Became a Man

Ase was 8 months old when I found out I was pregnant.

Zany blasted into this world with one of "those" birthing stories- cord prolapsed. Dramatic race down the hallway with a male nurse between my legs and plugging my hoo-ha. The only OB left only moments before. There I lay, anesthesiologist sitting poised with general anesthetic. The nurse still sitting between my lets, fighting to hold a crowning head above my cervix. Nurses running in and out:
"We can't find a doctor."
"We found one, He's just scrubbed in for surgery, but he's a neurosurgeon and hasn't done a c-section since residency"
"Never mind, the OB is back."

Anesthesiologist gently looks at me and says, "Start counting backwards."

At 10 months, sitting in a high chair eating breakfast.
Zany leaned to one cheek. Let out a butt cheek flapper. Sat straight up.
AND laughed.

At 11 months I asked him playfully what kind of birthday he wanted.
He hummed the Winnie The Pooh theme song.
"You want a Winnie The Pooh birthday party?"
"Yuss!"

I was in trouble.

I began to pray for inspiration. It came: How did Robin William’s Mom do it? Or Jim Carrey, Andy Kaufman, Tim Conway, Jonathan Winters…Somehow these men were raised without being broken by their Mothers.

After a bad day in first grade, he threw a vacuum across the room. His teacher turned a blind eye while classmates punish each other. She only acknowledged good behavior. In this Lord Of The Files environment, they cornered Zany, under a desk, yelling at him.

When we moved to the Central Valley where we chose to  home school. So much needed to be corrected and we wanted to give them a love of learning. Zany struggled to get his schoolwork done on time. So, I designed a natural consequence:

If you don’t get your school work done within the time allotted, then at the end of the school day, you take it to your room. No playing out side with the neighborhood kids.


He contentedly sat in his room for a week. AND quit doing school work altogether.

It was a hill I died on.

Some people wanted to call him “Strong-Willed.” But I knew he wanted to please. He had a soft and compassionate heart. If I broke that will, he would become a broken man. Not prepared for the life God called him to.

I met a Mom of a similar boy. In his teens now, this boy, years earlier would only wear kakis. It lasted a year. Why? Because it was weird to wear his name- jeans.  She agreed with me. That “Strong-Willed” book was only good for one thing:

Hitting your kid with it.

She introduced me to Raising Your Spirited Child and Making Children Mind Without Loosing Yours. These books saved his life. I stumbled across Nurture By Nature-based on the Meyers-Briggs personality test. This book gave me a game plan that changed as often as he did.

In Zany’s preteens, exasperated, I asked him, “Do I need to explain to you WHY I am an authority in your life?”


His stormy blue eyes widened. He softly and humbly asked, “Yes. Please?”

Because I Said So never worked.

Why? BECAUSE if I wasn't there he had no reason to follow the rule. He needed to have an intrinsic reason to be honest, respectful, honor authority, forgive and serve others.

Early tees found me in tears and on my knees daily. Homeschooling him was what he needed, but it was a refining fire for me. How to raise this gifted, gentle soul and not break him.
Zany wasn't mine.

I was a steward of the child God created. I would be held accountable for every millstone, harsh word or injustice. One morning, looking in the mirror and at a complete end Holy Spirit whispered this verse to my heart:

Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed,
Because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning;
Great is Your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23


If God’s mercies are new every morning for me, then from that fountain, I can extend them to him. I decided I was going to like Zany as a teen-EVEN IF IT KILLED ME.

Zany went to public high school. He was ready to be accountable to someone else. He wanted me to be just Mom.

Now he is a senior. Drug free, alcohol free, and a solid faith in a God who loves him. He knows he has shortcomings. Zany knows the only help to navigate them is growing in faith. He has a tireless work ethic. Impervious to bullying and passionate about justice. Still driven by his individualistic ethos.

He turns 18 today.
He’s a man.

AND I LIKE HIM.

Shh, They're Listening

Originally posted on November 13, 2013
I must admit, I was out of line.

I didn't ask. I didn't know even though everyone in town seemed to. I purposed to not know. My business was to be her friend, not what events brought her to this place. This sweet friend couldn't believe that I didn't already know. She sat and told me the whole story including her own part.

Then, I opened my mouth. What came out was not the flowers and sunshine usually spoken to this poster child of redemption. I loved her deeply. Her shame needed to drop from her shoulders. Forgiveness needed to be extended to the one who betrayed her. I restated her part. The guilt was equal; it need not define them both for the rest of their lives.

She did not take it well.

Months later the words came back to me twisted and judgmental. My heart ached. Our friendship was mangled. I attempted to reconcile and it seemed we had, but…

Years later, in one of the darkest seasons of my life and newly back in town, I reached out. While I was living away, she developed a friendship with a person very close to me. I was informed that her loyalty was with her.

Last night BoyZ was telling me about a conversation with this woman’s daughter. BoyZ and the daughter cross paths their freshman year in high school. Now seniors, they are best friends. The daughter was telling BoyZ how she hasn’t dated yet because of her Mother’s requirements: christian, etc.

Of course BoyZ is my son…

“Why don’t you just date me? That would really piss of your Mom.”

“Why would that piss of my Mom?” She asked in shock.

“Because-for some reason that I don’t understand-your Mom hates my Mom.”  BoyZ is never one to mince words. 

Don’t know where he gets that.

“OH!” A light bulb of understanding lit over her head. “I know what happened. Your Mom was probably just being herself and did something and my Mom is really judgmental. SO she just judged your Mom. And that’s it.”

Damn IT!  When we think we are doing the “right” things, those little buggars are watching

AND listening.

Sin and Spam

Sin.

I keep hearing that word.

Sin.

And I wonder if it means what we think it means.

Sin-short coming, falling short, mistake, missing the mark, rebelling against God, pride, selfishness, total depravity. All words cultural christianity uses as synonyms for that word.

I hear a faint chorus singing in the tune of the Monty Python Spam Sketch:

“We have Jesus, grace, forgiveness and sin, 

We have Forgiveness, sin grace and sin.

We have sin, sin, sin, Jesus and sin.

We have grace, sin, sin, sin, sin and sin.

We have sin, sin, sin, sin, sin, sin, Jesus and grace.

AND we have sin, sin, sin, sin and sin.”

Studying Romans this year in Bible Study, I read it in the notes and hear it in the lecture, yet when reading the text from Romans 2 thru Romans 7 I hear Paul saying something else.

After the infamous first chapter that everyone quotes ends with this verse:

“They know well enough God's righteous decree that people who do such things deserve to die; yet not only do they keep doing them, but they applaud others who do the same.” Romans 1:32

Then Paul turns around in Romans 2 to kick the reader’s keister.

“Therefore you have no excuse, whoever you are, passing judgment; for when you judge someone else, you are passing judgment against yourself; since you who are judging do the same things he does.”

The rest of those five chapters talks about our freedom in Christ. How we now practice the law because of grace NOT because of a need to fulfill it. In Chapter 7 he makes the whole thing personal in verse 7:

:

“…the function of the (law) was that without it, I would not have known what sin is. For example, I would not have become conscious of what greed is if the (law) had not said, ‘Thou shalt not covet.’”

We are all guilty of that. Pride triggers jealousy over what someone else has. Our contentment challenged births jealousy which expresses itself in envy. Envy feeds greed and around the merry-go-round we go. Not one of us can say we are free from it. Even Paul confesses in Romans 7:15

“I don't understand my own behavior - I don't do what I want to do; instead, I do the very thing I hate!”

Growing up I was always told, “Hate the sin but love the sinner.” It applied to everyone who was not a Christian. My soul felt a little sick every time I heard it. In high school a Mormon friend and I debated the concept: this friend who I loved, but it was approved to hate her religion because it was sin. I walked away from that encounter never able to say it again. What is sin in my life may not be sin in someone else’s.

I am called to love my neighbor as I love myself.

For people to know I am a follower of Christ because of how I love others.

To get the log out of my own eye before I try to take a speck out of my neighbor’s.

So while the interwebs are throwing around the Sin ball, I will be over here working on my own shortcomings. Struggling to let go of my own resentments and learning to love others. 

All while singing the Spam song.

The Unlovely Around My Heart

“Be angry, but don't sin - don't let the sun go down before you have dealt with the cause of your anger; otherwise you leave room for the Adversary.” Ephesians 4:26-27

I thought I was over it. But my brain has a mind of its own and every holiday season I am reminded of what is missing.

I want to be done.

More tears have been spent on making myself be peace about the circumstances. I have forgiven those who misrepresented me. In my own strength extended grace to those who choose to believe gossip. I understand that who I am will never be accepted. I don’t hold it against them. They have their own pain to deal with. I cannot judge them because I did have a part to play.

I have owned my part. Offered amends for my shortcomings and accepted that the damage is irreversible. No longer do I feel the need to be understood or validated. I only wish them well on their life journey.

Yet…something irritates.

I re-examine Forgiveness: analyze it from their point of view. Where were my expectations unrealistic? What life experience motivated the choices they made. I feel empathy. I understand. I check to see if I hold any expectations of justice or reconciliation with them. I almost feel peace.

Then… something burns under the surface of my soul.

Anger is checked and I filter through all its definitions:

Anger is a secondary emotion, find out the primary source and resolve it. Then anger will diffuse-check. Did that.

Anger is a messenger. Ask her what the question is, answer it and then anger will be satisfied- check. Did that.

Then GirlyK and I were watching Bones. Sweets interrogating someone said, “Anger is triggered by unmet expectations.”

A glowing hot spear stabs my heart. I missed my own feelings. I never allowed myself to simply feel. Every examination has focused on them. Empathy, sympathy, forgiveness and grace extended to them, but never for myself.

My brain recoils: that’s selfish. That’s not Christlike. Indulging my sin nature gives room to all kinds of evil. I am not supposed to think about me in this situation for it to be resolved. They were the ones wronged. Not me…

But I must. I must filter through it all again this time granting permission to feel. The tools of recovery have taught me only through truth in love can real healing occur.

I awaken at 3:00 with the realization of this unlovely truth: I feel resentful. As I try to fall back asleep, Holy Spirit gently unravels the thick black wire shield which encases my beautiful pink heart. Looking closer I see barbs which point outward, intending to protect my heart from harm. The Still Small Voice calls them resentment. On the inside of the wire are smaller, sharper spines. Still Small Voice calls them bitterness.

In the hands of Divine Love I understand that while I protected myself with frustrated resentment, each time my heart encountered those people, the shield pressed into my heart. Those little spines of bitterness added pain which triggered a landslide of anxiety. Longing for freedom I submit to the Healer. As I release my own feelings, a healthy prettypicket fence will surround my heart. With healthy boundaries I will have clarity.  True grace will I finally be able to extend

And the best gift of all: Shalom.