The Craft

I was about eight years old. Expressing myself in poetry and frustrated with my little brothers, I wrote a poem about boys. I don’t remember the words, but the gist of it was a rhyming song about their rambunctious, annoying and pestering attributes.

I loved them but hated them and had no problem saying so or exerting my larger sister self influence on them.

That poem was my ‘masterpiece’ and I thought pretty highly of myself, so of course I believed it to be amazing. When presented to my mom, her frown and lack of praise stunned my little prideful self and dashed my hopes at being an accomplished writer.

This seemingly inconsequential moment marked me. I grumbled to myself, tore the paper to pieces and threw myself on my bed behind slammed door to cry away my dismay. I continued to mutter and make declarations that further cemented the belief that I would ‘never be a writer’. I really can’t recall my mother’s words but the words I spoke about myself that day haunted me all the way to College Composition many years later. When a paper written for class came back with red marks all over it and severe criticism, I coldly decided, yet again, that writing would never be my ‘thing’.

The only problem with all of that mess was…I loved words…I loved to write and alliterate… I loved the dance upon the paper… and I incessantly wrote poems and journal-ed about everything in my life.

Fast forward many years, many life experiences, many teachers and many hours of schooling.

I had an encounter with the Living God at seventeen that altered my life path. In the process, on that path, God began to speak to me about the words that came up out of me and onto the paper. I began to realize that this passion to create, this hunger to express, this ‘gift,’ was not of me, the imperfect human, but was from God. He wanted to rise up out of the ashes of defeat and declare truth, life and freedom to the captives. This revelation opened up a hidden reservoir that poured forth with gallons and gallons of water to quench not only my thirst but that of others.

So, yes, from that poem, “Boys”, from a fractured vessel came an act of worship. From self talk that damaged the vessel came words to lift up and mend and make whole.

Here, I say, “Yes and AMEN! to whatever the Lord wants to do with this vessel.”

I say, “Have Your way, sweet Jesus. Do as You would like to do with this blog. It is Yours alone.”

Let me lay face down before You, let me be willing to be corrected, let me raise hands up to be led by Your Spirit!

Thank You for all You desire to do and all You ARE doing!!!

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.” -Philipians 2:3

Thirsty Land

“…For waters will break forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert…The scorched land will become a pool and the thirsty ground springs of water…” Isaiah 35:6-7

The daily demands of life, the pitfalls of fractured relationship, the exhaustion of pushing oneself onward up the mountain somehow clog my ears. I have trouble listening and more trouble hearing. And even more trouble allowing the words to come forth onto the paper. I claim to be the pen of a ready writer but the moment I am yelled at, ridiculed, glared at or feel the tiniest discouragement it’s as if I have buried my pen and hidden the paper away in some dark closet.

And yet… here I am. The Word of God bathes me in soothing bath salts. The steadfast love of my Father wraps powerful arms around my hurt. The oil of gladness is poured over my muddled thoughts and brings clarity.

Somehow, while at the Potter’s knee I learned that the bible held such powerful truth and healing that even when my heart and mind were not committed to it, if I faithfully read it every day, the words would do miraculous work on my hardened heart. Even a single verse holds the key to deliverance. The beauty of a tiny poem in some random corner of a prophet’s voice has the ability to move a mountain and open tightly clenched eyes. Often, I have by habit, sat down with bible on my knees and stared at the words on the page. Many times I have copied the words from that bible onto my journal pages…out of habit only, not from passion or purity or even desire. In these seasons, I have been fed and nourished even when I have felt destitute and starving.

I recall being so deeply burrowed down in dark dirt that I was clinging by my fingernails to the edge of sanity. The autopilot of getting children dressed, fed and to school and the robotic preparation to go to work and go through the motions of functioning, fueled by gallons of diet coke and M&M’s, was an ugly reality with zero thanksgiving and a weight so heavy on my chest that I could not move out of the rut. I had a small space beside my bed where I would hide my sad heart. I was completely unable to function for myself, outside of the demands to care for others. How was it that I survived this cave of despair?

One day, after weeks of this pattern, ‘wake up, drag myself out of bed, throw on sweats, take kids to school, go to hiding place, sit down on floor, no tears, no emotion, no nothing’; the unread bible sitting before me, a tiny ‘thank you’ fell off my lips. I got up, washed my face and did the laundry. The next day, same process: knelt down on the floor, opened the bible and said ‘thank you’ a little louder; closed the bible and got up to go through the motions. The next day, I woke up with a little more energy, repeated all the motions, knelt to the floor, opened my bible said ‘Thank You Lord’ and began to cry. Bit by bit, day by day, motion by motion, I started to focus on the words before me in the bible. The peace returned, the emotions returned, I could hug my husband and children and mean it. I woke up singing one morning and realized the joy and the recognition of the Father’s love for me was there and had been there all along. He didn’t leave me, I just wasn’t seeing Him there. I returned to the foot of the cross where my life began and started over.

The parched , dry landscape of my mind and heart slowly came to life as the Living water of Jesus was sprinkled over the brown grass. The sprinkles became a trickle, the trickle erupted into a steady stream, the stream grew to a flooding torrent of fresh, sweet water and I burst to life. My heart swelled with hope and my voice rang out in praise to the heavens.

This growing passion in me has never dimmed in spite of other periods of drought and famine. There are indeed times when I want to flee, to hide my pen, to bury my face in my sagging wings. They are more frequent than I would welcome but the Living Water continues to satisfy my thirst and the hiding away is much like my Jesus going to the distant shores to rest or to the garden to pray with His Father. I want to liken these times that I retreat to those of my Savior’s. Surely I am being healed and invigorated and His Word is inspiring growth in me that will overflow onto the dehydrated ground of another’s heart.

I will go to You, my Lord in obedience, for sometimes I don’t even know that I am thirsty until I drink from Your cup.

Thank You Jesus for Your rich Presence. Thank you for giving me of the water that keeps me from thirst all the days of my life.

He Won’t Relent

woman wearing grey long sleeved top photography
Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com

“Put me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm. For love is as strong as death, jealousy is as severe as Sheol; Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord. Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it…”-Song of Solomon 8: 6-7

‘you won’t relent until You have it all….” words from a Misty Edwards’ song that encircles my thoughts this morning.

I lingered long at the Potter’s House until I became distracted with the things of life. School, studying for tests, camaraderie of my fellow nursing school buddies, weekends to blow off stress, exploring St. Louis culture…slowly the devotion to Potter and practice had faded in its glow and I was running footloose and fancy free into another world. I was pursuing acceptance and beauty for myself. I was desperate to belong to something, to someone that I could touch. The seed sown in my heart by religion did not confirm these things for me. I still didn’t know who, or whose I was. There was a flame of faith yet alive in me as I stood up for the downtrodden, the Right to Life, Jesus, Purity, Eternal life, the Bible…but…this was ‘self righteous noise’ in me, not even internalized, simply words that I believed. I knew that I was a fraud.

But His relentless Love kept pursuing my heart…

It was not long before I bumped right into truth. I knew, somehow, in my pursuit of self, my stumbling after what was right, my free fall into life without reins or bridle, that I was headed for trouble. I could feel that I was running after judgement to be ‘found out’. I wanted to be known and to know. I was a loose, wild horse plunging head long over wide open fields. Running naked across a golf course, spinning wildly on a merry-go-round, going anywhere there was interesting people; this behavior defined the lack of direction that was consuming me. The sudden stop at the door of decision was an unexpected pregnancy.

I was surrounded by ‘knowledgeable’ kids like myself. Some had had abortions, some had given up babies for adoption. I was not alone in my decision in this free-love world. There were plenty of people giving advice. But… I had encountered the living God down at the Potter’s House and I knew He was calling me to Himself. I could hear Him in my quiet room, by myself, in my despair.

He was loving me still in spite of my choices. He still accepted me even as I had turned my back on Him. The God of the universe wanted me to come to Him for help, and so I did. In spite of repeated condemnation from loved ones and the advice to abort the pregnancy, in spite of the humiliation and rejection by peers and instructors, in spite of the crisis of faith in realizing I thought differently from my family. In spite of rejection and shame. In spite of every fear of the future and the consequences laid before me I saw something much bigger than everyone around me.

I saw that I had been redeemed. I saw that I had been given a gift. I saw that a miracle was happening in my body and my soul. I saw that God had entrusted me with something very precious and valuable. I saw the endless possibilities. It was a heart condition in me that needed treating and the Creator knew just how to do it.

His relentless pursuit of my soul led me back to church. Church, because His people were there and they loved me into the arms of Jesus and stood by me as I grew in faith. Church, because innately I knew that it was where I could learn more about this Father who loved me unconditionally.

About eight weeks pregnant, nauseated and exhausted, I went on a work trip with our little church group to an eldercare facility called El Nathan Home. As I cleaned and dusted in that old building I came across a wall with the name of the place and a story about its roots. As I stopped there to rest, I read the plaque. The story of the tender but direct heart of the prophet Nathan as he spoke to King David pointing out his sin spoke directly to me. The bible passage filled with mercy and grace burrowed down deep into my heart. I can only vaguely remember the whole mission statement but the name emblazoned on the wall El NATHAN Home stood out in bold letters. I KNEW in that moment that the baby I was carrying was named Nathan. The tears fell. My heart melted. I can only say that this was an encounter with the Holy Spirit. His fresh Presence overwhelmed me and at the same time invigorated me with light. I was just a twenty two year old lost little girl who thought she knew everything and was washed in the love of God.

His relentless Love.

Not Enough

Swirling thoughts of need, want, loss, worry, more. All spinning around in a frantic confusion in my head. I don’t have enough space, or time, or energy to accomplish what I need to do. Always behind. Always focused on the lack in my day.

MORE Lord. I want more.

What is this in me that seeks after the more? To see more? To get more? To make more? More time. More light. More food. More space for planting. More plants. More children. More grandchildren. More more.

I think that we were created to enlarge. The Maker said, “Go. Inhabit and be fruitful and multiply.” We were given so much and He said go and make more. When Jesus gave us the Good News He said, “Go. Give it away and make more disciples.” Isaiah the Hebrew prophet, reminded people to enlarge their tent to allow for more people to come in. The principle of making more, creating more and enlarging is woven into the fiber of our being.

That is why it is so very foreign to me to be poverty stricken in my soul. When I begin to cling to things or people it usually has its root in fear. I begin to be governed by fear of loss; fear of not being able to acquire enough. I grasp and hold and guard everything and everyone within my influence. This mindset overwhelms and pushes me down into a very dark hole. I become a beggar who crawls about in despair over how little I have.

Recently I have been singed by this demon. My feathers burnt so that I cannot fly. I have been locked in a room of my own making. I have allowed the swirl to make me dizzy.

My husband and I moved from the home that we had established after dwelling there for 35 years. You can imagine the amount of ‘things’ you accumulate in that time frame. As I was packing to move, I was cleaning, giving things away, trashing and sorting. In the end, he and I packed up a rather large quantity of our belongings to head off without actually having a home to put the ‘things’ in. Yes, we had a large metal building, but no heating or air conditioning in an area known for a harsh climate.. I knew from experience that this sort of climate would wreak havoc on photographs and furniture. Those two items were my ‘precious belongings’. The memories I was clinging to were stowed away and destined to stay stowed for a long time.

This knowledge began to eat away at me as the time passed. And…it began to literally eat away at the objects that I loved. Furniture has been mildewed and stained. Photos have stuck together. I became a bitter, frustrated, fearful, worrying, nagging woman. The longer the things stay packed the worse I have become. Who wants to live with a bitter woman or man? Who wants to build a house for one of those? Who can stand themselves when they get that way?

“It’s better to live in a corner of a roof than in a house with a quarrelsome wife.” – Proverbs 21:9

Ouch.

The recognition of my poverty has brought me to a place at the altar where I have released the death grip on the things. Those precious photos…but Lord…I whimper, I whine, I wipe my tears. I look to His gentle, loving eyes. I reach out with shaking hands to Him.

” I see now, Lord. Those things I love, You gave them to me. Those things I love, You love too. You delight in my delight! You are taking care of them. And You are taking care of my bruised heart.”

A tiny little thank you escapes my lips. And then a resounding THANK YOU!!! is hurled at the sky. And then I am singing….

I overflow with thanksgiving and am released from chains that have held my feet and hands for so long. The shackles fall from my wrists and my feet run free. The road before me is wide open. No longer is my world spinning. No longer is it lack that governs my thoughts but the profound riches of my Father in heaven who lavishes His gifts on me. ME!!!!

Yes, we’ve been created to explore, to enlarge, to grow, to expand, to multiply all that we’ve been given! How crazy is that!!? He gave us the stuff and then we multiply it! We are the rich ones; rich indeed; And there is always enough.

season of fire

Writing the stories and lessons I’ve learned at the potter’s house, I’ve tried to write in chronological order, but this lesson is so pressing that I am compelled to record it now. It is literally seared on my heart.

 I started working in the ceramics and sculpture studio while I was in nursing school. It wasn’t the first of my lessons but the time there certainly fueled my new faith and compelled me to dig deeper into the Word and get to know the man, Jesus.

I grew up in a Catholic home, steeped in faith and love. I attended church every Sunday and Holy day and took catechism classes weekly. I received my first holy communion and was confirmed. I loved God passionately and desired to follow Him always. Time moved forward and as most teenagers do, I questioned everything in my world, including my church, my faith, and my family. When a friend introduced me to the person of Jesus, it was as if I had never known Him at all. Perhaps it was my adult brain engaging with Him, perhaps it was a perspective shift. I cannot explain it except to say that I suddenly encountered a real person whom I wanted desperately to know more about.  I embraced Him with all that I had in me.

This time in the studio up to my arms in wet clay I learned about His love and His provision; about His penchant for beauty and how he uses mistakes and detours for His glory and our good. I engaged with other creatives and learned to appreciate others’ faith. My life as an artist was quite different from what I pictured my life was going to be. I was working as an artist while pursuing a career in medicine.

My mom was also an artist at heart but she kept her gifts a secret; or at least it appeared so to me. I never knew about them. A few years ago I discovered a painting she had done as a teen that was behind another picture that hung in my room for years. Recently, I unearthed some poems and writing she had done. I had no idea about these things. She never encouraged me…that I remember. I only recall a critical judgement of my work. I recall as I was choosing my life path that I heard from her, loud and clear, that I could not make a living as an artist and choosing a career where money was to be made was paramount. She never said a word that indicated an interest in creativity. When I think about this now, I find that odd. However, it was my mom that had a building brought onto the property to house a ceramics studio. She called it a Mud Hut. She bought a used potter’s wheel and a kiln and set up shop. This occurred during my adult years and I missed this whole chapter in my mama’s life.

Fast forward, forty years…

It was while I was cleaning up the Hut this year that I discovered a whole treasure trove of things she had made. Beautiful, artistic creations fashioned with skill and gifting.  I was in awe of my mother. It delighted me that I could share this joy with her.

It wasn’t but a short couple months later that my mother completely turned into a different person. One moment cheerful and talkative, the next spiteful, accusing and suspicious. This transformation has been tortuous for me. I had just ‘found’ my mom and she had disappeared again.

I have walked through the fire of persecution. I have felt the flames of scorn. I have gotten burned in this season of my life more than I ever thought possible.

In my grief and pain, I see the Hand of the Potter. He’s molding and shaping and guiding and soothing. He pours out so much love on me at just the right moments. This struggle with emotions and circumstances out of my control surely is purifying me. Isn’t it Lord?

In the fires of the kiln, beautiful colors are coming forth on my surface. Strength and resiliency are being burnt into the fibers of my being. Surely I will become that artist that I have always wanted to be. Surely I will see victory in the land of the living.

My hope is that I will be a vessel unto honor; that I would reflect His glory. The glory of the Potter.

Though this heat is as a funeral fire, let it bring forth new breath and may my mother’s last days be spent in peace and joy even in the midst of terrible loss. Let the creative in my mother burst forth in a prism of color and life! And may this legacy live on from generation to generation.

“In the same way that gold and silver are refined by fire, the Lord purifies your heart by the tests and trials of life.” -Proverbs 17:3 TPT

The Arrows

“….you will not be afraid of the terror by night or the arrow that flies by day…” Psalm 91:1-13

Arrows flying…at me… and I hear it clearly…”Go down to the Potter’s House.”

O Master Potter! What dismay! What sorrow! What verses of lament come up out of me! These mother wounds, so unexpected, so hurtful, have me falling down; face on the ground, hands lifted high to God for help!

Have you, who have walked this road before me, some secret to guard your heart?

My mind tumbles about through dark corridors trying to find a hand-hold or even a firm place to put my foot.

I am a mother. I am a grandmother. But I was a daughter first and this is at the root of who I am. I struggle to comprehend this place. I look through lenses that are rose-colored with gilt frames, yet it does me no good in this foreign land of continual assault by one that I trust and love. The battering of my soul has left me numb and empty-headed.

Perhaps this is the place where God can magnify Himself; a place where His sweet Presence can flow and increase. Perchance, I am being built rather than being torn apart. Maybe I can be bent down to the ground in this great storm and yet be lifted high as I crouch low.

My eyes and ears cannot perceive this now, but my spirit says, “Yes, Lord. Purify me. It hurts, but I want the Best of You. I want Your ways more than I want my own.”

I am lost at my desk before a white canvas. I am sitting still before an empty wheel.

No beauty comes forth today when I am just thinking about going down to the Potter’s House. I have to put feet to this thought. I must get up out of my tears and GO. I must humbly lay before Him with what I have, so very little right now. This is all I have, Lord. It’s not much.

“Oh but daughter, it is an enormous amount. And it is enough.”

“We’ve only seven loaves of bread and a few small fish.” Jesus told them to sit down. He took the loaves and the fish and GAVE THANKS and gave them to the disciples and in turn to the people. The crowd of 4000 ate and were satisfied. Afterwards they gathered up seven baskets of leftovers.” -Matthew 15:32

Multiply this little that I have…And may the basket be overflowing…

Broken Vase

She was meant for great things he said. She was beautiful she said.

She was amazing they said.

 She defied the odds, her Mama said to the kindergarten teacher who spoke the unkind pronouncement that ‘she would never amount to anything’.

Handed her diploma, a high school graduate with honors all four years, her Mama declared that kindergarten teacher’s pronouncement an untruth.

On her way…She marched wherever she wanted. She painted, she danced, she sang, she learned. She declared things. She defended the downtrodden. She took up armor against the unfair. She touched the sick. She held the brokenhearted. She didn’t really hear the declarations because she was just dancing on and doing what she thought was best.

Until Him.

The Potter.

In the studio she listened to His kind Word and tried to follow all that He instructed. Watching the construction of vessels for purpose beyond her understanding. The truth flowed through that place. She breathed it in every day. She immersed herself in the earthenware clay and watched as the fires of the oven hardened surfaces and brought out intricate tapestries of color. There were repeated attempts at making pots herself that collapsed or had weak places that made holes, or sculptures that exploded or melted in the kiln. Always with one eye on the Master Potter and one eye on the work before her spinning around and around.

And then.

Still marching along to the beat of her own drum, not really listening to the Potter, she heard another song and followed the music down a long path into a dark place. The dark place was deceptive. It appeared to hold light. It looked like it was so much fun and mystery. It held connection to others who looked to hold the answers and had big ideas. The Potter’s Words lingered but had grown to be faint whispers in her heart.

The result of this detour was a gentle nudge and reminder of all the consequences of broken vessels and of the Potter’s handling of these ‘mistakes’.

A vessel ruined. Not centered on the wheel and remaining under the careful, skilled Hands of the Potter, she was not useable for the original intent. In tears, in despair, in shame, in aloneness she saw that she had been broken… but for good.

The good poured out. The amazingness of the Potter picking the ‘tarnished’ pot back up and placing it back on the wheel to be restored and repurposed flowed through the girl. This revelation knowledge began to heal deep wounds and with it, an inescapable joy was born. This incredible gift of being filled with creation, with beauty, with newness was mingled with the sorrow of separation and the struggle between shame and acceptance.

Being placed back on the wheel involved a painful and forceful ‘throwing’. The squeeze of strong Hands and the pulling of fingers across her flesh, ironed out rough places and removed blemishes that would have made the vase useless. She stayed there and let the Potter have His way with her. In the process she grew into a graceful being. She was no longer marching but waltzing. This time the music was enveloping her and carrying her along the path; the path to the King’s house. She went forward carrying with her a gift.

The gift was a little boy. A gift given for the girl’s salvation. A gift so full that it wasn’t just for her. A gift that she returned to the throne of the King in Thanksgiving. Praise overflowing, tears falling, joy consuming, she bore that child to the place she knew he would always be cared for and grown in safety and peace; the place where he would walk into his purpose in the Kingdom.

The King trusted her with this amazing gift and that was even more restoration than she had ever dreamed possible.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw the Potter was there too. He was smiling from ear to ear and came forward to embrace her and the child. His work, not completed yet, had become useful and the love and delight was palpable.

Thank You Master Potter for never being ‘done’. Will You keep molding and shaping for eternity? Will you make this broken vase worthy to hold a great bouquet of flowers suitable to be placed before the Throne of the King?

Skiing Too Fast

Flying in this little plane being tossed up and down as if dodging bumps in the air we are suddenly plunging downward in my body. The feeling of being pressed into my seat but still falling out of it is so confusing. I have no command of my memories as I am reminded of going down a hill too fast. I am back on a ski slope in 1984.

My husband was a skilled skier and was delighting in showing me all that this mountain had to offer. He had skied earlier in the day on the expert runs while I took a ‘class’ on the bunny slopes. We had had a wonderful lunch and he convinced me to ride up the chair lift to see the amazing views. Breathtaking he said, I was enthralled with all things mountains and snow and was excited to see ‘up there’. The first warning for both of us should have been my mishap on the chairlift. I had never been on one and had received zero instruction. When he glided off, I had no idea I was supposed to get off with him. I hesitated just long enough to be 8 feet up in the air before I jumped off. The guys running the lift were alarmed, to say the least, as I jumped off, landing “expertly’ on my skis and then skiing of to the side. They ran over to me to confirm I was okay. I had no idea why. My embarrassed husband explained how to properly exit the lift and then showed me over to the beautiful view. I was in awe for about fifteen minutes.

After fifteen minutes of oohing and ahhing, I asked, ” Where do we go next? Like… how do we get down?” My husband looked down the hill and said, “We go that way.” “WHAT!!??”

Well…I had had four hours of skiing lessons… I could do this. I was looking at a straight down hill that looked to be going down forever. I bravely began with encouragement from husband. I slowly inched down before I realized that I was quickly gaining speed. Husband now says “Snowplow!” I was remembering all the careful instruction… Oh Yeah! Snowplow. I began to use that technique but I then quickly realized I was going way too fast for this technique to slow me down or give me ANY sense of control, so I straightened out my skis and just went for it. I was soon flying down the ‘wall’ of snow with grace and ‘skill’, certainly looking like an ‘expert’, until fear suddenly entered in and I wasn’t having fun any more; felt like I was swan diving down off the beautiful mountain, and was certain death was imminent. I decided to sit down. That slowed me down. It also produced what was probably a dramatic crash because the man I married came racing over to see if I was still alive.

I sat there for what seemed like a LONG time. At least until I had control of my breathing and my heart rate came down. I knew that I would have to stand back up and continue, so I did. Skiing a few feet and then stopping every five minutes when I got going too fast. It was a long ride down and I have NEVER forgotten it. It cemented a long held worry about falling off cliffs….

I actually did the same thing when I was about eight on roller skates. I was skating by myself in an unfamiliar neighborhood at my babysitter’s house and accidentally skated down a street going down a really ‘fun hill’. I did not know that it was a dead end. When I realized that, going at a high rate of speed, I decide I better sit down to avoid crashing into the guardrail. There was no grass lawns in sight to skate into and I had no choice; so I sat.

The damage to my shorts spoke for itself. I spent a few weeks healing some very painful scrapes. I was more embarrassed about the ripped shorts than anything.

Is this how it’s always been? Am I all about the appearance of things? I don’t want to look scared. I don’t want to appear out of control. I don’t want to let on that I’m hurt.

Sitting in the seat of this plane, diving through a storm, I am frightened, sick to my stomach and alone. An unseen Hand presses me down into the seat and wraps arms around me in comfort. I breathe deeply and relax weary muscles. I am not fighting the descent but resting. My eyes see the Glory of the Lord all around me.

I have never been alone. Not here. Not on the mountain. Not sitting on the sidewalk with bleeding skin. He has always been there.

“Fear not, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right Hand.” ~Isaiah 41:10

Seeing Through the Wounds

Not long ago, and actually, several times throughout my life I was deeply wounded by someone very close to me. The wounds were such that I had to withdraw and hide out for a time. I could hardly control my anger when I would think about her. The hurt feelings would come bubbling up right out of nowhere, my heart racing, the tears on the edge of falling and I had to recount the offense again, surprised that anyone could be so cruel and hurtful to someone they cared for.

Surprise! Why was I surprised? I think that was part of why I got so mad! This wounding was not new. It was a repeated offense that I had endured before, yet forgiven, and apparently forgotten, here it came again to do its damage on my heart.

After the confrontation with my person, I, the wounded one, fall to my knees before the Lord, asking for forgiveness for my loss of temper, my anger toward ‘her’, my inability to forgive, and my need to run away and not be near the horrible mean-ness; like something is wrong with ME!!!! There is agony in wrestling with these feelings when I seek to please, placate and be perfect in every area of my life.

but…grace.

Grace is undeserved favor.

Grace comes in and heals. Grace makes a way. Grace gives new eyes.

I return, with a nervous anticipation of dealing with the hurt once again; with anxiety that I might lose my temper and defend myself from attack. I see only the flaws and the negativity. I cannot even remember why I loved her. She is full of hate and vicious, gossipy talk. I can only stand to be near her for a few moments before I have to leave again.

but grace…

Today I saw the work she had painstakingly done in her garden. The weeds that she dug at the expense of her ailing back. I looked at the rows of peas growing in the midst of Louisiana grass. Somehow, she managed to plant those between rainstorms and morning and afternoon naps. I noticed these things and admired her strength. It was then that I realized the power of grace. Though I was deeply wounded, though an apology never came, though it will probably happen again, though I will be taken by surprise AGAIN, lose my temper and run away, though all of this is reality, I know that I love her and will forgive her once again.

Because now, I see.

“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” – Colossians 3:13

Loving in the Hard Things

The deeply wounded make for very loud children. They clamor about, loudly proclaiming their offenses; flinging their hurt at whitewashed walls and thrashing their arms and legs in the river torrent. White foam overcomes them and wounds are torn open, spilling out the foul and decaying leftovers from years and years of hidden pain. They take up the cause of others who have endured perceived injustice, lashing out at any and every potential threat.

I have friends who are those ‘loud kids’. Their complaints are written on their faces and in their veiled eyes. I have been that soul who has prodded and poked at those sores. I have touched them in their fury. Whether from curiosity or empathy, I have felt compelled to reach out and investigate. It has resulted in times of understanding and love as well as giant warfare and some irreparable division.

I have had to step back in this season, to preserve my heart and mind and to protect myself from their unintended wounding. My prodding was innocent ‘in my head’ but in their broken state it was NOT helpful but hurtful. How foolish of me to think I could ‘fix’ them or ‘set them straight’!!

The lesson has been for me. I must keep on loving in spite of my missteps. I must come alongside them in their struggle and continue to point to the One who CAN heal and fix; The One who will always be there no matter how loud or prickly they are. Keeping my mouth quiet and my heart and mind focused on Jesus grows a peaceful presence and open arms. ~ Betsy

“It is the kindness of the Lord that leads to repentance.”~ Romans 2:3-4

“As Iron sharpens iron, so a friend sharpens a friend…”

Proverbs 27:17 NLT