I got to ride in a convertible the other day. It was a warm sunny day, and a chipper church friend and neighbor spontaneously called up to ask if anybody in our household wanted to go to Kimball Farms for ice cream. When I found out that we'd get to ride in her convertible, I didn't have to think very hard. I probably would have said yes even if there had been no ice cream on the other end! But having ice cream was definitely extra gravy. (Ha ha! The power of words--you're probably inwardly cringing right now at the ice cream and gravy juxtaposition? Hmm, well, I did it on purpose:)
I've decided that the Gospel is like a convertible Mustang.
No, we weren't riding in a Mustang. In fact, I'm blithely terrible with car names and I don't remember or really care what kind of car we actually were riding in . . . the only point in caring is so I can tell people what it was, but since most girls don't care a lot and most guys aren't shocked that you don't know (unless their names are Stephen or Daniel), then I don't mind being blissfully ignorant.
Anyway, as I thought back over the sweet savor of the wind on my skin as we glided around curves and basked in the sunshine, I decided that the Gospel is like a convertible Mustang. It is a free gift and virtually a free ride to heaven. It is perfect just as it is, no matter whether you're driving to get ice cream in heaven or not, and to add to or take away from the simplicity of it would mar its beauty. You still have free will, but since the deal comes with making God your Driver then you know there's only one glorious destination (ice cream!) as long as you let Him stay there.
Yes, it might not always be easy once you've accepted this free ride (please don't think I'm speaking of prosperity gospel here!). Bugs may hit the windshield, or cold wind might whip you about, but you're still in the Mustang. The Gospel isn't any less desirable even after an apparent "beating." It's still complete and whole and wonderful, and it's still classy as long as you choose to see it that way. Passengers may vary, but the Gospel never does.
Neither does the Driver.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
My Strength
Psalms 59:9a "O my Strength, I will watch for You."
I was just stopping to think about what it means to call God my strength. It means He's inside of me, or even ingrained into the grit of my being. He's the blood in my veins, the breath in my lungs, the marrow in my bones, the fiber of my muscle. He is the force that makes it so that I can even function. It means that I can't move or even live without Him. We usually don't think about our health or our strength until we realize we don't have enough. Do we realize this? Do we watch for our Strength? I want to live my life with a continual awareness that "I need Thee every hour." Only then do we truly have Him. Yes, we may have had Him before, but God doesn't like to force Himself on people, or He would have made us into virtual robots. But when God becomes a necessity rather than a vague desire, then He will manifest Himself to us.
"When you want God as much as you want air, you'll find Him." --my dad
I was just stopping to think about what it means to call God my strength. It means He's inside of me, or even ingrained into the grit of my being. He's the blood in my veins, the breath in my lungs, the marrow in my bones, the fiber of my muscle. He is the force that makes it so that I can even function. It means that I can't move or even live without Him. We usually don't think about our health or our strength until we realize we don't have enough. Do we realize this? Do we watch for our Strength? I want to live my life with a continual awareness that "I need Thee every hour." Only then do we truly have Him. Yes, we may have had Him before, but God doesn't like to force Himself on people, or He would have made us into virtual robots. But when God becomes a necessity rather than a vague desire, then He will manifest Himself to us.
"When you want God as much as you want air, you'll find Him." --my dad
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A psalm of imprecation
A Psalm of Kayla
4
Oh God,
Snatch the helpless from the jaws of the enemy!
Apathy is a cunning spider,
She spins a web of carelessness,
A large-encompassing snare,
She numbs her prey with pleasure,
She stealthily binds
With sinewy strands of doubt.
Her victims are lulled
And are slaves to her hunger
Before they know she exists.
Deliver them, oh God!
Rouse them to their danger!
Slice their bonds!
Cause Apathy and her prey to see
Your glory.
The rescued will worship,
Apathy will cower,
She will shrink to
Nothing
In Your presence.
Stamp her out
So that all that remains
Is a mangled corpse
And a loathsome pool of purple.
Then let Your hand of grace
Raise those who are now
Free
To Yourself
Ignite
Your passion,
Let it be a beacon to a murky world,
And all peoples will stand
In awe
At Your salvation.
4
Oh God,
Snatch the helpless from the jaws of the enemy!
Apathy is a cunning spider,
She spins a web of carelessness,
A large-encompassing snare,
She numbs her prey with pleasure,
She stealthily binds
With sinewy strands of doubt.
Her victims are lulled
And are slaves to her hunger
Before they know she exists.
Deliver them, oh God!
Rouse them to their danger!
Slice their bonds!
Cause Apathy and her prey to see
Your glory.
The rescued will worship,
Apathy will cower,
She will shrink to
Nothing
In Your presence.
Stamp her out
So that all that remains
Is a mangled corpse
And a loathsome pool of purple.
Then let Your hand of grace
Raise those who are now
Free
To Yourself
Ignite
Your passion,
Let it be a beacon to a murky world,
And all peoples will stand
In awe
At Your salvation.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A psalm of praise
A Psalm of Kayla
3
Praise the Lord!
When defenseless,
God was my champion,
When feeble,
He was my strength.
Praise the Lord!
When my blood ran thin,
His blood flooded my veins,
When my bones cracked,
The Almighty became my marrow.
Praise the Lord!
I wrestled with my enemies upon my bed,
They gnawed,
They sneered,
Your whisper enveloped me
Like an embracing fleece,
Your Name fortified me
Like an unshaken citadel.
Praise the Lord!
His compassion is a fountain,
Joyfully abiding;
His power is a tsunami,
Sweeping and unstoppable;
His faithfulness is a quiet stream,
Steady and ever present.
Praise the Lord!
For He has bequeathed His victory to me,
He has never suffered defeat
And never will.
3
Praise the Lord!
When defenseless,
God was my champion,
When feeble,
He was my strength.
Praise the Lord!
When my blood ran thin,
His blood flooded my veins,
When my bones cracked,
The Almighty became my marrow.
Praise the Lord!
I wrestled with my enemies upon my bed,
They gnawed,
They sneered,
Your whisper enveloped me
Like an embracing fleece,
Your Name fortified me
Like an unshaken citadel.
Praise the Lord!
His compassion is a fountain,
Joyfully abiding;
His power is a tsunami,
Sweeping and unstoppable;
His faithfulness is a quiet stream,
Steady and ever present.
Praise the Lord!
For He has bequeathed His victory to me,
He has never suffered defeat
And never will.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Call Me Ishmael
This is a story I wrote while studying Genesis:
“Ouch!” I grunted. My hand sliced the air for a kill. A plump deerfly fell off my arm, dead. “Too bad that wasn’t a real animal,” I observed. “Oh what I would give for a bow and arrow right now!” But then, a bow and arrow wouldn’t shoot me a drink from the sky, and a beast with hide softer than jerky would be hard to find without a stream nearby. Too bad such things are rare commodities in a desert.
My scalp itched, and I dug at it with my fingernails, scraping out the sand that had recently made its home there. I still didn’t quite understand how I had gotten where I was, sitting in the shade of a big scraggly bush in the middle of the wilderness, my tongue almost as dry as a block of sandalwood. My mind darted back through the past several days and beyond to when I was a little boy. What had gone wrong?
I had loved my father. I guess some would call him old, but I think that old men have young hearts. When I dug up the dirt on the floor of my father’s tent to build imagined houses, he would sit down with me and show me how to construct ziggurats like the best of them. When I had nightmares and ran into his tent, he would take me outside and show me the stars. When I got frustrated with throwing stones to “hunt” game, he got me a bow and arrows and showed me how to shoot them even though he had to learn first himself. Sometimes he told stories. Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he just listened.
And he always prayed.
That pretty much sums up my first blissful thirteen years. Few ripples broke the stillness of the sweet pond of fellowship I shared with my father and everyone else in the camp. I was extremely fond of my mother Hagar, even if she was a little overbearing at times. Slender, strong, and beautiful, she spoke with an accent a little different from anyone else I knew. Her hair was jet black and her eyes dark and piercing, shooting lighting bolts to those she hated and sunbeams to those she loved. I suppose some would say she was haughty for a servant, but she always told me that if she seemed that way it was only because she was so proud of her boy and wanted to see that he got everything he deserved. For a long time I never understood what she meant.
One day when I was thirteen my father took me into his special tent to have a “man to man” talk. He sat me in front of him and gazed thoughtfully at me for awhile. When I think about it, he had been giving me a similar look for years now, only this time it seemed especially drawn out and almost . . . sad.
“I have some news to share with you, Ishmael,” he told me gravely, “joyous news.” Somehow I doubted him. “You are going to have a baby brother! As you may know, Sarah has wanted to have a child for a long time but has been unable to bear one. But nothing is too difficult for the LORD, and He is finally giving us what He promised us long ago. You will still always be my boy, but I thought you should know that some adjustments may need to be made.”
If my ears hadn’t been attached to my head I daresay they would have fallen off from the shock. Mother’s mistress was going to have a baby? Why, her hair was almost all white! I nearly laughed at the picture of her holding a newborn. I couldn’t understand the gravity in my father’s voice. This was excellent news! I was going to have a baby brother! I tried to picture what it would be like. I would show him how to make ziggurats, how to find Orion in the night sky, and how to shoot a bow and arrow. We would be best friends and do everything together.
An unnamed doubt wormed its way across my mind, but I shook it off. What thirteen-year-old needs to be worried about the arrival of a baby? I left my father’s tent with a light heart.
Three years later I left my father’s tent again, this time with my heart sinking into my sandals. My mother and I were being sent away. My father had a tear in is eye as he handed us some bread and a bulging water skin. His tear was cold and lusterless in the predawn light.
What had happened? During the past three years a shadow had repeatedly slipped its icy fingers around my heart. It groped for me when father first called me to visit Sarah and the baby. I saw the red gleam flash in Sarah’s eye as she caught sight of me. She greedily clutched closer to her the wrinkly bundle that was baby Isaac. After that day, the shadow probed and prodded me every time she turned me away from seeing Isaac until I finally gave up trying. It burrowed as I watched servants ignore my broken wrist for a child’s stubbed toe, and as my pet donkey disappeared for “the promised son’s use.” It stung every time my mother cried herself to sleep when she didn’t think I knew. What inflicted the most pain however was that my father seemed to have forgotten me.
I remember one night when I hadn’t been able to sleep I decided to go have a talk with my father. Maybe we would get a chance to gaze at the stars together. As I approached his tent, I spotted him with Isaac in his arms. I ducked behind a bush.
“You see all those stars?” he was saying to the gurgling little boy. “You’re going to have as many descendants as there are stars up there.”
I couldn’t remember him saying anything like that to me. I returned to my tent, purposing never to trouble my father again. The shadow was at home inside of me now, and my heart was heavy under a crushing weight.
Then the celebration day arrived. My little brother was now three, and my father decided to hold a big feast for him. Much fuss was made over Isaac, and I was awed by the magnitude of the festivities–my father had never done anything so elaborate for me. I guess I was a little jealous. All right, very jealous. The pent up frustrations of three years were loaded under a mountain of stones on my heart. And that night the stones split to reveal a volcano.
I don’t remember exactly what I said or did, only that it was stupid. But then the whole situation seemed stupid, so I guess it’s no wonder that I laughed. Yes, I laughed. I laughed at all the servants who were going milky eyed and fawning over Isaac. I laughed at the big commotion made over a toddler who didn’t even know what was going on. And I laughed at Isaac, “the chosen one.”
We left the next morning.
And now I sat under a bush, the final glimpse of my father’s sagging shoulders as we left burning in my memory. My mother had tried to bear it well. She had grasped the water skin tightly as we set out, her back straight and her head held high. Only I saw the tremble in her lip and the glistening of her eyes.
We started off toward Egypt, my mother’s homeland, but we took a wrong shortcut and ended up wandering in the wilderness for five days. The bread and water gone, my mother told me to sit in the shade of a bush as she went off somewhere. She claimed she was going to look for water, but I’m pretty sure she left me just so she could go cry without my seeing her.
I sighed and gingerly tried lying down on the rocky ground in what little shade the scraggly bush could offer. The sun was scorching and my temples throbbed. It seemed as though every throb served as a reminder of something I had lost. Throb: I had no food or water. Throb: I had no home. Throb: I had no inheritance. Throb: I had no mother here with me. Throb: I seemed to no longer have a father.
I knew now that I was wrong to mock my brother the way I did—he couldn’t help it if everyone saw him as a gift from God. Maybe I hadn’t been fairly dealt with, but it wasn’t really my brother or my father’s fault. Life isn’t always fair. My father of all people had discovered that, and yet he had never complained. He had set out from his home having no idea exactly where he was going. God hadn’t given him a map, only a compass. And that compass was God Himself.
And here I was, having left my home and having no idea where I was going, or if I’d even live out the day. Did I have a compass? My mind tossed about fruitlessly for some natural ability that I might have to help me out, but I came up with nothing. The only thing I had was the unconditional love of my father (somehow I knew he still loved me despite everything). Was that enough?
“God,” I prayed. “I know I haven’t really prayed much to you before this. I’m sorry about that. I know after everything that’s happened I don’t deserve to have you listen to me, but I thought I’d try anyway. I’m thirsty, God. I’m thirsty for water but even more than that I’m thirsty for the same kind of purpose and direction that my father had. He’s gone through tough times too but all along he’s had you to hold his hand.” I paused, afraid to continue. “Would you hold my hand, God? I realize that’s a lot to ask and I can’t think of any good reason why you would, but you love my father—maybe, just maybe, you could love me too if only for that reason.” Oh, what am I thinking? I grabbed a rock and hurled it, trying fiercely not to cry. God is too busy to hear my voice of all people! I’m just a youth, the son of a servant, and a worthless maggot. Why even bother to pray at all?
With that, I slumped into timeless existence, drifting off into feverish unconsciousness.
“Ishmael,” a voice echoed. “Ishmael!” A hand shook me until my mother’s face came into focus. For the first time in months, she was smiling. Next thing I knew, cool water trickled through my cracked lips. It could have been the ambrosia of angels.
Gradually I realized I was lying in my mother’s lap, beams of joy shooting from her face. “God has heard your voice, my son,” she said. “It is with good reason that you are called Ishmael. Come, let’s go from here. I found a well, and we now have plenty of water to travel.” She eased me to a sitting position before springing to her feet. She held out her hand. I suppose young men my age usually don’t take hold of their mothers’ hands, but I didn’t care. It was more than a hand I saw stretching out to me. It was a promise of hope. I grasped it firmly as I rose to my feet. The hand felt bigger and stronger than my mother’s, and I checked to be sure that it was really hers. More life pulsated in my grasp than any my mother could possibly possess. Then I remembered my prayer. And I remembered that I’m called Ishmael. God hears.
Breathing
A Psalm of Kayla
2
There is emptiness before and behind,
Nothing above or below,
A vacuum inside.
You, my God, are what I yearn for
Intensely,
I crave Your presence
Increasingly,
You breathed life into me,
Your breath is my life,
I will climb the mountain
To where You are
So I can breathe again.
Selah
You were here yesterday,
Where are You now?
Weariness smothers,
Walls close in,
Feelings fail,
Self-confidence crumbles,
And yet I stretch every feeble fiber toward You.
I had God yesterday,
He didn't change,
I did.
I fix my sightless eyes on Him,
I know He is faithful,
My reach can span this chasm
But His can.
I will breathe again.
2
There is emptiness before and behind,
Nothing above or below,
A vacuum inside.
You, my God, are what I yearn for
Intensely,
I crave Your presence
Increasingly,
You breathed life into me,
Your breath is my life,
I will climb the mountain
To where You are
So I can breathe again.
Selah
You were here yesterday,
Where are You now?
Weariness smothers,
Walls close in,
Feelings fail,
Self-confidence crumbles,
And yet I stretch every feeble fiber toward You.
I had God yesterday,
He didn't change,
I did.
I fix my sightless eyes on Him,
I know He is faithful,
My reach can span this chasm
But His can.
I will breathe again.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Psalms revealed
This past year in Bible school we were taught how to write psalms. Of course, almost all of us were too bashful to read our psalms aloud in class (except Daniel; he boldly read his to us, including his glorious yet extremely comical "Psalm of Imprecation"). I read one of my psalms aloud, and I posted one on our student web site, but it felt too personal and too forward to share any more.
New blog title, new blog rules! :) No point in hiding stuff under bushels, and besides, since it is my blog it doesn't really matter (blogs by their very nature are personal and forward!:). And, just like any testimony, a little extra dose of proclaimed faith never hurt anybody.
New blog title, new blog rules! :) No point in hiding stuff under bushels, and besides, since it is my blog it doesn't really matter (blogs by their very nature are personal and forward!:). And, just like any testimony, a little extra dose of proclaimed faith never hurt anybody.
A Psalm of Kayla
1
Oh God,
My God,
Can you see?
I wallow in despair,
My bones creak beneath crushing weight,
My friends accuse like enemies,
Their sword plumbs the depths of my soul,
A hidden fount springs to my eyes,
Is this Your voice?
I recoil,
I drive back in vain,
I squirm in self-pity,
Then cease.
Eyes not my own behold me:
My sin leers at a sightless face,
Scales tear and plummet,
I am desperate for You, O God!
You alone can extract my sin,
Ashamed, I hide my face,
Sin's visage is ugly,
I cringe,
I mourn,
Then I release my sin,
Hurl it far from me, oh God!
Let me never see it again.
You, and You only, do I seek,
For You my spirit gropes,
You are not far off.
The weight dissolves,
Soaring upward, I latch onto You,
I need nothing else
For You are my all,
I'll pursue You recklessly
Because You are truly
My God.
1
Oh God,
My God,
Can you see?
I wallow in despair,
My bones creak beneath crushing weight,
My friends accuse like enemies,
Their sword plumbs the depths of my soul,
A hidden fount springs to my eyes,
Is this Your voice?
I recoil,
I drive back in vain,
I squirm in self-pity,
Then cease.
Eyes not my own behold me:
My sin leers at a sightless face,
Scales tear and plummet,
I am desperate for You, O God!
You alone can extract my sin,
Ashamed, I hide my face,
Sin's visage is ugly,
I cringe,
I mourn,
Then I release my sin,
Hurl it far from me, oh God!
Let me never see it again.
You, and You only, do I seek,
For You my spirit gropes,
You are not far off.
The weight dissolves,
Soaring upward, I latch onto You,
I need nothing else
For You are my all,
I'll pursue You recklessly
Because You are truly
My God.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The hidden Sunday school lesson
I started teaching summer Sunday school today. Remembering fond days of yore when I was kid in the summer listening to The Railroad Children, I thought it would be fun to offer to read another book to the kids who are old enough to sit still and listen. So, pulling out new markers and coloring posters, I endeavored to get my wonderful little ruffians (seven children ages 7-11) under control so I could begin reading. My choice of book is a fat children's fantasy, The Tower of Geburah, by John White. I read it once to Klara and her siblings seven years ago, and I still like to pull out choice sections to read on Sabbaths when I want to think about my walk with Jesus. Yep, you guessed it--like the Chronicles of Narnia, it's an allegory! Maybe too similar to C.S. Lewis's masterpiece to be a coincidence, but that doesn't bother me. It's long been one of my favorite books since Craig read part of it to me when I was in Sunday school, and now I want the next generation to experience the same unknown joy.
So, after ignoring a certain impudent little boy's suggestion that he use my dress as his coloring poster, I began reading. And I found that I didn't have to work hard to make them pay attention. Weaving in what voices and dramatic inflections that I could, I read for nearly an hour with very little interruption. If the kids weren't coloring or getting a new poster, they were staring at me, spellbound. And when I showed them the picture of the giant yellow snake filling the dungeon and wrapped around the king, I got some very appreciative reactions.
But half the fun besides reading aloud is knowing that the Sunday school lesson is hidden right in the story, and my little listeners don't know it yet.
I wonder if God feels the same way with us as He brings lessons to light through our story.
So, after ignoring a certain impudent little boy's suggestion that he use my dress as his coloring poster, I began reading. And I found that I didn't have to work hard to make them pay attention. Weaving in what voices and dramatic inflections that I could, I read for nearly an hour with very little interruption. If the kids weren't coloring or getting a new poster, they were staring at me, spellbound. And when I showed them the picture of the giant yellow snake filling the dungeon and wrapped around the king, I got some very appreciative reactions.
But half the fun besides reading aloud is knowing that the Sunday school lesson is hidden right in the story, and my little listeners don't know it yet.
I wonder if God feels the same way with us as He brings lessons to light through our story.
Wound and never bored
Lately I've been reading some of Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water, and I was rather struck by the following passage:
"There's a story of a small village (about the size of the village near Crosswicks) where lived an old clockmaker and repairer. When anything was wrong with any of the clocks or watches in the village, he was able to fix them, to get them working properly again. When he died, leaving no children and no apprentice, there was no one left in the village who could fix clocks. Soon various clocks and watches began to break down. Those which continued to run often lost or gained time, so they were of little use. A clock might strike midnight at three in the afternoon. So many of the villagers abandoned their time-pieces.
"One day a renowned clock-maker and repairer came through the village, and the people crowded around him and begged him to fix their broken clocks and watches. He spent many hours looking at all the faulty time pieces, and at last he announced that he could repair only those whose owners had kept them wound, because they were the only ones which would be able to remember how to keep time.
"So we must daily keep things wound: that is, we must pray when prayer seems dry as dust; we must write when we are physically tired, when our hearts are heavy, when our bodies are in pain.
"We may not always be able to make our 'clock' run correctly, but at least we can keep it wound, so that it will not forget."
And that, dear reader, is another reason why I am writing again. I may not have much to say that is worth reading, but I can share in order to encourage you and myself. Because right now for me prayer is almost as dry as dust, and maybe it's the same way for you. But that is exactly why we must keep doing it. We must keep our clocks wound, our spirits in fighting trim, our hearts inclined to the One who sees all and knows all. Sooner or later the dust will moisten into malleable clay, or settle into fertile garden soil, or turn into vigorous seedlings. Our only job is to trust and keep on keeping on.
In conjunction to that, the previous passage by Madeleine L'Engle was soon followed by another:
"Perhaps one of the saddest things we can do is waste time, as Shakespeare knew when he had Richard the Second cry out, 'I have wasted time, and now doth time waste me.'
"But being time is never wasted time . . . Canon Tallis says that his secretary does not understand that when he is thinking, he is working: she thinks he is wasting time. But thinking time is not wasted time. There are some obvious time-wasters, such as licentious living, drunkenness, adultery, all the things Paul warns us about. A more subtle time waster is being bored. Jesus was never bored. If we allow our "high creativity" to remain alive, we will never be bored. We can pray, standing in line at the super market. Or we can be lost in awe at all the people around us, their lives full of glory and tragedy, and suddenly we will have the beginnings of a painting, a story, a song."
What do I get from this? Not only was our Savior never bored, but we shouldn't be either! When all else fails, we can pray. This sounds very high and mighty of me. I am by no means a good example of this. In fact, I rarely struggle with boredom at all and it is far more challenging for me to turn my busy thoughts to the Savior who is "Closer than the tiny thoughts I have of You" (line from the song "Small" sung by J.J. Heller) than it might be for some people. I am, however, learning to think of prayer differently, and maybe you can learn with me.
If you look closely at my profile picture/drawing, you'll see two figures at the top of a hill holding hands while looking off into a sunset. This is not intended to be a common romantic pose. It's God and me, walking and talking and enjoying life together. I have so much to learn!
But I guess that's the joy of learning.
"There's a story of a small village (about the size of the village near Crosswicks) where lived an old clockmaker and repairer. When anything was wrong with any of the clocks or watches in the village, he was able to fix them, to get them working properly again. When he died, leaving no children and no apprentice, there was no one left in the village who could fix clocks. Soon various clocks and watches began to break down. Those which continued to run often lost or gained time, so they were of little use. A clock might strike midnight at three in the afternoon. So many of the villagers abandoned their time-pieces.
"One day a renowned clock-maker and repairer came through the village, and the people crowded around him and begged him to fix their broken clocks and watches. He spent many hours looking at all the faulty time pieces, and at last he announced that he could repair only those whose owners had kept them wound, because they were the only ones which would be able to remember how to keep time.
"So we must daily keep things wound: that is, we must pray when prayer seems dry as dust; we must write when we are physically tired, when our hearts are heavy, when our bodies are in pain.
"We may not always be able to make our 'clock' run correctly, but at least we can keep it wound, so that it will not forget."
And that, dear reader, is another reason why I am writing again. I may not have much to say that is worth reading, but I can share in order to encourage you and myself. Because right now for me prayer is almost as dry as dust, and maybe it's the same way for you. But that is exactly why we must keep doing it. We must keep our clocks wound, our spirits in fighting trim, our hearts inclined to the One who sees all and knows all. Sooner or later the dust will moisten into malleable clay, or settle into fertile garden soil, or turn into vigorous seedlings. Our only job is to trust and keep on keeping on.
In conjunction to that, the previous passage by Madeleine L'Engle was soon followed by another:
"Perhaps one of the saddest things we can do is waste time, as Shakespeare knew when he had Richard the Second cry out, 'I have wasted time, and now doth time waste me.'
"But being time is never wasted time . . . Canon Tallis says that his secretary does not understand that when he is thinking, he is working: she thinks he is wasting time. But thinking time is not wasted time. There are some obvious time-wasters, such as licentious living, drunkenness, adultery, all the things Paul warns us about. A more subtle time waster is being bored. Jesus was never bored. If we allow our "high creativity" to remain alive, we will never be bored. We can pray, standing in line at the super market. Or we can be lost in awe at all the people around us, their lives full of glory and tragedy, and suddenly we will have the beginnings of a painting, a story, a song."
What do I get from this? Not only was our Savior never bored, but we shouldn't be either! When all else fails, we can pray. This sounds very high and mighty of me. I am by no means a good example of this. In fact, I rarely struggle with boredom at all and it is far more challenging for me to turn my busy thoughts to the Savior who is "Closer than the tiny thoughts I have of You" (line from the song "Small" sung by J.J. Heller) than it might be for some people. I am, however, learning to think of prayer differently, and maybe you can learn with me.
If you look closely at my profile picture/drawing, you'll see two figures at the top of a hill holding hands while looking off into a sunset. This is not intended to be a common romantic pose. It's God and me, walking and talking and enjoying life together. I have so much to learn!
But I guess that's the joy of learning.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A loosed tongue
If you have been to my blog before, you might be wondering if you still have the right address. Not only is the template different, but my blog title is different. Instead of the amazing Flapping Lingua, you are now staring at "Tongue of the Mute." Well, surprise! The casual reader may suppose that I don't post very often, hence the title. That is partially true, but there is so much more than that.
I guess I could come up with a way to say it smoothly, but I'll just say it plain and straight:
I've been thinking. (Oh boy, watch out!)
I've been thinking about how Jesus commanded us to make disciples. I've been thinking about how I believe God wants me to be a writer and help proclaim Truth in a deceived world. I've been thinking about my poor, rusty writing skills. I've been thinking about how I haven't written on my blog because of a busy life and because I'm just flat out tired of writing flippant things. I've been thinking about my desperate need to cultivate my own walk with God during the summer months away from Bible school, and the need to encourage one another. I've been thinking about how I often don't like to post testimonies about my Jesus because they're personal and it almost devalues them in my mind. But I've also been thinking about how Revelation 12:11 says that they overcame the Enemy by the Blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony. And I've been thinking about my tongue, so often mute. Oh yes, I certainly can talk about precious nothings--this lingua has no problem flapping when it wants to.
But God didn't loose me or my tongue so that I could flap. He loosed me so that I could fly. And He loosed my tongue so that I could sing for joy of Him. Kingdom living isn't about waiting for Christ to return in order to free our stammering tongues, it's about singing His praises here and now, living like He is already back so that when He really is then it will be an easy transition.
If Jesus were back, I would probably be posting every day.
So why not now?
That being said, I'm not planning on writing every day. In fact, maybe I won't end up posting any more at all. But I want to mark this as the day when the purpose of my blog is changing. I may yet tell my mundane stories or write on the hilarity of life, but I want to be ready to offer up my faith in writing as a burnt offering into cyberspace. This blog is not going to be the tongue of my mind so much as it will be the tongue of my heart. I would change my address except for nostalgia reasons and because I want people I know to still be able to find me. I have no intention of advertising this change to anyone, except maybe mentioning it to my family. If nobody reads this, that's okay. Faith doesn't need to be read in order to make an impact. If one person reads something here and is edified by it, then as Emily Dickinson said, "I shall not live in vain."
And if you are ever reading a testimony and finding yourself thinking more about me than the Savior I'm attempting to point toward, then please find another blog.
Now you know partially why this blog is so altered. It's turning into an altar.
Consider yourselves forewarned . . . .
I guess I could come up with a way to say it smoothly, but I'll just say it plain and straight:
I've been thinking. (Oh boy, watch out!)
I've been thinking about how Jesus commanded us to make disciples. I've been thinking about how I believe God wants me to be a writer and help proclaim Truth in a deceived world. I've been thinking about my poor, rusty writing skills. I've been thinking about how I haven't written on my blog because of a busy life and because I'm just flat out tired of writing flippant things. I've been thinking about my desperate need to cultivate my own walk with God during the summer months away from Bible school, and the need to encourage one another. I've been thinking about how I often don't like to post testimonies about my Jesus because they're personal and it almost devalues them in my mind. But I've also been thinking about how Revelation 12:11 says that they overcame the Enemy by the Blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony. And I've been thinking about my tongue, so often mute. Oh yes, I certainly can talk about precious nothings--this lingua has no problem flapping when it wants to.
But God didn't loose me or my tongue so that I could flap. He loosed me so that I could fly. And He loosed my tongue so that I could sing for joy of Him. Kingdom living isn't about waiting for Christ to return in order to free our stammering tongues, it's about singing His praises here and now, living like He is already back so that when He really is then it will be an easy transition.
If Jesus were back, I would probably be posting every day.
So why not now?
That being said, I'm not planning on writing every day. In fact, maybe I won't end up posting any more at all. But I want to mark this as the day when the purpose of my blog is changing. I may yet tell my mundane stories or write on the hilarity of life, but I want to be ready to offer up my faith in writing as a burnt offering into cyberspace. This blog is not going to be the tongue of my mind so much as it will be the tongue of my heart. I would change my address except for nostalgia reasons and because I want people I know to still be able to find me. I have no intention of advertising this change to anyone, except maybe mentioning it to my family. If nobody reads this, that's okay. Faith doesn't need to be read in order to make an impact. If one person reads something here and is edified by it, then as Emily Dickinson said, "I shall not live in vain."
And if you are ever reading a testimony and finding yourself thinking more about me than the Savior I'm attempting to point toward, then please find another blog.
Now you know partially why this blog is so altered. It's turning into an altar.
Consider yourselves forewarned . . . .
Longing
How many of us long for the very thing we have already? I am not talking about the baser things, though I suppose it may still be true in some cases. That is, if a child or even an adult is longing for some "toy" that they obviously do not own, we must realize that it is not the toy itself that they desire but the pleasure that can be derived from it, and this could be equally received if they appreciated the toys they already own.
But truly, how many of us yearn for what we already have? Some long for travel and adventure, forgetting that all of life is a journey of unknown excitement. Some long to know their purpose in life when perhaps their purpose is to live in Christ and let God do the rest. Some long for a mission field, when maybe their mission field is within their own home or right on their doorstep. Some long for an opportunity to disciple, to write and proclaim Truth, when a blog is already at their disposal.
A teenager may long for freedom, but he forgets that because he can breathe and move without confinement, worship freely and reject sin freely, he is free indeed. A Christian man may long for victory, but he needs to remember that Jesus Christ has already won it and has given it to him on a bloodstained platter (1 Cor. 15:57, Rom. 8:37). A Christian lady may long for someone to be close, steady, and head-over-heels in love with her, but she needs to remember that Someone already is, and He went so far as to prove it by dying for her on the cross (Eph. 2:4-6). We already have all these things, but we don't fully receive them until we realize it and accept them. And then the God who is able to do exceedingly abundantly beyond all that we ask or think (Eph. 3:20) will do more than fulfill our dreams . . . because He truly satisfies the longing soul (Ps. 107:9). I am realizing this now maybe more than ever, not because I feel full, but because I feel empty yet KNOW I'm not.
When I was a child, I used to make wishes by blowing on eyelashes, and because I was afraid of dying, I always wished for eternal life. I did this because I thought this meant I would never die, but what I didn't realize was that eternal life meant abundant vitality in heaven after this shell has passed away. And because I was already saved, I in a sense "wasted" my wishes on something I already had. Don't make my mistake. It is pointless to long for something that is already at your fingertips.
But truly, how many of us yearn for what we already have? Some long for travel and adventure, forgetting that all of life is a journey of unknown excitement. Some long to know their purpose in life when perhaps their purpose is to live in Christ and let God do the rest. Some long for a mission field, when maybe their mission field is within their own home or right on their doorstep. Some long for an opportunity to disciple, to write and proclaim Truth, when a blog is already at their disposal.
A teenager may long for freedom, but he forgets that because he can breathe and move without confinement, worship freely and reject sin freely, he is free indeed. A Christian man may long for victory, but he needs to remember that Jesus Christ has already won it and has given it to him on a bloodstained platter (1 Cor. 15:57, Rom. 8:37). A Christian lady may long for someone to be close, steady, and head-over-heels in love with her, but she needs to remember that Someone already is, and He went so far as to prove it by dying for her on the cross (Eph. 2:4-6). We already have all these things, but we don't fully receive them until we realize it and accept them. And then the God who is able to do exceedingly abundantly beyond all that we ask or think (Eph. 3:20) will do more than fulfill our dreams . . . because He truly satisfies the longing soul (Ps. 107:9). I am realizing this now maybe more than ever, not because I feel full, but because I feel empty yet KNOW I'm not.
When I was a child, I used to make wishes by blowing on eyelashes, and because I was afraid of dying, I always wished for eternal life. I did this because I thought this meant I would never die, but what I didn't realize was that eternal life meant abundant vitality in heaven after this shell has passed away. And because I was already saved, I in a sense "wasted" my wishes on something I already had. Don't make my mistake. It is pointless to long for something that is already at your fingertips.
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