betsyblog.net

Walking in our neighbor’s house through an unlocked back door to help myself to the dolls of my older friend who was away at school…my stomach churned with this forbidden act…yet I continued until I was safely in the side yard of this neighbor’s home, playing happily with stolen dolls.

It felt like only minutes that I enjoyed this guilty pleasure as my friend and her mother arrived home to discover me hidden and quickly took the dolls away and hauled me to my mother to report the crime. The real horror, as I recall, was having to apologize to my friend (humiliated) and never again being allowed to play with the coveted dolls in my friend’s house.

I was four.

It was a beginning taste of what bad behavior could do and an experience disappointing someone that I looked up to and valued.

That adrenaline churning, accelerated heart rate, escalated breathing and butterflies in the stomach…all doing something you are not supposed to do and liking it. I may not have liked displeasing people but it did not stop me from lying, stealing, sneaking into places, snooping in other people’s stuff, being nosy about conversations, touching things I should not touch, going places I should not go and getting others into trouble (my little brother).

Then there were the stories I told. Long, elaborate tales that I believed to be true but were fictional accounts of escapades where I was the heroine. My kindergarten teacher did NOT like that.

How can one so small be so willful and fearless, you ask? No idea. I had no boundaries. Maybe the rules didn’t apply to me? Maybe I was outright defiant of authority? These were the list of my childhood offenses. My radiant and innocent smile and pleadings of ignorance often got me out of the consequences for my actions but the truth remains…I was a precocious and naughty kid.

On the other end of the time continuum, I realize the errors of said childish ways. Certainly confession before stern priests and nuns and fear of hell should have been enough to challenge my sinfulness. It was the disappointing looks of parents and teachers and friends that actually and finally had a transformative effect. This is where I learned that performance and acceptance were tightly wound together.

This is where I learned that I was loved if… I performed well.

Long after I learned to honor authority, obey rules and cherish honesty and faithfulness, I am still struggling with performance-based love and acceptance.

It is only in the perfect execution of all things I put my hand to that I feel good about myself. Praise and thanksgiving from others is nice, but it is the voice in my head that speaks loudest. It doesn’t matter how many times my loved ones tell me truths about myself, I never fully believe them to be true. I think I know better. I will never be smart enough, pretty enough, skinny enough, tall enough, talented enough, fast enough. And Lord have mercy, if someone criticizes my job; a complete meltdown of my identity seems to occur.

How does one take a lie and swallow it hook, line and sinker their entire life? Idolatry? Thinking I know better than anyone else? Even better than God, my maker?

"But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? Shall what is formed say to Him who formed it, " Why have you made me like this?" - Romans 9:20

The lie of never being good enough is embedded deep within me and despite the truth that is constantly before me in the bible, it is a wrestling match between lie and truth.

True revelation for me takes place daily as I receive God’s unconditional love. He reminds me in my self talk that He loves me just the way He made me. He declares who I am in His Word. He speaks to me through the loving kindnesses of friends and family and strangers. He constantly fills me with grace and forgiveness for myself as I struggle to love Me in the face of glaring imperfection.

Fullness and freedom are the result of really believing and receiving that I am loved, accepted, believed, honored, bled and died for, sealed and delivered!

For me…it is a daily, moment by moment capturing of my thoughts, consecrating my actions and walking in truth with my Jesus who sees me as I am and loves me anyway. My being loved is NOT based on my performance.

So there!

“…dressed as a harlot and cunning of heart…boisterous, rebellious, her feet do not remain at home…she seizes, she kisses…’I have come out to meet YOU’ she says, ‘ to seek your presence earnestly…”-proverbs 7:10-11,15

this is my familiar friend. her name is worry. her name is fear…her name is control…her name is my weakness…she comes deceptively when I am worried or preoccupied with something that will not let me loose. she comes when I won’t let go of control over something that is not even my business or mine to manage; this boisterous friend who loudly proclaims the benefits of friendship with her… and yet…

"as an ox goes to the slaughter...the arrow pierces my liver..." -Proverbs 7:22,23 


I am a bird in a snare and the choice of her friendship leads to my death...it costs me my life...

This proverb, seemingly about someone else, about a young man taken by lust, is in actuality about me. I am that naive young man, deceived and captured by the ways of the 'harlot'.
How tempting it is to take on that which is not mine to carry. I don't even know I have been caught in the snare until I am in the sight of the arrow; until I am crushed to despair. As I am being led down the path to her house, with the colored linens and the rich fragrance of myrrh, aloe and cinnamon, I have stars in my eyes and dreams of ease and love.

It is in the embrace of the worry and fear that I suddenly realize I am doomed to a sentence of death. My soul wilts and I crumble into a heap of tears and repentance.
Oh WHY!? Can I not trust that God will indeed care for my cares? Why must I try to steer the storms and orchestrate the waves?!

A great thorn in the flesh is this need to be in control. I guess I am not too different from my 'mother' Eve of the Garden. I want to know EVERYTHING, every detail, every plan, every step of the way!

But...
The simplest of armor is at my disposal.

Praise and thanksgiving.
These two gracious friends stand faithfully at my doorstep. They are not flamboyant but they are beautiful with the softest touch and the gentlest embrace. They touch my hand and I am filled with peace. No longer does my mind spin with plans and solutions. No more do I lose sleep and walk around and around a problem.

I am simply invited to dance and to glide along over a meadow of green grass;  to lift my arms upward to the clear sky; to raise my voice in songs of joy.

Gone is the threat of the trap; released, I am, from chains; and the pallor of the grave has been exchanged for the Light of my Lord's capable Presence.

Worry and fear have no place here with me.
Farewell my deceptive friends. You cannot come near my house again. You cannot even come in my yard!

My windows are lit by the Living God. My doors are barricaded with thanksgiving. My bed is made with praise.

Thank You Proverbs Seven;)

Sleep thick over my eyes. Feeling immovable. Curl up, stay still, never get up again. Heaviness upon me. Heavy heart within.

I am rarely in this place. I wake with plans every day. My mind is rolling before my feet touch the floor. I must force myself to sit still with tea and bible in hand BEFORE I enact said plans. Often, I am distracted by those plans, as I dwell in the Presence of The Almighty. I have to purpose to listen to what He would say for the day, preferring His plans over my own. Typically His Love overshadows and consumes me. My thoughts, while not His, receive His blessing and he says GO, do those things, enjoy, be blessed and be a blessing!

But this morning…there are none of those plans. The ‘should do’s’ wander fleetingly across my mind but are not even entertained. I stay, uncommitted, in my seat, trying to wake up and feeling the press of concrete blocks on my shoulders, the weight of a thousand pounds upon my head…and I do not move, or think, or dream.

My little red devotional book lies before me, so I read.

God Calling-1945

“Never doubt. Have no fear. Watch the faintest tremor of fear, and stop all work, everything and rest before Me until you are joyful and strong again.Deal in the same way with all tired feelings….Times of withdrawal for rest always precede fresh miracle-working. Learn of Me…When Paul said,” I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” he did not mean that he was to do ALL things and then rely on Me to find strength. He meant that for all I told him to do he could rely on My supplying the strength.”

Somehow, these words were a balm on my busy little self. I could give myself permission to stop and rest. It wasn’t someone else telling me to stop and rest and listen. It was me, recognizing that God provided rest and I could CHOOSE to take it.

He’s probably smiling at me once again and nodding His Head, saying…’Finally…”

"The Lord is my strength and my song; He has given me victory." -Exodus 15:2

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will uphold you with My righteous right Hand!" -Isaiah 41:10

Addendum: I wrote this a few weeks ago. I chose the title today. Since the writing, I have had many conversations with my husband about these weights that I carry around. The ones that eventually just sideline me when I can't go any more. I queried him whether he put off doing 'fun stuff' until all the 'have to' stuff is done.
He said, "Oh yeah. That's called 'burdening'. "
(Like, is that a real thing?)
But, the light bulb went on...
I am carrying burdens I was not meant to carry...'Burdening' me down...

Thanks Dan. You brought clarity to my cement blocks...

I am gonna go do some 'fun stuff'!

My first grandchild, Lucy Elizabeth, was born in 2006.

The unbelievable joy! The indescribable pride! The absolute delight and thrill that this birth brought to me was more than words can cover. This child was more beautiful than any I had seen before and her presence was embedded in my heart. What is it about a grandchild that has that power?

Is it the ‘continuance of us assured’ that is the thrill? Is it the attachment to their parents? Is it that they actually ARE ‘all that’?

As I gazed on her angelic countenance, I felt ‘visited by God’. I knew that God was saying things to me and they were good.

All of this, for me, does not even address the amazingness of this next part of the story.

My father, father of one daughter, had just had his first great-grandchild when Lucy was born. I, of course, called my parents to let them know when she had arrived. I am certain that my voice overflowed with the sweet refrain that bordered on worship as I told them about her.

It wasn’t long before my dad had decided that he was coming out to see his first great-grandchild. He was seventy-seven years old. I can’t remember if he had been diagnosed at this time with Alzheimer’s, but I knew that to travel by himself to California from Louisiana was a major feat. My mom would not come with him and she wouldn’t let him drive alone, so he decided to come by bus.

I was so happy to have him come to visit; even happier was I to share my granddaughter with him.

He arrived on my doorstep after a long journey. He was weary but excited to go and meet Lucy and to congratulate Jesse, his grand daughter, her mama.

That moment that he sat in the rocking chair in Jesse’s house and held little Lucy was powerful and precious. He sat for a long time and rocked her, He sang to her and whispered into her ears. He gazed into her eyes and spoke blessing and life to her. I am certain whatever he said, she remembers.

The California visit was not long. I believe he was at our house no more than a week. I drove him down to the bus station downtown and helped him with his too heavy suitcase. I watched as he stumbled and couldn’t hear and didn’t understand the directions of the grumpy bus people. I worried myself silly as I waited to be sure he was okay, realizing I had to let him go on his own terms as he had wanted.

That was sixteen years ago.

Today, as I was going through papers in my parents’ house, I found an essay he had written about his travel to California on ‘a pilgrimage’.

I had no idea of anything.

He had been fasting. He had taken no nourishment on his journey, drunk very little water, and had been praying the whole way for the people around him, for his country, for the governmental authorities, for the church, for the land, for his family. I knew that he had eaten only lightly at my house and would not eat the steak at the restaurant when he took us out for a celebration.

His essay described the people he met, the needs he saw, the depths of what he felt as he met his great-granddaughter and saw his ‘little’ granddaughter as a mother.

The tears fall freely as I read his words.

What this journey represented to me was an undying and faithful love and devotion that my father had for his family. His willingness to travel alone, sixteen hundred miles, in a state of probable confusion and inability, without eating, to meet his first great-grand child and bless his granddaughter and daughter with love and support was a rare treasure and gift indeed! The sacrifice!

I am thanking God, my Father, for the example that my earthly father has set for his family. This man was bigger than life.

I have been a blessed woman to have been given such abounding love!

"As the Father has loved Me, so have I loved you. Abide in My love." -Jeremiah 31:3

"I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you." -1 Corinthians 13:7

My Potter.

I know it’s been awhile since we’ve sat together in the creative, Lord, but I feel You now. I feel Your thumb on me. You are smoothing out the wobbly sides of my vessel. You apply Your living water to my cracked and broken edges. I can feel the water spilling over me, soothing me, cooling me, cleansing me… I feel the spinning on the wheel…slowly becoming new.

Flying down the highway on my bicycle, the wind blowing me onward, You have bypassed my mind and gone straight to my spirit. Your Presence is all around me calling me to Your side, inviting me to create and conjure and invent. My spirit soars as my mind is filled with ideas…

The days in the ceramics studio in college have faded far behind me but they have left an imprint in my memory…I long for the hours spent in the creation of art. I have had doubts and questions and I have hesitated to move forward. The excuses are not valid, the lies are silenced, doubts are crushed under foot. This sweet ride in the early morning sun has filled me with hope and rest.

So much of life has been so busy and so vital. My days have been applied to service and labor and the raising of others’ dreams. I have put aside my own dreams. The visions I have had through the years shriveled on their vines. Now, when faced with time and opportunity, I am purposely filling my days with heavy labor again. This time no one is asking me for this. It is self-imposed habit. Habits are comfy and convenient but they are not always what is best for the time.

Perhaps it is the time for new habits and real rest in the midst of the work.

I am sorting through this and making tentative steps toward the studio.

I am cleaning and sorting and dreaming and planning.

Trash cans overflow with the old and the used. My eyes are overwhelmed by the beauty around me in the garden and I desire to capture it in art; to preserve the exquisite for other eyes to behold.

What is deep in me is stretching and calling to be set free. Oh Lord! Show me how this is done! What is the answer? What are You wanting from me and where is it to go?

Every stroke of paint, every line from the pencil, every word from my tongue are Yours my Lord… Use them as You desire…

"For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them." - Ephesians 2:10

It started with quiet weeping…slowly, the weeping became wailing; heart wrenching, depths of the soul sorrow spilling out all around me.

I sat still and quiet as I listened from my chair next door. I was afraid to move; afraid to disturb the woman’s pain. Silent tears rolled down my face as I was witness to this moment. Instantly a verse came to my mind.

“He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief…” -Isaiah 53:3

Jesus felt her pain. Jesus was in that room. Jesus understood.

I began to pray for this woman, whom I could not see. Peace. Comfort. Rest. Healing.

I could hear everything happening in that room. Her daughter had just died. I gathered that she had been on life support and it was time. It was three in the morning. She wailed for ten minutes when I heard a man’s voice say, “You need to stop. She’s gone.” It shocked me. I was spying on their lives and I heard those hard words. I was embarrassed for myself and angry for her. Slowly, her crying became muffled and then there was silence. The only sounds I could hear in the dark were the sounds of the heart monitor and the heavy breathing of my own daughter.

The rooms in the Pediatric ICU were separated by curtains. You could know everyone’s business easily and you could see the tragedies in every room as you walked by them.

My girl had been brought here the previous afternoon. She was in septic shock and as yet we didn’t know why. She had IV lines going in everywhere, three different antibiotics and an oxygen mask on her face with the threat of being put on the ventilator, and still her oxygen levels were not good. Every so often her levels would dip into the 80’s and the machine would beep loudly. I sat with a hand on her, praying.

In that moment when that mother had lost her daughter, I was shrouded in fear and worry and deep painful sorrow. I realized that my Lord Jesus had suffered so much as a man and again when He carried our griefs and pain to the cross. I could feel His pain in that moment the woman cried out. He was here with me too in this, and He was holding my precious daughter in His arms. And He could feel it all. The tears just fell unbidden.

I could do nothing. My nurse brain had stayed awake all night trying to sort through the data and willing the O2 Sats to stay up. There was no sleep to be had in this place. The physical ache in my chest gave way to full blown tears that I tried to keep quiet in the night of the ICU.

Over the course of the next few weeks, my daughter recovered. It was miraculous and beautiful. I finally took a breath because I’m pretty sure I was holding it for two weeks. She bounced back to her healthy self. I, however, was marked by the experience.

I will never forget that night. It comes to my recollection often as I behold the sorrows of the world. He sees and knows us and our pain.

I am convinced that there are shades of grief in our living. The experience I described above was my first face to face with death. Yes, I am a nurse. I have held many a dying hand and many a mother who has lost a child…but I don’t think that I could feel their pain like I did that night in that mother. Perhaps the very real threat of losing my own child made it all the more personal.

All that I know in all those shades that come and go, is that my precious Lord is with me in the midst. I kick and scream, and rage and vent, and weep and fall down black holes, and climb out with mud streaked tears on my dull countenance…only to find that I am still alive in the midst of bright sunshine and still breathing on those dark rainy days…

Alive to carry the Word to those in need of eternal life. Alive to bring blessing.

The grief when I lost my father nearly wrecked me for good. I had forgotten that Jesus was going through it with me. I had forgotten that my dad was dancing in heaven; that his mind and body were restored whole; and that he was with his best friend, God. All of that meant nothing in my pain. This was the blackest shade of grief that I know. There was no sight at all.

It has been TEN years since my dad passed and still the sorrow sneaks up on me and chokes me.

I had learned not to cry when I was hurt. I am not afraid to cry any more. It seems a daily occurrence these days. Tears come. Tears fall. This is like a kaleidoscope. Some days are grey. Some days are colorful tapestries of beautiful memories.

We walk sometimes with eyes cast down, watching our own feet. Other times, our eyes are uplifted. We gaze into the heavenlies. We can’t understand but we know the One who does.

"You have turned for me my mourning into dancing..."-Psalm 30:11

I had a moment the other day where I had a shift. My judgmental thinking, the comfortable “this is how I view this’ vision changed. I had to pause and SEE.

I have experienced so many changes in the last year that I have had to stop and process it all. I have been frozen in time. I say ‘stop’ but the reality is that I never really stop… My mind and body just keep going and going and going. This season has been very different than my norm of busy activity. I am still busy, but my mind has slowed and I have dwelt on things and thoughts that I would only have given a fleeting glance at in the past.

I read a passage in Galatians that referred to the viewpoint of a culture of believers in the New Testament. The Jewish believers were looking down on the Gentile believers and strongly suggesting that they assume the culture of the Jewish people with their salvation. This teaching, while concerned with Law versus Grace, was speaking to me personally about my perspective.

I was judging, with upturned nose, my neighbors with the messy yard, when I myself, was given SO MUCH LOVE and GRACE and FORGIVENESS. Jesus did not ask me to clean up my messy yard when I came to Him. He simply said, ‘COME.” And here I was, judging them on the external observation without ever knowing them or their hearts.

But then…this gets bigger… The thought extended to how I was thinking about those closest to me.

I was looking with critical eye on these that I love.. Simple things really, “ugh! the clothes on the floor again…’ ‘ewww. this house stinks.”

These thoughts wander harmlessly into my mind and I am polluted by them. One thought leads to another and pretty soon I am grouchy and mumbling about every little thing.

I was digging in the garden yesterday as I was mulling over this idea. The idea that my thinking wasn’t much different than the uppity people of the Galatian church. The rich damp dirt on my hands smelled so sweet; its earthy aroma intoxicating. I suddenly realized that my mom’s house, that I have always thought ‘stunk’, like mildew or something unpleasant, smells of this earth.

My heart melted. Her house has always smelled like this. The very thing that she has loved her whole life, the very thing that I myself love like crazy, the dirt!

I could not allow the feelings of disdain or disgust to live any longer in my head over that house and my opinion of it!

How many other things have I judged inaccurately? Where do I need a shift in perspective? I am asking my Lord for eyes to see clearly. I want to be able to see, really SEE, how He sees things and people around me.

Oh, Lord! Pour out Your power and Your grace upon my thinking that I might overflow with this upon everyone around me!!

"For you are all sons of God through faith in Jesus Christ."-Galatians 3:26