tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10247680530027871462024-03-17T08:12:32.348-05:00Bees in My BonnetThis is the place for me to dump my random thoughts. Especially when a Bee in my Bonnet needs to fly away...Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.comBlogger442125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-78883929360903342062024-03-15T18:11:00.013-05:002024-03-16T00:52:07.548-05:00Saga of the Lost Wallet...Continued<p> This morning I was having tea with a friend and discussing a particular child's recent ADHD diagnosis - what that might mean for us - what it means for their future. And, as she was such a great listener, I began to tell all about my own and our various family members' experience with neurodiversity. I started to tell her about my experience raising kids and how different ones had different gifts - various blessings - bestowed on them during their early years. I told of how overwhelmed I was with young children and how when Mom Logan came to live with us, I was so grateful for her presence, I simply handed the youngest (then, Andrew, 11 months) off to her so I could get a good night's rest. </p><p><br /></p><p>In my previous post (<a href="https://sarahsbonnetbees.blogspot.com/2024/03/saga-of-lost-wallet.html" target="_blank">here</a>), I mentioned near the end how Mom Logan has recently transitioned from this earthly life, to her heavenly home. And how my lost wallet had been hinting to me that life - our own very selves - hold gifts that are meant to be used. As I told my friend today about Mom coming to live with us, and the gifts she brought, I thought maybe you'd like to listen in on this conversation.</p><p><br /></p><p>Mom came to live with us in 2010, after spending her previous 46 years serving as a missionary in rural Zambia, the time had come for her to shift gears and serve in a different capacity. Many of you, I'm sure, already know her story. In case you don't, I'll fill you in.</p><p><br /></p><p>Lois was born, the 2nd of 4 girls in Lucknow, India, to missionary parents. Eventually they would move to Karachi, Pakistan - before it was separated from India. Eventually she moved to South Africa to complete nurse training, after spending a few years in the U.S. On a trip to rural Zambia, she met Paul Logan and eventually they were married and began their missionary lives together on a mission station in Chavuma, Zambia. Lois was a nurse and Paul did maintenance, Bible Teaching, Outreach in small villages, among other things. They had 4 children (the youngest, Samuel, is the one I married :D) </p><p><br /></p><p>Lois stands out to me as one who cultivated and used her gifts - every part of herself, she yielded and entrusted to the One Who could multiply the loaves in her basket. She had babies, served as a nurse, had her very real struggles, and continued to fix her eyes on Jesus. In 1992, at 51 years old, she came down with malaria. Generally, people in Zambia would recover with a few routine medications after a number of days or weeks. However, once in a while, the parasite would somehow find its way into the brain and wreak havoc. Lois' malaria became cerebral malaria, and she was quickly airlifted out of Zambia to better medical facilities in South Africa. There she was in a coma for a number of days, and was treated with high doses of quinine - the last resort to save her life, though this medicine was known to harm either optic or aural nerves. In her case, it damaged her optic nerve rendering her permanently visually impaired - legally blind - for the rest of her life. Being in a coma for many days also led to significant neurological and cognitive changes. I never knew her before this time, so I don't know what the previous Lois had been like. But from her children I learned she had been almost like a different person to the person she was afterwards. Losing vision and cognition to most would be absolutely devastating. I'm sure it was a huge adjustment as she learned to use vision-assisting devices, and how to not stumble or trip on things, and learn to see with her hands. She did have some vision, and was able to use the very limited vision to make out large things like a person walking through a room. A small field of vision had been spared, and with a high power magnifier she was able to read, albeit very slowly. In this way, she continued to read her Bible daily.</p><p><br /></p><p>I began this post telling you how she had come to live with us, and was helping with our kids. Can you imagine an elderly woman, whose eyesight was almost completely lost, whose brain wasn't always reliable, deciding to join a family of 7 at the time, and assist daily with chores like kitchen cleanup, setting the table, tidying the living room, sweeping the floor, changing diapers, feeding young children, making coleslaw, babysitting, and repairing small items? Each of us has gifts. Even those of us who are broken. Mom Logan was living the parable of the Lost Wallet before me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqbC0jDKvv00ywy_3o7rtK3HRKCZAgneWBoJR5_KS-4sXyTTok9HED3FWCZzZ9QNj0pe9hzqcoxpGSLwVcChRWjDaahz81vT-aPwwaDUlZQAndqSrEj3qcw9BV6_MiILsrrxgEAXobGEnib846l0zxk5neLeR7532pzYkgw5VsAAo1Z9HZIgCJJlwpV0/s3072/2012%20862.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqbC0jDKvv00ywy_3o7rtK3HRKCZAgneWBoJR5_KS-4sXyTTok9HED3FWCZzZ9QNj0pe9hzqcoxpGSLwVcChRWjDaahz81vT-aPwwaDUlZQAndqSrEj3qcw9BV6_MiILsrrxgEAXobGEnib846l0zxk5neLeR7532pzYkgw5VsAAo1Z9HZIgCJJlwpV0/s320/2012%20862.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>You see, I needed the help.</p><p>I NEEDED THE HELP. </p><p>I don't know how to put it more plainly than that. Not only did I suffer from the more extreme version of Post Partum Depression. I had PTSD. I had Complex-PTSD. I had any number of diagnosed and undiagnosed psychiatric issues. I had marriage. (Does that count as a diagnosis?!) I had children. (More than one!) I had a home. I had a body I didn't take care of. I was at breaking point and beyond.</p><p>I look back at those years - decades really, and my heart hurts a little. Not from self-pity. Not from shame. But simply sadness. I was living with not just a limp, but more like a crawl. I wasn't ok. Life was just too much for me.</p><p>That was not my time to reflect on the gifts in my proverbial life-wallet. That was my time to survive and find a way through.</p><p>And Mom, though helpful, also brought some challenges. I can write more about that sometime, but along with her challenges, she brought her gifts. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZem0D1ZjXk7uNnJaGbZeU3D_KNlTFsCimTN9Z0zGcPbKkU46ZD-dOpjNezdBFjhSGLZkeutJ7rH8Sw1mlOrvZGgWSjKjhmI0GPtsMS1sfwvcvmrhkHzy2Z1i9gDApuWHkaJkG-mBvOS0Ll7T7HrvcY09BpW34ubimSUD82-DfRCSVXFW_RzgkZtkscg/s3072/now%202011%20148.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZem0D1ZjXk7uNnJaGbZeU3D_KNlTFsCimTN9Z0zGcPbKkU46ZD-dOpjNezdBFjhSGLZkeutJ7rH8Sw1mlOrvZGgWSjKjhmI0GPtsMS1sfwvcvmrhkHzy2Z1i9gDApuWHkaJkG-mBvOS0Ll7T7HrvcY09BpW34ubimSUD82-DfRCSVXFW_RzgkZtkscg/s320/now%202011%20148.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>She did not allow her deficits to get in the way of spending herself in serving others.</p><p><br /></p><p>I will get back to the Lost Wallet Saga.</p><p>But for now, I wanted to fill that part in - the part where I remember that Mom Logan served me. She used her gifts, not catering to her limitations. She was determined to lift my chunky, hefty toddlers up to their seat and feed them their porridge. She was determined to smooth every wrinkle from the tablecloth. </p><p>I see that courage and marvel in admiration. </p><p><br /></p><p>Maybe someday I'll get to the place I can live more with a steady limp rather than a crawl (I think I'm getting there). But for now, I simply reflect, with gratitude on someone - Mom Logan - who used her gifts to bless me.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wM3SAX0bJMFvOGhqhLz7RTl0zA-GqPjkoIAInAuwNevf2lzRC4KEqAWhmPx3ydJZUQroiFQZIeWzVLauOpRZ6zPt0qfOb4IflAl3DbYyGfsr3BiFaB5WBhjfqDmQNBYHD8zU_rjJdvOVwx01DcmtOrO0lSO-mpV94-o92t5P9ha5JkfLDj0qJHo6n-A/s3072/2010%20352.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7wM3SAX0bJMFvOGhqhLz7RTl0zA-GqPjkoIAInAuwNevf2lzRC4KEqAWhmPx3ydJZUQroiFQZIeWzVLauOpRZ6zPt0qfOb4IflAl3DbYyGfsr3BiFaB5WBhjfqDmQNBYHD8zU_rjJdvOVwx01DcmtOrO0lSO-mpV94-o92t5P9ha5JkfLDj0qJHo6n-A/s320/2010%20352.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-6599052358054784912024-03-14T21:23:00.010-05:002024-03-15T22:29:22.303-05:00Saga of the Lost Wallet<p> On January 18, Sam and I headed out to a dinner to celebrate (with his work colleagues) their accomplishments from the previous year. I remember thinking how nice it was of them to treat us all to a lovely meal in an upscale restaurant, and noticed with gratitude, that I didn't need to pull out my wallet to pay for our meal. I was so aware of not needing to do this, that upon returning home that evening, as soon as I walked in the door, I noticed my wallet was missing. I checked everywhere - my coat, purse, the car, under seats, on the ground outside the car. I realized I had lost my wallet at that dinner. And I was super annoyed. We called the restaurant. They had already closed. We waited until the next day, and called again. We were SO hopeful that it had been picked up by the staff or seen in the parking lot. But no - there was no sign of the wallet.</p><p><br /></p><p>And so began the saga of the Lost Wallet. I didn't know it would be a saga. I told myself not to worry. I could be alright without it, for a little while. I checked bank activity online and saw no cause for concern - I knew when I had it last, and I knew, within a short time, when it had gone missing. It could have been stolen, but then I would see bank activity, and there was none. It was truly lost. </p><p><br /></p><p>The first few days I told myself, 'Surely it will be found.' And even though I was perturbed, I worked on letting it go. I would simply have to wait. Of course I prayed, as with all things, big and small. I told God all I felt: "I feel silly, stupid, careless! I'm embarrassed, ashamed even! Why didn't You help me be more careful!?" Then other prayers: "You know where that wallet is! Will You Please Please Please help it be found?" </p><p><br /></p><p>As the days passed, my angst and anxiety started to climb. I drove back to the restaurant 3 times. I saw snow piles taller than me and wondered if it had slipped into the snow and been snow-plowed into a pile. I had to assume that's what had happened. I had checked the car, up and down, inside and out, clothing I wore, and the restaurant had no sign of it. Now I had to assume it was buried under 5 feet of snow, and that there might be a small chance of finding it when snow melted. But then I thought, 'Sometimes they hire trucks to cart away snow and dump it someplace!' And after numerous trips to examine the snow which was hard-packed and solid ice by then, I knew the wallet was lost and gone forever.</p><p><br /></p><p>So far, all I've told is the facts of the story. I've hinted that my soul was a bit in disarray. But here's more of what was going on inside me:</p><p>What's with losing my wallet? Why does it bug me so much? Why is this so hard for me? I can go through extreme trials, like almost losing my son in a motorcycle accident, facing possible mountains of medical debt, long covid that feels like death, losing friends, parents, family, to death - all these with a settled confidence in the goodness of God in the depths of my soul - and then I lose a wallet and come unglued?! </p><p>I talked to myself: What's with you, Sarah? It's just a wallet. You can replace the cards. Are you so attached to this thing? What does it represent for you?</p><p>I started to ponder. </p><p>It bugged me not only to lose my wallet - that was bad enough. But what really upset me was how poorly I was responding. How unsettled I was. How little I had discerned of what the wallet must represent to me. How easily bothered I was by this small loss. I didn't like me in these moments. I found my reactions so incongruous to how I aim to live. I didn't like what felt like grit under my skin. I didn't like feeling so dependent on something so small, and how helpless I felt to do anything about it. I didn't like that there were bigger concerns in life, and that this was taking center stage of my thoughts. I really didn't like any part of this experience. What was the big deal?</p><p>Was it money? There was no cash in my wallet, but there were my bank cards that I use to grocery shop and buy gas. It would be a minor shift to switch to using cash, but this was not a big deal. In fact, using cash meant I talked to the cashier at every gas station I went to. I forgot how much you interact with the general public when you don't use a card on a machine. I had forgotten what it was like to hold cash and collect change. </p><p>I wasn't super worried about fraud. Most fraud happens through online activity anyway. So my big concern wasn't money. A minor irritation was that I'd need to phone each card and ask for a replacement. Not a big deal though.</p><p>So if it wasn't money, and it wasn't inconvenience, what was it? Next I thought of my driver's license. Ah, that gives me a sense of security. I never drive without it. I'm somewhat paranoid that if I got pulled over and didn't have it that I'd be in bigger trouble. Yes, my driver's license was the bigger deal - it meant a loss of security when I drive. Also, it can't simply be replaced by making a call. I'd have to go into the Driver's License place and probably wait in line and fill out papers and pay a fee, all to get a replacement. I'm terrible at doing paperwork of any kind. This would take monumental effort. </p><p>Further to that, I sometimes speed a little (okay, sometimes more than a little, and I have repented of such in the past year or so). Not having a driver's license meant I had to be very, very, careful in driving. I did not want to get pulled over without it. I wondered if God was trying to teach me to slow down, pay attention, um...not speed? "Ok Lord! I'm sorry! I shouldn't ever speed! I repent!" I considered if it was the driver's license that had me in an anxiety tailspin, and after careful thought, I realized, no, it wasn't the driver's license. And it wasn't the bank cards.</p><p><br /></p><p>What else was in my wallet? Why was it so hard to lose it?</p><p>Gift cards.</p><p>This one bites. Remember I said this was January.</p><p>My birthday is in December (and Christmas of course).</p><p>All my gift cards were in my wallet.</p><p>I found the thing that stung so much. Gift cards. This was the point of pain for me. I hashed it out with God: "Ok, I know You can re-supply these gifts, but it hurts so much to lose them. I felt so spoiled, so grateful, so <i>seen</i> by the people who gave me these gifts! I know we could go out to eat at those places and still enjoy it, but it wouldn't be the same! I lament losing these gifts! I'm embarrassed about it! I'll never tell them, but I just feel so bad about losing them!" </p><p>Now we were getting somewhere. It was the gifts. It was losing what couldn't be replaced. It was shame at not using the gifts I'd been given. </p><p><br /></p><p>OH. Now I get it.</p><p>God was speaking to me - not in words, but in a parable. The parable of the Lost Wallet, and the Lost Gifts. </p><p>The wallet was me. I have gifts. They're tucked away safe inside me. And at any moment, my gifts, my self, the container that is me, could be gone. I'm not trying to be morbid. But this was how I started to open my eyes to see and wonder what work God was doing in my soul. </p><p>I had to sit with those thoughts and turn over my frustration to God. It brought me to prayer - ongoing prayer. I felt prompted to ask a few different prayer groups I'm in to pray about my lost wallet. I was embarrassed to ask them to pray when I felt maybe it wasn't a very important prayer request. Even in this, God was helping me to grow in sharing my life with others. To share what was weighing me down.</p><p><br /></p><p>I never asked them to pray for God to teach me things through this small loss. Maybe that's the part where we trust God to answer how He wills.</p><p>As the weeks passed, I kept asking God for it to be found. And it kept not being found. And I lost hope that it would be. But I grew in learning to trust and turn over my anxiety to God, to ask for His peace and to rest in Him, even if my wallet was in some snow-sludge in some far-away field, never to be seen again.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1JF5fExvO_eblrME7rO3NWFpojauvAQcoh8YZxVo8TMCI11gVPhyphenhyphenD4pXgDgjaSy6pkGiX28G21Nz2LYDYA4RohLQ9sAHX4HQ7KmIGycxf8tWkNThvwS-q8dYZXddwG6uKf_YMvOYqM78OUDy-2bQ2M0abdOH4gFk-xn7TKGgr2l9Gq9G-OORTuaxY44/s4032/20240120_074905.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1JF5fExvO_eblrME7rO3NWFpojauvAQcoh8YZxVo8TMCI11gVPhyphenhyphenD4pXgDgjaSy6pkGiX28G21Nz2LYDYA4RohLQ9sAHX4HQ7KmIGycxf8tWkNThvwS-q8dYZXddwG6uKf_YMvOYqM78OUDy-2bQ2M0abdOH4gFk-xn7TKGgr2l9Gq9G-OORTuaxY44/s320/20240120_074905.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It doesn't end there. So much more came of this difficult season. Because 3 days after losing it, Timo slipped and fell on the ice outside his work. His arm went out to break his fall, and he broke it - yes, in a different place than the other places he broke it 5 months before. I was having to learn trust in all kinds of things.<div><br /></div><div>3 weeks after losing my wallet, my Mother-in-Law graduated to her eternal home - her life, you might say, had been 'lost.' (Though I daresay her true life had been <i style="font-weight: bold;">found</i>). </div><div><br /></div><div>It seems I was on a journey of lost things and found things. What do the losses teach me? What do the found things show me? </div><div><br /></div><div>It seems my journeys in life are a kind of sifting. I am being sifted - bumped up and down - tossed, almost recklessly! I fly through the air, or at least that's what it feels like! I don't know where I'll land. Sometimes the big bumps are easier than the small ones.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is so much more to this ongoing saga. But that's enough for one blog post.</div><div><p><br /></p><p>It continues here:</p><p>https://sarahsbonnetbees.blogspot.com/2024/03/saga-of-lost-walletcontinued.html?m=1</p></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-65257181422988667642023-12-25T10:26:00.005-06:002023-12-29T16:56:15.557-06:00Infancy<p> Infancy is weak, fragile, cute, maybe even a bit scary.</p><p><br /></p><p>I <b><u><i>know</i></u></b> infancy. Not only holding my own infants, but the infancy of hope in my own soul: the infancy that seems only a tiny spark of light in a long, dark, tunnel - this is a fragile and even scary dawning of hope. </p><p><br /></p><p>These 24 hours are some of the hardest of the year for some: there are hopes, fears, expectations, longings, moments of despair, regrets, losses, hardships - this list is not exhaustive. And somehow the hopes and expectations seem to all land on this day, and how easily we forget space must be made to accommodate the losses and hardships as well. In fact, even the lack of fulfilment of hopes needs space to be grieved on a day set aside for celebration and joy. </p><p><br /></p><p>"The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight" - and as we sing this Christmas hymn, we mean it. The hopes AND fears - of this<b> </b><i><b>loooooong</b> </i>year - these meet together in this infant child, Jesus. </p><p><br /></p><p>I imagine the time of Jesus' birth and place myself in the scene - am I 10, 25, 45, or 79? How would my perspective of His birth - His coming - change based on which decade I'm in? I can imagine myself being in my final years, leaning over a cane, weak, frail, the life ebbing out of me slowly, and considering the infant Christ child: "I'm so glad you're here; this life has been a tough road- I'm thankful for the tiny spark of hope You are, as I come to the end of my days. You are a longing fulfilled." Maybe I'd say that. Or maybe it would be more bitter: "I wish You'd come sooner. Look at all the muck of my life, all that pain, sorrow, difficulty! I'm supposed to believe that the answer, the balm, the healing, the hope, are to be found in this small, helpless baby lying in a manger?!" The cynic might rise and crowd out the inner voice of wisdom, that voice of tender love that is Hope alive in me. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Infancy seems such a strange answer to the world's pain.</span></p><p><br /></p><p>It is counter-intuitive. </p><p><br /></p><p>'Silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given, So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav'n.'</p><p>Many today will weep. They will feel deeply the sting of loss. Some losses are simply tragic, unexplainable, chaotic, and perplexing. Some losses come through betrayal, and an extra layer of grief is added to the crushing weight of abandonment. How are we to reckon with an infant Jesus, whose infancy, while miraculous, seems incapable of <b>bearing the weight of our suffering and grief?</b> </p><p><br /></p><p><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">"Surely, he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows."</span></b></i></p><p><br /></p><p>A new baby is for a time of celebration, of unbridled joy. If tears are shed, they are tears of gratitude and relief. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT41Pnjo7-PE1VjBp_ld80fWbOuY5Gch7FTMy_qMcrqSBocue5wV_hrtZ_eyd2kTWrEgJT9ftbDwRvcVsL3gWeAc9SYeuv6Iz4DOPRRpaZpSYwU9xJRLzmXdgMk0N4LnsQ7SCk0SD6ilM3IeQS6m9pNGKdwnJdTagNjUZZD1yzhw6yrVdEwzbp9mxhjkI/s964/Picture%201543.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="719" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT41Pnjo7-PE1VjBp_ld80fWbOuY5Gch7FTMy_qMcrqSBocue5wV_hrtZ_eyd2kTWrEgJT9ftbDwRvcVsL3gWeAc9SYeuv6Iz4DOPRRpaZpSYwU9xJRLzmXdgMk0N4LnsQ7SCk0SD6ilM3IeQS6m9pNGKdwnJdTagNjUZZD1yzhw6yrVdEwzbp9mxhjkI/s320/Picture%201543.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>How can an infant, this baby Jesus, hold my grief, sadness, loss? </p><p><br /></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Our God, heav'n cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain, </span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Heav'n and earth will flee away, when He comes to reign!'</span></i></p><p><br /></p><p>The words float past in heavenly, haunting melody. The angels couldn't have sung it better, I imagine, than humble human voices whose lives don't have super-powers like wings to hover in mid-air, yet hold untold burdens of discordant suffering. In 1 Peter, he writes, "Even angels long to look into these things." I imagine what angels long for (the things they long to look into), and realize it is because they can't praise God from the standpoint of suffering and pain, - they can't praise God through eyes of faith (their faith is sight; ours is not!). They praise God because that is their <b>function</b>. They are ministering servants, sent to do God's will. In our lives, we may be sent, but it's up to<b><span style="font-size: medium;"> us</span></b> to respond. For those of us that do, or seek to, the angels marvel. </p><p><br /></p><p>It seems ridiculous to look at a helpless infant and put all our hopes and fears on Him. </p><p><br /></p><p>But all things are <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>not as they seem. </i></span></p><p><br /></p><p>It seems ridiculous, but God has chosen the foolish things of this world to shame the wise. His wisdom is beautiful, serene, powerful, and beckons <b><span style="font-size: medium;">wonder.</span></b> </p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"I wonder as I wander out under the sky, How Jesus the Savior did come for to die, </span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">for poor ornery people like you and like I - I wonder as I wander out under the sky."</span></i></p><p><br /></p><p>My prayer today is that our celebration of Jesus' birth would be a dawning of hope. </p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Dayspring from on High be near! Dayspring in my heart appear!"</span></i></p><p> I pray the light that has come into this dark world will powerfully overcome the darkness. That the fragility of a poor infant child, born and placed in a manger, would introduce us to the Mighty God Who powerfully stoops to the lowly, to reach us IN our grief and wail long and hard into the night, with the might of infant lungs, that seem to scream:</p><p> "I know. </p><p> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">I know. </span></p><p> <b><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">I know."</span></i></b></p><p> An infant's cries are full of need, longing, want: "I thirst! I hunger! I <b><i>hurt</i></b>!" Infant Jesus breaks the still, calm night with the urgent <i><b>longings of all humanity.</b></i></p><p><br /></p><p>This infant King enters the world through the birth canal. The Mother Mary delivers Him through anguish, pain, and extreme discomfort - socially, emotionally, physically. The infant Jesus tastes the world of suffering in the human condition the moment He is born. Jesus will grow up to lose his father, to grieve the scornful rejection of community, to bear the glances and whispers of His unusual birth. <i>Somehow the hopes and fears of all of us are met in Jesus' earthly experience.</i></p><p><br /></p><p>I want to wish all of you: Merry Christmas. But how can those who carry grief be 'merry' on this day? Being merry seems like a splash of red wine on a mourners veil. Grief is a sacred space in the soul that needs a shroud - an honoring understanding. Let me instead wish you a Christmas that is happy, joy-filled, that your joy, hope, and happiness reside in the infant incarnate - the unconquerable Son of God, Whose birth brings the dawn of a new day. All the world recognizes this day, even those of other faiths. Every modern calendar, every computer date-stamp operates from the time of Jesus birth. </p><p><br /></p><p>Indeed, a light does<b> shine in the darkness </b>- and not only does the darkness not overcome it: it simply can't comprehend it. An infant child lying in a manger is to be the Savior of the world?! Only God could come up with such a gift, such a simple, tangible, reality that cannot escape any of us.</p><p><br /></p><p>May it be that the 'blessings of His heaven' descend on you today. Make room in your soul to receive Him:</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b>"Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in."</b></i></span></p><div><br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-42249035512353998592023-12-19T01:28:00.005-06:002023-12-19T01:54:25.142-06:00Finishing 46, Turning 47<p> I like the thought of 'turning' - in this case, turning the number of my age, the years I've completed of life I didn't volunteer for, of life that was handed to me, that I now know has been a gift - an unasked for gift, a surprising gift, but a gift nonetheless. On birthdays we typically receive gifts (unless you are Chinese - then on your birthday it is a chance to give gifts to all your friends). And I wonder if this is to try and remind us that our lives are gifts. Even the dark days. The lonely days. The 'Well,-that-didn't-go-like-I-thought-it-would' days. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzF0GxREqfsa5r-SSmgKwk603qhdbBbTjm2DeLIJ1CqtVH77UdpNlX8Je2XpHTE5ZlIvQFndYgR9G4Thb_KoHnt7M3d_usYIN2v3UmAkAJImF3BGjapP5rFI3cdXgUmGhGXn-oZcXKJvTFYBJGnLfPwz7cDlPTnVppdQuLU4YAAuWztbSdWMv7wh66yw/s4032/20231101_070342.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzF0GxREqfsa5r-SSmgKwk603qhdbBbTjm2DeLIJ1CqtVH77UdpNlX8Je2XpHTE5ZlIvQFndYgR9G4Thb_KoHnt7M3d_usYIN2v3UmAkAJImF3BGjapP5rFI3cdXgUmGhGXn-oZcXKJvTFYBJGnLfPwz7cDlPTnVppdQuLU4YAAuWztbSdWMv7wh66yw/s320/20231101_070342.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>In Spanish you don't 'turn' a number - you complete a year. It is a more accurate rendering I suppose - the "cumpleanos". Turning 47 doesn't mean I'm beginning my 47th year. It means I finished it. I feel a year older already!! But in this turning is a chance for reflecting. Today was another day in my life. A completed day. A special day, to be sure - I only get a birthday once a year, as do you, unless you also celebrate a spiritual birthday, in which case you have a chance to celebrate twice. This year I reckon I am 33 years old in the Lord. </p><p><br /></p><p>In the past couple of years I've begun to claim a certain Psalm for each year that represents my age. So for the past year I have often read, listened to, quoted to myself, or wondered upon Psalm 46. I mulled it over and over in my head. I soaked in the words. Over time, these words became intimate to me, woven into the fabric of my heart. The words have framed my year, even when I wasn't thinking directly upon them. </p><p><br /></p><p>Last night we had some friends over and we were talking about birthdays and I was trying to avoid the subject, knowing my birthday was just around the corner. When they discovered this they joked that I was trying to dodge the subject and we discussed what I feel about my birthday. I said I struggle with low self-esteem and sometimes wish the whole day would pass quickly. That I sometimes feel not worth celebrating. That I'm often embarrassed by how poorly I've used the life God has given me. That sometimes for me, a birthday means a chance to drift into shame. I said I don't mind the idea of getting older; in fact, I welcome it. I have not embraced nor understood the Western ideals of perpetual youthfulness. There's still a strong Asian component in me that regards age as worth something, as years holding experience, hopefully wisdom, even if only to respect those who've endured all that life has thrown at them. No, I don't resist aging. I resist the passage of time that I had hoped would have yielded more fruit, more growth, more...I don't know... Grown-up-ness perhaps? I mean, I still bite my nails. I still struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I still fly by the seat of my pants, fail to organize my kitchen, get all the laundry done, and consistently, if even, be on time to anything. I thought by my late 40s or so I would be a functioning, responsible, adulty-type, complete with doing hair and makeup every day (who does that?! I wonder). I really was hoping that aging might make me a better person somehow.</p><p><br /></p><p>So I look back at my life of 47 years and see they've contained a whole lot of interesting stuff (that's the nice way to put it). I see ways I've failed, but am growing in not getting caught up in all that (it's a dead end, I tell you). Instead of looking at things that might bring despair, I ask my soul, 'What might bring hope in reflecting? What might bring joy? What might help me set my gaze on awe-inspiring beauty? What might be worthy of my ponderings since looking at myself doesn't generally yield these things?' And I pull out the trusty Sunday School answers: Jesus, God, the Trinity, and The Bible (these almost always answer just about everything somehow). Ah, yes, Jesus might bring joy. God might give hope in framing how I reflect on my life. The Bible might point me in a direction of awe-inspiring beauty. And I remember, 'Oh yeah, I had a Psalm for the year. A Psalm I came back to over and over. Maybe that would be a better way to reflect on my year, on my life.' And I am relieved that I don't need to be dragged into a self-loathing-spiral.</p><p><br /></p><p>This past year has hurled at me perhaps the most terrifying experience of my mere 47 years. For me to say that is significant, as I'm sure you can imagine, since in my first couple decades I had plenty of very frightful things thrown my way. I had no idea that the day after Timo's 17th birthday - a day where we celebrated him and his completed 17 years - a day where we reflected on <i style="font-weight: bold;">his</i> life, and uttered prayers of gratitude for him - that <b>that</b> day would be followed by a most devastating day where his life was almost ended. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqoFvAnxOA_yN3USIQ6XGsNlmwmPrCnrNaKweo6F1rCON-urxFw65GxsIFnxe0E8c14VFC79ygv-Wd05jOMyUK-rTpufP1cdd-DHPuTkkap9ucdgsoCuzYkSFtjFYhhntO4LiGFh0R19koSqEkjTZp1gTrTlZVlRzRrBzEAjUzXO2VuLSjd8BLdZI5lc/s4032/20230901_221323-EDIT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqoFvAnxOA_yN3USIQ6XGsNlmwmPrCnrNaKweo6F1rCON-urxFw65GxsIFnxe0E8c14VFC79ygv-Wd05jOMyUK-rTpufP1cdd-DHPuTkkap9ucdgsoCuzYkSFtjFYhhntO4LiGFh0R19koSqEkjTZp1gTrTlZVlRzRrBzEAjUzXO2VuLSjd8BLdZI5lc/s320/20230901_221323-EDIT.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> (Pic edited to respect his wishes)</span><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."</i></b></span></p><p>That was a day I needed and relied on a very present God, a God to be my refuge, my strength, and very present to me in my troubled world. </p><p>The moment I climbed up into the ambulance front seat, buckled my seat belt, and began the fast ride blazing through every light at top speed, I knew I could not even begin to pray. I heard the men in the back. I heard Timo's voice. I knew he was strapped to a stretcher immobilized. I had no idea what all this meant. I couldn't even think to pray for any outcome, any healing, anything hopeful at all. The only prayer that came to me was, "You need to be here with me, God. Right here. Right now." I had no other things to pray in that moment. It was a calm in the eye of a storm that came over me. I seemed to hover outside myself and even in that I noticed a safety, a steady gaze of trust in God. Some of this is psychologically protective. But for the soul that determines to trust, the protective is also part of the yielding. This emotional distance was a gift in that moment. A trauma response, a pathology per se, was what I needed. My traumatic past was a way God was giving me strength. He <i style="font-weight: bold;">was</i> present in that ambulance. He seemed to be sitting as close as my slow, steady breathing. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea."</i></b></span></p><p>How could the Psalmist say that? Did he have his head screwed on correctly?! I mean, if the earth gives way, if the mountains fall into the sea...don't you think that is an appropriate time for fear? This Psalmist seems resolute. Firmly fixed. 'We will <u style="font-weight: bold;">not fear.</u>' Who can make a commitment like that? It's rather bold, don't you think? Look at the world we live in! It isn't possible to hardly open our eyes for a split second without considering a gazillion things to legitimately fear. The world can fall apart at any moment. For a mother whose child makes interesting and often unapproved-of decisions, the mountains are immense and the heart of my sea seems to risk being inundated with the mountains plunging into the nether-regions of my soul. That day on the way to the hospital, with my broken son in the back, I felt like the mountains were about to crash into me. But I could say with the Psalmist (in my better moments, I'll be honest): I will not fear. It was almost as if I was making a vow to myself, and to God. "I will not fear." It is much like making a wedding vow; absolutely impossible aside from the miraculous and powerful work of God in me. I think in praying this statement it is as much a hopeful wish, and longed for commitment, an intended vow, as much as a real one. Maybe if I say this in a prayer it will work its way in reverse into my soul. Maybe.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"...though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling. Selah."</i></b></span></p><p>The days and weeks following were much like a 'waters roaring and foaming' experience. The mountains weighing on me did indeed at times tremble. The swelling of the threatening waves seemed to menace me at times, and nightmares abounded. Oh the familiar dark, quivering nights where fear threatened to swallow me whole. I had to face a lifetime of fears and reckon with them - they were not imagined, they could indeed come true. The potential of losing my son was not an imagined one. It was all too real. At the end of this line of the Psalm there is this funny word, 'Selah'. It's the pause. It's the punctuation to take a soul-breath. A long gaze backward at where we journeyed so far in this poem. What a place to put a pause! Right after the mountains and waters tremble and leave me in a panicked freak-out-mess. Oh, <i style="font-weight: bold;">now we stop and pause to take a breath?! What gives?!</i> How well the Psalmist knew his own soul, and how well he seemed to know mine. That is <u style="font-style: italic;">exactly</u> when a breath is needed. In the midst of the chaos. In the middle of the storm. I need a soul-break, Jesus. I will trust You.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns."</i></b></span></p><p>The river reminds me of that old hymn,</p><p> "Like a River Glorious is God's perfect peace, Over all victorious, in its bright increase! </p><p>Perfect yet it floweth, fuller every day! Perfect yet it groweth deeper all the way!</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Stayed upon Jehovah, hearts are fully blessed! Finding as He promised, perfect peace and rest!</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>Hidden in the hollow of His blessed hand, never foe can follow, never traitor stand.</p><p>Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care! Not a blast of hurry, touch the spirit there!</p><p><br /></p><p>Every joy or trial, falleth from above; Traced upon our dial, by the Son of Love;</p><p>We may trust Him fully, all for us to do - They who trust Him wholly, find Him wholly true!"</p><p>(thank you, Frances Ridley Havergal, for these wonderful words).</p><p><br /></p><p>This river of peace certainly would make a city glad. But I'm reminded that I am the city - I am the holy habitation of the Most High. This river is for me. It makes me glad. Jesus, in the gospel of John, tells the woman at the well that He can give her streams of living water, a life-giving, thirst-quenching, always-on-the-move stream. This is the Holy Spirit, the Giver of life, the producer of streams of living water, of refreshing gladenning rivers that flow to delight and fill, and overflow my very soul with all that He is. This is the kind of river I need in the midst of mountains of crushing weight disturbing the sea of my soul. This is the River I depend on to make me glad.</p><p><br /></p><p>You see, God did answer my prayer, and He told me so in this Psalm that I claimed for my 46th year. It says, "God is in the midst of her." Ok, let me step out of my hermeneutical rule-following comfort-zone here for a minute. The real Bible students and interpretive scholars would probably tell me I can't personalize this Psalm this way. That its referring to some other city of God, some <b>other</b> holy habitation, some other River that makes the city of God glad. And who am I to argue? They're right. Absolutely right. But something transformative happens when you soak in Scripture for a year. The words become my own. I pray them together with the Psalmist. He is teaching me to pray. And the Psalms are the prayers Jesus prayed, so I think I'm in good company. I believe, renegade Bible scholar that I am, that I am within reason to find myself in this Psalm. I asked God to be with me in that ambulance. I asked Him to be present with me throughout my fears. And you know what? He tells me plainly: "I am in the midst of <u style="font-weight: bold;">her.</u>" (If you're male and reading this, don't worry, I'm sure He's in the midst of you, too. Because in this case, you are a her, if you are His people, His bride). As I went through those very dark nights - 2 all nighters back to back, which is almost as torturous as the wincing pain I was witnessing in my son at every few minute intervals, the dawn would begin and I would see I didn't sleep the whole night <i>again, </i>and I would say, 'I need Your help God for the day that is dawning that I have no strength to face.' And when the dawn of day came, I would see God was there for me for another day, there helping, there holding, there enabling me to endure and deal with the soul-ache before me.</p><p><br /></p><p>I can look back with so much gratitude that God has healed my boy, that his body has been knit back together with so much skill and help from an incredible team of doctors and therapists. But in those bleak, dark, days, I didn't know what the outcome would be. At the beginning we didn't know from hour to hour if he was going to live. It is absolutely terrifying to look at a child you birthed, walked with, helped, fed, clothed, bathed, nurtured, fought-with, sought help for - to look into his eyes and not know if these were final moments with him. The imprinting of memory, of his face, of his sudden shock and brush with death - these can never be forgotten. Psalm 46 kept framing my moments. The words kept soaking deeper and deeper into me. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>"Be still and know that I am God...</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>I will be exalted in the earth! </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>The Lord of hosts is with us!"</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p>The word 'earth' catches my eye. I am earth. God made man out of the earth. I am an earthen vessel, a jar of clay, and yet a holy habitation of the Most High. "Oh Lord, be exalted in me, in this plain, ordinary, flesh that carries the imprint of your image." I utter this prayer as I find myself again in the final words of my Psalm. The Lord of hosts has been with me. </p><p>Just as I asked Him to be.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNp-7cxtVD_QYRodfvDn8VzqnfSWy-X9zf6-14bFkXNrqRBrwnQ8EOAy1EGKEavhzxWaJpVjg_4Cd2bFywT7Y_1jzd-ZuixUlJPRlJnQXnDQA8wTwOFjVWwrZuwHxmKBA6KdVkdq5A7wd2YMf7fN6JKG4HGxKoKsql1GrkwuhZ-zzCsOKh02s12sgqSao/s4032/20230712_183027.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNp-7cxtVD_QYRodfvDn8VzqnfSWy-X9zf6-14bFkXNrqRBrwnQ8EOAy1EGKEavhzxWaJpVjg_4Cd2bFywT7Y_1jzd-ZuixUlJPRlJnQXnDQA8wTwOFjVWwrZuwHxmKBA6KdVkdq5A7wd2YMf7fN6JKG4HGxKoKsql1GrkwuhZ-zzCsOKh02s12sgqSao/s320/20230712_183027.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-82242596061245695782023-11-21T03:23:00.004-06:002023-11-21T08:34:18.770-06:00What Do I Do With My Fear?<p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and start to imagine the worst. I think of all the things that could be going wrong in this moment. I imagine what might possibly be harming my kids, both from without and within. I may dabble in worry for a time before other imaginings take over. My mind may go down a spiral and end up with the whole world falling apart - not only rumoured wars, but actual wars, disrupting the safety of all who inhabit planet earth. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I think of those who prepare for the end of the world and imagine them as lonely wanderers on the earth, finding all the others who prepared and stepping over the carnage of those who weren't (us among them!) Then, when I've mused about all this, I swing back to the immediate and wonder how we'll make it through the next week or month. Is it just me, or do our own hearts sabotage our rest, feeding us with potential far-off, unlikely fears, while also tasting a daily dose of very potential and likely fears that loom in the shadows just around the corner?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I've had a lifetime of 46 years so far to work this issue through in my own soul, and I've had some successes here and there, and a whole lot more soul-rabbit-trailing than I would have liked. It is not my intention to wallow in fear, or even to wallow in shame for feeling such fears, but to ignore that this is in an issue means to give my natural and unnatural fear free reign to wreak havoc in me - and in those around me, as it is impossible for fear to have no spill-over to others. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">We long for safety, predictability, dependability of relationships, of the roof over our heads, of shelter, sustenance. And I live with an illusion that I have these things, and that they will be permanent in my life. Oh how I long for permanence! And this longing fuels fears of scarcity - being without. Here are some things I fear:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Losing loved ones to the ultimate enemy: Death</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Losing comfort of a working body - living in and with pain or constant difficulty</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Losing a sense of myself, brain damage</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Losing relationships to change or altered circumstances - those who move away</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Pain, suffering, grief</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Being without, being in debt, facing hardship and scarcity</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I fear the days and years passing without taking opportunities of growth or productivity</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I fear not being able to make it through another difficult day</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I fear all that could harm my kids and ruin their lives - be that their own unwise choices or those of others</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I fear threats to our physical and emotional safety, whatever and wherever they may be. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I'm afraid of crushing sorrow, of God giving me more than I can handle, which surely seems to be a reality at times. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Once in a while, I'm even afraid of what others think of me, though not much and not often.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My fears mount. These are just a few of the many, many things that can overtake me in a matter of minutes. What do I do with all this fear?! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Tonight I awoke and the fears began to creep in. And I said, 'What's with this, heart of mine? Oh Sarah, why are you in this state?' I talk to myself, if not to God. And I imagine God in the conversation, listening to the dialogue between my actual self and my investigating self. I say, 'Here's the deal. Anything can happen. My kids can be in the other room, up out of bed instead of asleep. They could have taken a late night escapade to a local eatery and be crashing their car at this very moment. Or, relatives in other places could this moment be struggling with a deep difficulty that is unknown to me, or I could fall asleep now and wake up in heaven due to a random health-event...' Investigating Sarah retorts: 'Do you even hear yourself?' She turns to God and says, 'Do You hear what she's saying?! What's with you, fearful one?'</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I pause and notice how the fear lands in me. My chest is a bit tight, my breathing picked up pace, my body feels too hot and my brow is furrowed. Fear hijacks peace. I cannot rest, and if I sleep, I'll awaken with my hands in tight fists, gripping a wad of blanket, and cold sweat on my fingers where blood should be warming them, but can't because I've squeezed out all circulation. I remember waking up some mornings with a sudden start and my muscles tense, as if I need to hold my body up off my mattress because then I'll be able to fight off an unseen, imagined enemy more quickly...or something. Who knows what that something is? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">So, fear has been my sometimes companion (not a friendly one, I'll grant). I understand it to some degree - part of the things that I've been faced with in life have led me to have an instinctive over-active radar that picks up on potential threat constantly. Fear is a present reality that I must hold open before God and the purview of my own inner gaze and give it the attention it demands. I tell God how much I want safety and predictability, and when I'm absolutely terrified, it's all I can do to simply imagine myself curling up into His big, strong arms, and wailing like an inconsolable child. I imagine the love of a kind Father washing over me with words like, "I know, little one, I know, I know, I know. It hurts. You're scared. I'm here."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I feel in that moment that the Lord is taking words from the pages of His book and speaking them just to me: "Oh Lord, You have searched me and You know me, You know when I sit and when I rise..." If I were the Psalmist, I would have said, "You know when fears overtake me and why. You know all the rational and irrational fears before I've considered one of them. You know all that I have faced and all I will face." </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My fears don't immediately dissipate. But they do morph somewhat. You know what they morph into? Grief. Sadness. Pain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The constriction of fear ultimately is a mask to feeling anything. It feels caustic to my heart, like a steel cage that shuts it up and won't let the pulse of life flow. Fear holds back pain for me. It is sometimes easier to fear the irrational than to grieve the loss of safety I've already known.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I'm so familiar with fear, it's as if its flavor has turned from spicy to dull. Fear has numbed me. Fear that if my heart can feel its own very real grief, it will explode in a million pieces on the floor and I'll never be put back together again, like my inner Humpty Dumpty has gone and done it again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">What I do with my fear is I stare it boldly in the face and ask what it wants from me. Does it want to own me? Well, it can't. But sometimes it does, just by accident. I talk to my fear. I talk to myself in my fear. There are of course, soul-antidotes to fear. Like taking medicine for a cold, there are ways to hold and unfold the tightly wound mess of fear that sits like dead weight on an already stretched-to-the-limit soul. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Sometimes it means I need to pay attention to my thought life, to what I expose myself to. Sometimes it means I need to seek support of others, who wisely hold it with me, who give space and time to the fear that is hindering my progress and functioning. Sometimes it means I need to withdraw from the busyness and take time to pray, alone, in the quiet, in solitude and silence. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">It seems fear can't just leave me alone. After the events in 1999 when our home was invaded in the middle of the night, and violence ensued, I had night after night of mind-blowing fear. I was afraid to fall asleep, sure the 2 intruders that escaped would be making another fateful and dangerous visit. I was hypervigilant, thinking I had to be ready to jump out the window and get the police. This went on, night after night. I would doze off, then jerk myself awake in a panic. It was horrible - the physical strain of sleep deprivation, and the emotional toll of constant fear, just sucked all the life out of me, until I could barely make it through the day. At that time, all I knew to do was to curl up at the foot of my parents' bed (mind you, I was 22 at the time), and envision what could, very realistically happen. I would imagine what it would be like to face the intruders a second time. I would imagine a violent and terrifying death. And then I'd imagine being in perfect peace, at rest in Jesus. And I'd begin to ponder what it meant for me, that my safety in eternity was secure. That I could trust and count on a glorious welcome into that eternal life that I had only tasted the beginning of here in this very temporary life. The only way for me to deal with those crushing fears was to find the one predictable thing that I'd always known: Jesus will take me to Himself when it's the right time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">You see, I've gone through this before. Why didn't that cure me? Why didn't that fix it? Why do I still have fear? When I ask any 'why' questions, it's always a clue that there is a rumbling in my soul. That there is something more than a quest for information. Mostly it is a protest, a complaint, a resistance. Answering the 'why' question generally doesn't yield a satisfied heart. The quest is for comfort more than for reason. 'Why' questions are so deceptive. They make us think we want an answer, when what we really want is for our suffering to end. When I ask 'why' it' usually because there is grief deep inside me that I can't access. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I'm like this because I need to grieve more, to hold my very real fears open to the healing balm of love - perfect love - that casts out every fear. The question deep down seems to be: "Will You love me, God? When my heart is breaking, when fears overwhelm, when my soul simply can't take ONE. MORE. THING. Will You hold me, be there, console this hurting child of Yours?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I turn to the Book of Books and find those familiar words, the words I need to hear, to be told, to be filled with, to savor, to soak in, to take deep within and feast on the riches of love:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">"But now thus says the Lord,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">he who created you, O Jacob,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> he who formed you, O Israel:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> I have called you by name, you are mine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> and the flame shall not consume you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> For I am the Lord your God,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I give Egypt as your ransom,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> Cush and Seba in exchange for you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> Because you are precious in my eyes,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> and honored, and I love you,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I give men in return for you,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> peoples in exchange for your life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Fear not, for I am with you;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> I will bring your offspring from the east,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> and from the west I will gather you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> I will say to the north, Give up,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> and to the south, Do not withhold;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">bring my sons from afar</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> and my daughters from the end of the earth,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> everyone who is called by my name,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> whom I created for my glory,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> whom I formed and made.” (Isaiah 43)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My soul-questions are welcomed by God, just as I am. Fear is going to visit me. I am going to face pain, sorrow, discomfort. I am going to experience un-safety. These are real things and part of what it is to be human. But I need never fear being abandoned by God. Being alone in the storms of life. In exploring my fears, I've often concluded that I need to learn to fear some things even more. I've learned to understand that some fear is healthy - like the fear of burning myself if I touch the hot stove. Fear isn't always bad. But fear that keeps me caged inside myself, that traps me away from my own ability to feel the sadness in me, that keeps me from connected relationships - this kind of fear IS bad. It deflects me from integrating hard, painful experiences into my own whole-life story. It cuts me off from myself, and from receiving the comfort God longs to give. Fear is an opportunity to open my soul to the pain that is already there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Unlike the phrase, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," I'd like to propose a different perspective, "The only thing we have to fear is unrecognized, unaddressed, and unnoticed fear."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Fear that isn't addressed can be all-consuming. Well do I know it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">God invites me to place my fears in His capable hands, and to face the coming days with Him not only at my side, but in me and in every circumstance that threatens to explode my soul. When Jesus fed the 5000, He told the disciples to gather up what was not eaten so that none of it would be lost. Every fragment of my life is precious and useful when placed in His hands - even the fragments of fear. He is gathering up the pieces of me, the pieces that might otherwise fall by the wayside. He is gathering me and telling me I matter, my fears matter to Him. He will not lose any part of the miraculous work He's done in my life. My suffering, my grief, my pain, will not be wasted. I trust He will make an abundance of my life, of my humble offering of myself, simple and basic as I may be. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The little boy who offered up his lunch to Jesus didn't know his 5 loaves and 2 fish would not only feed a multitude, but speak to millions upon millions of people in the generations to come. I am convinced there is a message for each of us in this miracle recorded in the pages of Scripture. That the humble offering of our lives, placed in Jesus' good hands yields a miraculous return. I am simply a few loaves and fish. I show up with what I think I might need, only to discover the needs of my life are so much more than what I showed up with. And Jesus can multiply what I bring, and all that seems to be left behind is not forgotten, is not wasted, is not for nothing. "Gather it up that nothing be lost." I don't want to be lost. I'll allow myself to be gathered up and multiplied to the expansion of God's kingdom - the Kingdom of Peace. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">"Peace I leave with you" says Jesus. And I receive it. I taste and begin to see, even with eyes so dim, but ever brightening, that He is indeed Good.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">And this goodness is balm to my fearful, quivering, soul. I taste, and taste, and taste again, until I am fed and a feast is prepared. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">That enemy of fear within me can wait while I sit at a banquet prepared by my Good Shepherd. This table holds back the fear that would eat me alive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">That's what I do with my fear. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoJM9AHKeJdruX491XI17QnlbW0z9TN_Xh_mQpQ6BVoRiF-b22ftpZ3BIHnaBv6FJwwdHY0R7jfPAwxqLNJ0Xsmxsei5Blxw3J5buEuQEwq_2wi1SnsZnole3QXSqQ9LovRIw9uGZ8JP7JtzsGkZCpG5zba8laM0392Bm5V1zMCo5kmRmD1TL2VDuOMU/s4032/20231020_172506.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoJM9AHKeJdruX491XI17QnlbW0z9TN_Xh_mQpQ6BVoRiF-b22ftpZ3BIHnaBv6FJwwdHY0R7jfPAwxqLNJ0Xsmxsei5Blxw3J5buEuQEwq_2wi1SnsZnole3QXSqQ9LovRIw9uGZ8JP7JtzsGkZCpG5zba8laM0392Bm5V1zMCo5kmRmD1TL2VDuOMU/s320/20231020_172506.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZzovKMWEmuaEKyFA7qveWZWEBKnlICEdFNWtgRXjBDIlUzG1dqJjDQ48aS_ximwnB0asBuBCFchpdfMD6yE5WGqBYfj2L4RnwpWenEx4wevaU3qwUvSdueigVHeNtmlxHEG9IU_RqoibGYPa4ER4Y8udHE1_iRxrbpxymJGXNfP-42dRgY91-uFy5L8/s4032/20231018_070425.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZzovKMWEmuaEKyFA7qveWZWEBKnlICEdFNWtgRXjBDIlUzG1dqJjDQ48aS_ximwnB0asBuBCFchpdfMD6yE5WGqBYfj2L4RnwpWenEx4wevaU3qwUvSdueigVHeNtmlxHEG9IU_RqoibGYPa4ER4Y8udHE1_iRxrbpxymJGXNfP-42dRgY91-uFy5L8/s320/20231018_070425.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-46080714179046473802023-10-04T23:44:00.004-05:002023-10-05T00:06:17.185-05:00Saying Goodbye To September<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">I can't believe September is done. It feels like a gap in my year - that a whole 30 days was swallowed into some black hole or vortex of suffering. I don't know how all those days went by when I wasn't paying attention. On October 3, I usually remember the line in the sand of my life - that fateful day when I witnessed violence and fear like nothing I'd known before or since. <a href="https://sarahsbonnetbees.blogspot.com/2011/01/my-story-at-least-some-of-it.html" target="_blank">(Link to that saga here)</a> It is one of those days - a before and after, where my life is forever marked as having crossed a bridge that can never be reversed. In other words, I can't unsee <i>that.</i> This September feels strangely similar. Timo's motorcycle accident has thrown me face to face with the unpredictableness of all of life. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One moment I was heading to bed, the next, I'm riding an ambulance...it's still so surreal that I actually lived through this, and even more, that Timo did! And then two all-nighters, back to back. And to sit dazed in a hospital room, stunned, numb, and silent. To hear the screams and cries of infants, toddlers, and young children in the adjacent rooms - I sat and knew this was a place of suffering. And yet so much hope, so much care - all these surrounded me. "I don't want to be here!" I complain in my soul. And I think about the child next door and how she probably doesn't want to be here either. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We ride the elevator up and see the weary glances on the faces of other parents. Parents who've been coming and going for months - a teenager with a concussion from months ago, a kid on their umpteenth round of chemo, a child with significant developmental support needs - on and on. My few days in a children's hospital blew my mind and heart open to a world of suffering I fail to see, acknowledge or pay much attention to. I was embarrassed that our experience was so temporary.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I sit waiting in the Physical Therapy waiting room. I try to do a Bible Study to pass the time, but I keep getting distracted by the little girl next to me. There is an oxygen tank in her stroller, and her legs are in braces. The weary Mom sits next to her, and I try to imagine her life. She has had to care for this child every day for her 3 or 4 years of life. My heartache and exhaustion are nothing compared to hers. I realize this sudden jolt of my own life, that demands work, service, patience, empathy, kindness, compassion, and more strength of physical and emotional reserves than I've clearly got - this is my very brief introduction to what many face every day without signs of reprieve. I have been ignorant and spoiled. I feel like an impetuous child who has lifted my complaints heavenward, and been cushioned, and comforted in my hour of need, only to be further instructed in the school of suffering when I sit in places of pain and healing. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">September feels like the fingernails screeching across the chalkboard of my soul, and I have cringed and bristled at the lesson in pain. I start to consider how very fragile life is - how it is but a breath and the span of it is but suffering, loss, pain, and grief. And then I think, 'Wow, Sarah, these are dark and discouraging thoughts.' So much for putting a positive spin on it. There is no way to be positive when you hear children crying who should be delighting in a picnic in the park, but instead are imprisoned in a body that is failing them. I feel like a spoiled child who has tasted so little of pain. And I hold my fragile self up to God and say, 'Spoiled or not, I need You to hold my breaking heart. I need You to supply strength when I have none. I need Your mercy, Your grace, each moment, and I know I've always needed it but I see it now more than ever.'</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I told someone recently I don't believe we really need to rely on God more. I know that sounds like I'm going against common convention, but hear me out. I simply believe we need to understand how dependent on God we are at all times <b>already</b>. I wouldn't take my next breath without His loving-kindness. I AM reliant on God, whether I realize it or not. The growth that needs to happen is this: I need to see and understand <i style="font-weight: bold;">reality as it is</i>. To know that I am cocooned in the love and mercy of God in such a way that even in my unknowing-state, I am still upheld by His grace. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">September has been a time of reckoning, an uncomfortable time, a time of trauma, tears, shock, anger, struggle, and pain. When the 1st of October came, I was kind of relieved. It felt like a never-ending time warp. And still, my days are full of things I never expected - entire days spent going to the city for appointments to follow up on broken limbs and such. I haven't been downtown in years, and now I go every few weeks. Driving along the lakefront in the best weather of the year is a balm for my weary soul. I see the perfect horizon, the cloudless sky, the crisp clear water and marvel at this oasis of simplicity amidst a bustling city of complexity. The contrast is not lost on me. My life is complex, but the beauty of what God has made stills my complicated soul. In those moments I am thankful I have to go to the city. It is an opportunity to worship.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I look out the windows of the high building and realize there are thousands of people out there just doing their thing - going to work, getting by, trying and failing, trying and succeeding. I see kindness everywhere. Some seem to love their work, others not so much. Each one of these lives has its taste of suffering. And I realize how much I like to bury my head in the sand and see only my own pain. God has had mercy on me. I pray for God's mercy for each of them. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrggrvkYuEpyAwNygST03GmJxTRj0s2eoe-_JPCFe3PM2Bn_KmLd-jPNJh5k01WQFU-VHjGd_ya1C1_nLvOXT2AaX7u6jriV_UagRalS_O1FURiBuAL00cv5YSRQMacmoPTiZhDFfnuooKepBBl-oMXpzjgWW1-mfukJattNMG2KGp2Ulrvu_nUNV-hQ4/s4032/20231003_092940.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrggrvkYuEpyAwNygST03GmJxTRj0s2eoe-_JPCFe3PM2Bn_KmLd-jPNJh5k01WQFU-VHjGd_ya1C1_nLvOXT2AaX7u6jriV_UagRalS_O1FURiBuAL00cv5YSRQMacmoPTiZhDFfnuooKepBBl-oMXpzjgWW1-mfukJattNMG2KGp2Ulrvu_nUNV-hQ4/s320/20231003_092940.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Today I went to traffic court - another chunk of my life devoted to serve my child in his need. I didn't want to be there. I wished I could get out of it. But as I sat there, I listened to case after case. Each one standing before a judge - each bearing a weight of guilt, shame, regret. I noticed shoulders hunched, fidgeting, nervousness. I knew I could be one of these. It is painful to face and own my own failings. I feel for each person in the room. I see my own child, waiting his turn. I see his injured, broken, body, and again thank the Lord for sparing his life. A thought floats into my head, "You didn't want to be here. Well, you wouldn't be if he didn't survive that accident." Suddenly my annoyance melts into gratitude. "Thank you, Lord, for sparing his life."</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrestle with comparing pain. It's of course a normal trauma response. Someone always has a harder story, and worse struggle. Over time I've learned that each one must carry their load of pain, and to them, it is hard. Some actually get seasons of little or no suffering, and they may be able to support and carry others' burdens at those times. But many are living lives of perpetual grief and loss. And sometimes we glorify soul-growth to such a degree that we forget that for many, it is not an option, or a luxury, but a way of life. Our souls are trained through suffering - there is a wisdom that only comes through pain. Ascetics were onto something when they strove to deny their flesh what it needs to survive, in order to taste and learn the lessons of suffering. I say they were onto something - but the disclaimer is - they weren't onto it entirely. Their mistake, I believe, was in believing they could create their own classroom of suffering. (But I'm sure God was kindly aware and blessed them anyway). </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, I say goodbye to September. I'm glad to see it go, and it will forever feel like a black hole swallowed our time while we were busy scrambling to figure out how to run a teenager's life who is severely limited. Notice I said 'our time'. Now, if that isn't revealing, I don't know what is. What a faulty belief!! To think that time belongs to us!! If you have the luxury of planning and owning your time, be grateful. For so many, like the mom with the kid with the breathing machine in the stroller, and the cancer child mom, and the sports injury long-term concussion parent - I don't think they think of time as their own anymore. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm grateful the Lord is patient with me while I learn these things. I'm thankful He's opening my heart and eyes to see what is plainly before me. I wait and continue to trust Him for each step of my way, even when I'm tired of it. But I still pray I never have another September like this past one.</span></p><p></p><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-13967264023672009242023-09-20T23:29:00.011-05:002023-10-05T00:06:44.642-05:00What if I'm not a Victorious Christian?<p> The existence of fairy tales and their universality tells me something about the condition of the human heart: We love neatly contained stories with closure. It comforts us to feel the end of a story coming, and to know there will be a resolution, even if imperfect, brings a kind of relief. Most fairy tales have happy endings, some have gloomy endings, but they all seem to have a kind of solidly-footed ending. It wraps up the package, the telling: the journey for the hearer is complete. And I wonder if this universal yearning isn't also re-worked within Christendom to promote ideals that may yield fervour on the one hand, but despair on the other. For our fervour, consistency, zealous striving, and success are all prone to wane at times, and we may expect more from ourselves than is possible or realistic. Yet that doesn't stop Christian publishers from churning out books that beckon more from each seeker. </p><p><br /></p><p>Who am I to complain? I wouldn't read such things anyway - though I have in the past. But we in the Christian sub-culture have been conditioned to expect closure, and tidy endings (just like the rest of the world). And yet reality shows us that life rarely comes to us with tidy endings. We don't usually get to experience the closure we long for. The life of faith specifically and directly calls us to take stock in the actual reality of God and His faithful goodness to us, and to reckon with the unwieldy life we live laden as it is with uncertainty, unpredictability, loss, suffering, and risk. Faith-life is anything but tidy; it feels more like a wild, scary, dangerous, adrenaline-rush, rodeo ride through the untamed wild west. My life at times seems to be hurtling at high speeds down a circuitous tunnel with surprises around every corner. And sometimes those surprises are frightful. </p><p><br /></p><p>As I begin to reckon with the reality of our last month, I enter realms of thought-dialogue with my own soul. I hash out questions, and notice these are mechanisms to tame emotion that lies deep and unreleased. I talk to myself through all this, and talk to God, half the time telling God, 'Don't listen to that bit; it seems heretical in this moment.' I dive into a diatribe on my own theology of suffering. I tell God that I hate suffering. I hate seeing it. I don't like it one bit. I cycle through my own questions and reasonings. And I recognize reason is just another form of the B in DABDA: Bargaining. Maybe if I can reason with my reactions, they'll re-formulate into something...better? More manageable? More tame? And I realize there is rage, sorrow, loss, deep pain, and more rage, bubbling beneath the surface, and remember I used to be a red-head, with the temper to go with it.</p><p><br /></p><p>I remember telling some of my life to others and them waiting for the happy ending: "You've come through all that and you're okay, right?" I stare back blankly. I don't know exactly what to say. "Uh, I guess." I see the flicker of disappointment. We see God do amazing things and we love the miracle, the visible, tangible reality that God moves in creation, in the lives of His people, He <b>DOES THINGS.</b> But what about when I continue to live with a limp in my soul? </p><p>I've turned over the events of Timo's accident around and around in my mind. I daren't let my heart take part or I might crumble. It's okay to crumble, I tell myself. But I hesitate to believe it. I can't take my own advice it seems. The hardest part is to consider each instant where he may have died - a mere inch of clearance meant the difference between life and death. These thoughts are horrific. And yet, he lives, and I have an alive child here with me today. I am grateful - immensely grateful - for the merciful providence of God, Who no doubt had extra angels assigned to my boy that night. But the reality is not lost on me, that I may be muddling my way through even greater grief and loss. Others mourn a lost child. I only mourn pain, suffering, disruption, and a great financial burden. It seems I am tasting what is known as 'survivor's guilt.' </p><p><br /></p><p>The Christian sub-culture loves the idea of a Victorious Christian; one who, in the face of all life's struggles, emerges with unwavering faith, confidence, success and nearly Pollyanna-like glee in the face of every pain, loss, and suffering. I don't want to knock this, because it is truly a joy to watch others persevere in their faith with beautiful ponderings on all they see God doing even in the midst of great sorrow. And in this season for me, I sometimes find myself with crazy unwavering faith and confidence in the faithfulness of God. Notice that word: 'sometimes.' There are other times when I think, 'What if I don't have a fantastic attitude about all this? What if I have a freak out moment of doubt, of challenge, an outburst of rage over the things I'm going through?' What then?'</p><p><br /></p><p>We love to read the stories of devoted Christians who've gone before, who have suffered, and yet seem victorious in their attitudes about it. It's all well and good to read, listen to, and ponder their lives. But I want to encourage us to think about it carefully: We are reading these accounts <b>long after</b> they processed their sorrow. It took years to write and publish their tales. We got to hear about it when the story was concluded, when there could be a nice, tidy, ending. What about when they were <b>in</b> it? Because right now, I'm in it.</p><p><br /></p><p>I picked up the Bible and didn't know what to read. 'How about Job?' I thought to myself. 'Noooo. I don't think I want to read that. I'm dealing with enough just now. I don't want to dabble in Job's misery too.' But then I couldn't help myself. I hadn't read it in a while. So I began. I'd forgotten what all was in there. I can't say I was really encouraged by it. More fascinated. More flummoxed.</p><p><br /></p><p>Job was <b>IN it: BIG time.</b> </p><p>Suffering upon suffering. Grief upon grief. Loss upon loss. This ancient man of old lived and walked a painful, suffering road. And I get to read about it. After 7 chapters I had to stop. I can't take too much in one go of that. It just feels too heavy. How's that for a 'victorious Christian' attitude?</p><p><br /></p><p>So, yes, I'm <i style="font-weight: bold;"> in my suffering</i>. I'm not through with it. I'm not done. And looking back at my life, it seems some of my particular call involves a life of lament. I wonder if I am not called to demonstrate what lament looks like to the Church that often seems to preach more of joy and rejoicing and gratitude (all of which are SO important!) than on the biblical practice of lament. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrfGMN77S9y6v9TB-dxwoOFU9f7ZfmV8JtIbL4GCbY2arpT5j2tT1V6WL1gnqc6shfncJAcixNaFc_VNVLk_VjogwbD5rfIIBH3LVCCMsYJMHCERvs-FrqwXHWkkLhlvDca3-MwSoZ7Gu_dvVwfPbvJI7R7X2eo1U_RI3MxUYajaBLPZfMywUHe5fQBk/s4032/20230915_065700.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrfGMN77S9y6v9TB-dxwoOFU9f7ZfmV8JtIbL4GCbY2arpT5j2tT1V6WL1gnqc6shfncJAcixNaFc_VNVLk_VjogwbD5rfIIBH3LVCCMsYJMHCERvs-FrqwXHWkkLhlvDca3-MwSoZ7Gu_dvVwfPbvJI7R7X2eo1U_RI3MxUYajaBLPZfMywUHe5fQBk/s320/20230915_065700.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And, to demonstrate, I'm going to end this blog post with no real conclusion. There is no ending here. Just like how we experience life: it is ever changing, full of surprises, some joyful and some sorrowful. I know God is faithful - I see that every day. I know God is with me in my sorrow - I feel His comfort and Spirit giving consolation that can only be divine. I sense His love and tender care, even when I dabble in telling God all the reasons this kind of suffering doesn't 'count' for anything (it's not like we're toughing it out in some hostile environment). </p><p>So yes, I believe strongly that God is good all the time. And I also believe suffering sits on our souls like dead weight waiting to be tended. And that in the time it sits, and even while it is tended, I can both believe good and true things and also be in deep pain at the same time. Lamenting is also being victorious. The Psalmist did it. So I can too.</p><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-6135253707499788962023-09-15T16:58:00.001-05:002023-09-15T16:58:40.471-05:00The Awful Good; The Awful Bad<p> Let me tell you what prayer looks like for me: it involves all the feels, if I have any, and often I feel nothing. Absolutely flat. Unfeeling. Blank. Numb. Even in those states, I pray. Sometimes my words are more thoughtful, sometimes they're a jumbled mess. I don't think it really matters to God - <b>THAT</b> I pray, I am convinced, delights His heart.</p><p><br /></p><p>These days my head hits the pillow and my whole body slows down and then the feelings come. "I don't want this, God. I feel like You, in a single instant, handed me a pathway of suffering, of pain, of regret, of darkness. I know You were there, protecting my boy. I know You spared Him. I'm grateful, I'm SO grateful." Then I pause. I think about gratitude. What does it mean that I'm grateful? I open my heart before God and say, "You have been good to me, to him. I know it. His suffering is great - and ours, watching him suffer, is great too. I know it could have been worse. But in this moment, I want to tell You: it is BAD. It feels BAD. It hurts BAD. And yet I see You at work - You bring healing, You make provision for every need. You are there for us, even in the pain and darkness."</p><p><br /></p><p>I slow my thoughts and I turn towards this pain. There is fear. There is dread. The road of recovery is long and it would be easy to borrow tomorrow's worries. "Worry is a choice," I tell myself. All that will unfold will unfold in God's loving hands, and my worrying will not add or detract from that. I will arrive at tomorrow, or the next day, or the next month, or the next mail delivery with bills, or the next surgeon visit, and we will pray and trust God in all things.</p><p><br /></p><p>"Lord, I still feel I'm just crazy trusting You like this." My prayers are frank. Unfiltered, direct, raw.</p><p>God hears it all and welcomes me, my words, my every thought. </p><p>Last night the dread began again. I've been handed a season of suffering - my life and my plans, all canceled in a sudden moment when Timo had his accident. Now my days are occupied, my hours are re-claimed, as with a newborn, all the child's needs become central. I tell God what I think of this state of affairs. I don't like it. I hate to see suffering. I hate that he is in pain. I hate that he has lost so much, so suddenly, and that this is his journey for now. I tell God, "This wasn't the plan." Then God reminds me of all the things I've prayed, specifically for this kid, for so many years. Even in recent weeks, desperate prayers that I tried to take back. I told God, "Please reach Him, no matter what it takes. No, I don't mean that...I take that back. Reach him, but go easy on him." Then I think of the many ways God has intervened in my life. I thank God for going easy on me. I pray He heals my boy. </p><p><br /></p><p>I live in the day's needs - the first things first. So many small tasks pile up. I am needed in so many ways, and I crumble under responsibility. It's not my strong suit. Any who know me in my running around getting kids lunches, picking them up, dropping them off, forgetting appointments all together - you know responsibility is my Achilles heel. Now I have doctors and forms to fill out and websites to check and phone calls and it's like I went from parenting two kids (my youngest 2) to now a very needy and significantly broken child. </p><p><br /></p><p>I see the amazing ways God has answered my prayers of desperation. Every night I prayed for protection for him. I drove behind him at times and gripped the wheel, praying fervently for his heart, mind, body, soul to be re-directed. I brought these prayers to daily prayer at Church. I trusted others to hold up my arms in prayer. God was not silent. He was not forgetful. He was working all along. I see it now. The prayers offered in faith, with no knowledge of what God was up to, were heard. </p><p><br /></p><p>It is the most horrific awful bad experience to watch excruciating suffering and pain in my child. I cannot call it good at any level. My first few texts of desperation said things like, "This is BAD BAD BAD." I didn't know how else to put it. And yet as I continue to discover small details of his accident, I see the awful GOOD in it all. Somehow, even in the worst pain and suffering, we see how God has spared our son. He has preserved his life. He has his limbs. He has a season of healing and recovery. </p><p><br /></p><p>Jacob wrestled with God and emerged with a lifelong limp - a painful reminder of his encounter. I imagine and pray Timo someday walks with the knowledge that God has met him and spared him. I pray his soul is woven deeply into the rich soil of the mercy and grace of God. I pray that God, the Loving and Kind Perfect Parent, will scoop his hurting body up and re-knit him together to be a vessel of grace for others.</p><p><br /></p><p>For now, however, there is a work of lament. An honest reckoning that tells God how it feels. God can handle my grief - each stage of DABDA (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance). Not only does God handle it, He walks with me in and through it. I continue to exercise and build trust muscles, knowing the everlasting arms are stronger yet. </p><p><br /></p><p>This morning as my lament began yet again, I remembered the words of Job when his wife is fed up with his suffering. She tells him to simply curse God and die. Job, I imagine without batting an eye, turns to her and tells her a profound truth: "Shall we accept good from God and not trouble?" (Job 2:10)</p><p>As I recalled this, I pictured God opening up my life to this suffering, and my resistance - even anger - refusal, to accept it. I don't want to receive this burden, this sorrow, this pain. And yet in the awful bad, there is awful good. I have tasted and seen the goodness of the Lord, even in this land of the living, where my son still lives. I have walked through the scene in my mind and had to grapple with the very stark potential reality of that night where we would have been planning a funeral rather than a recovery. I think, with grave horror, "That is even more awful. I couldn't stand it." And I remember that even in those dark moments, God would be present and give me grace for that trial. </p><p><br /></p><p>Will you pray for me, and with me, and our family, and our son, on this long journey to wholeness, whatever that might look like? </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pGG5yP42a-3ekpiwKh1Yi5N0zOWs7QINxIJ_O-L6Ptdsv4Mm3h6QqAyZoNzcZAOOtePDorIpvm9D9D5j1q03YyQ2AxZiGBC_vSly7ArivLvaDjdtO-CSeJwZhErVDsxIlq_wIZo4Bro_sTDPjpS5YcsIAQs6KmIPv8zCzJQWrZErE9sruPhcL9FJQMI/s4032/20230712_183027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pGG5yP42a-3ekpiwKh1Yi5N0zOWs7QINxIJ_O-L6Ptdsv4Mm3h6QqAyZoNzcZAOOtePDorIpvm9D9D5j1q03YyQ2AxZiGBC_vSly7ArivLvaDjdtO-CSeJwZhErVDsxIlq_wIZo4Bro_sTDPjpS5YcsIAQs6KmIPv8zCzJQWrZErE9sruPhcL9FJQMI/s320/20230712_183027.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I'm so grateful for all the ways our community is supporting us at this time. </p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-65014815860008211162023-09-14T07:15:00.006-05:002023-10-05T00:07:15.857-05:00The Craziness of Faith<p> I realize people of Christian faith, people of other faith, and people of no particular faith, read this blog. And all are welcome here. Thing is, I sometimes ponder my own life of faith through an external-journalistic eye, and pronounce my own opinions of myself: Sarah, your faith is just crazy.</p><p><br /></p><p>Even in my prayers, I express this directly to the God I believe is there: "Lord, is this just a fanatical, pie-in-the-sky sentimental thing that I do - praying to You? I sometimes feel crazy trusting You <i style="font-weight: bold;">this much</i>." Here I am, in those moments, asking God if He thinks I'm as crazy as I seem to think myself. Sometimes I trust God so wildly, so boldly, so almost-stupidly, that I think I'm more than a few cards short of a full-deck. And then I tell God what I think of my trusting Him so much - I analyze it and say, "There's a word for this in psychological terms: Magical thinking." </p><p><br /></p><p>Lately I've been trying to wrap my head around this concept: magical thinking. It's a psychology term that largely refers to what children in certain developmental stages do when they think they can control or manipulate outcomes by fantastical notions. A simple one is 'if you step in the crack you break your mother's back' which is ridiculous and even the most basically developed child will figure out soon enough is hogwash. But it shows up in adults who continue these trends by saying, 'If you forward this meme to 15 people you'll receive some random blessing.' This is the adult version of magical thinking.</p><p><br /></p><p>But then we get to matters of faith. And prayer. And desperation. And hope. And despair. And belief. "There is a God in heaven, and He hears my prayer, so I will pray to Him and tell Him all I need. All I feel. All I think. In this moment and all the moments of my life to come," I tell myself. And in the telling I argue in my soul back to myself, "Isn't this a form of magical thinking? To think that you can manipulate God by prayers to do things for you?" And then I throw this challenge up to God in yet another move of crazy faith. </p><p><br /></p><p>It is my firm belief that if you are a parent, you must have faith, even if you don't know it or see it in yourself. I'm not saying what kind of faith that is. Or how each tenet or deeply held belief is formed in you. All I can say is, bearing children into the world, or being responsible for them, is a de facto supplier of anxiety, risk, fear, and never-ending worry. And the human soul cannot long bear under such burdens. And the courage required to walk with children through their developing life-stages demands an element of faith; unswerving trust that even with all our best efforts, a God of love showers them with blessing, protection, provision, more than we ever could. The birth of a child seems to birth faith in all of us. </p><p><br /></p><p>I have faced the most horrific experience I never wanted to face in the past 2 weeks. To protect my son, I cannot go into all the details here and now, but I can say I've walked through, and perhaps am still in, a season of shock, grief, and gratitude. To watch a child suffer is excruciating (I think of Mary, Jesus' mother frequently these days). The pain and extreme suffering I've witnessed these past two weeks has wrenched my stomach to where I almost puked numerous times. To see my child bear-up under serious injury challenges my own strength, when I might be about to crumble. To sit with a child who is confronted with his own seeming-impending death is not only shocking to the core, but is an invitation to even crazier faith - to open my eyes to see what I wasn't seeing before.</p><p><br /></p><p>You see, we pray for our kids. It's a matter of fact, and matter of faith. Not because we believe prayer is a magical good-luck charm. Not because we believe God is going to smite us if we don't. Not because we are superstitious or plagued with magical thinking. We pray because we must, and because we believe God is actual, real, the very Great Creator of All things, including our children. We pray because we recognize our humanity, our frailty, how we are not the master of our own lives and fate, while at the same time embracing our responsibility to our own lives and fate. Even the most committed agnostic or atheist will pray, almost involuntarily, at the suffering of their child. </p><p><br /></p><p>Faith is not a crutch for those in distress. It is at the very core of the reality of our lives that hang by a thread, yet we think we build iron-clad fences around ourselves. No amount of healthy choices can forestall the inevitability of death. None of us can re-work the statistics that 100 out of every 100 people who have ever lived have died. Yet we'd like to deny this fact - this very uncomfortable fact, and pretend we can re-configure the numbers somehow. And when death stares my child in the face, and I see the reckoning playing out in real-time, if I were a person who cannot or will not pray, I would , of all people, be most despairing.</p><p><br /></p><p>And yet this is not the case for me. I watched my son strapped to a stretcher, minutes before being loaded onto a helicopter, turn his eyes to me and pleadingly ask, 'Will you pray for me right now?' A child who has never asked this of me - in his short 17 years of life. You can believe in that moment I was ready to exercise my crazy faith - faith that my feeble words in that moment would call on the power of the Almighty to watch over, protect, carry with angel-wings, this child whose broken body screamed for divine intervention.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgh7N7qSlqk5pno4yx-op1YWEL-zfjqNril5pVTGOmxOL_nClgrbIwBg0CivOV3jFXyqHLzfHITTjsIL7AL63BgH3oAAZcJRnSK4Kr4yPtCJ3VlXbSRz_MhXz0jK_kGfg_c8LATd83DJGws0D07ESn0agkvzKzdxnwGM2GkJlrKegZI1drm9mG3S358NE/s4032/20230805_095100.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgh7N7qSlqk5pno4yx-op1YWEL-zfjqNril5pVTGOmxOL_nClgrbIwBg0CivOV3jFXyqHLzfHITTjsIL7AL63BgH3oAAZcJRnSK4Kr4yPtCJ3VlXbSRz_MhXz0jK_kGfg_c8LATd83DJGws0D07ESn0agkvzKzdxnwGM2GkJlrKegZI1drm9mG3S358NE/s320/20230805_095100.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>I had asked God 2 weeks before, in a moment of need, when we were trying to pay Priscilla's college tuition bill, that had come to the final 3 hours before midnight and was due, 'Am I crazy to trust You this much, like this, for these practical needs? Do You think I'm nuts, Lord? Because sometimes I think I am." And God, in those final hours before the deadline showed us we had enough - within a couple hundred dollars to make this payment and not take on college debt (which is our aim in this season). From finances, to health, to protection, to healing, to wisdom, to relationships (strife, peace, discord, harmony), to disasters - all of these are borne by wings of faith and prayer to a very real God Whose delight is to hear, "Will you pray for me right now?" Because when our words falter, it is God Himself, by His Spirit, Who prays for us: "He intercedes for us with groanings to deep for words." So says Paul in Romans 8 - that epic chapter that is the heartbeat of the Christian Gospel.</p><p><br /></p><p>When I am faithless, He remains faithful.</p><p>When I cannot pray, God Himself issues forth His Spirit to pray for me.</p><p>When my child is broken and pleading, God, a very real, very present, not-magical-thinking-superstitious God, is THERE. With him. Carrying him. </p><p><br /></p><p>You see, it isn't just a mystical entity I believe in. It is a God Who took on flesh and blood and made sure we could see Him. I do not pray to a God I only imagine, I pray to One Who bears wounds, whose suffering gives meaning to my own. This is why I can pray, why I can exercise crazy faith. Because the God I pray to is not a figment of my imagination. </p><p>So yes, my faith, and maybe yours, is just a little bit crazy. I grant that. But God seems to be okay with that. So I guess I can be too.</p><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-51253308065775837432023-07-04T12:50:00.001-05:002023-07-04T13:56:58.201-05:00Heritage<p> About 2 weeks ago I received a short message from someone saying she had finally made it to visit my parents' grave - to remember them and their impact on her life. She added a picture of herself next to their headstone. I messaged back that had I known she was in town, we could have met. We were not very well acquainted or connected, and she didn't know I lived in the Chicago area. She was leaving the next day, and we had enough time to catch a deep-dish pizza lunch together.</p><p><br /></p><p>She had met my parents in 1979 when she had escaped from Vietnam on a boat - many were fleeing the country at that time. My parents had just begun to work in the refugee camps in Hong Kong. Winnie got her English name after asking my Dad to give her one. When she became a U.S. citizen she made it official - taking a Western name, given her by a western man who once took her to the dentist when she was in great pain. She never forgot his kindness. She wanted to bless his memory somehow.</p><p><br /></p><p>I asked Hannah if she wanted to come along, and we met at a halfway point between our house and the airport. Winnie remembers me as a young child - down to the dress I wore when we visited her in California. For a few moments during lunch, I got talking to her travel companions, and she was talking to Hannah. When we got to the car, Hannah told me she was given an envelope, with specific instructions to share the contents evenly with her siblings. </p><p><br /></p><p>This is a custom in Asia - for older family and friends to give monetary gifts to younger relatives and friends. Hannah's eyes grew wide when she opened the envelope. "This is more money than I've ever had in my possession at one time!" she exclaimed. </p><p><br /></p><p>Over lunch, Winnie told me how fond she was of my parents - how my Dad had helped her practically and emotionally through her time as a refugee. She was still moved to tears recalling his kindness to her.</p><p><br /></p><p>I made sure Hannah distributed the gift, and I explained to my kids that this is a gift in part from Winnie, but also from Grandpa. If Grandpa had not been kind to Winnie, if he had not seen her in her distress, helped her, cared for her, and reached out to her, we would not be sitting at the pizza place and receiving this gift. Grandpa planted seeds of kindness and love in others, and my kids are receiving a tangible expression of gratitude some 40 years later. This is my kids' heritage: a heritage of kindness and compassion.</p><p><br /></p><p>Grandpa may not have left them a huge inheritance of the financial kind, but they are heir to his faith, to his vision for those under oppression and without resources. I know he could have invested his life trying to make money to leave to his grandkids. Instead, he gave himself to the work God called him to, leaving me and my kids a legacy of faithfulness to God - one that calls us to love, service, compassion, and opening our eyes to see those hurting around us.</p><p><br /></p><p>Today in America we think a lot about freedom as a nation. Freedom as individuals. My Dad was American and free, yet he used his freedom to serve others. Our heritage is not one of self-indulgent freedom, but freedom of another kind. Since we have been freed from fear, from the drive to be self-serving (though that does still plague me at times), we are free to give, free to sacrifice our selves to serve others. And yet even this opportunity to freely serve came at a cost. Today we celebrate this national freedom to worship God without fear (and serve Him without restraint). Countless soldiers have given their lives and service to protect these freedoms we enjoy. That is what we are grateful for today. </p><p><br /></p><p>As I reflect on our heritage as both a nation and a family, I'm grateful for those who have given of themselves to enable us to enjoy these gifts - and not merely to enjoy them as an end in itself, but to propel me to carry that legacy forward: of self-sacrifice, love, service, and kindness.</p><p><br /></p><p>In asking God to bless our nation, my prayer is that He blesses us with an awareness of what this blessing involves: a calling to live out and give out this blessing to others - the blessing of freedom - the blessing of freedom to serve, give, and extend ourselves to free others. It saddens me to think that many of us not only take our freedom for granted, but fail to see what we have been freed *FOR*. The Christian understanding is that freedom is meant to be a channel, not a dead end. Our freedom is to be a conduit of freedom for others. </p><p><br /></p><p>Let's live in the calling of our freedom: "It is for freedom that Christ has set us free."</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdOYM5ic33O2Iib2_DxUKvzaQfNp5xWzQyy0HGhxXsf_lzd-21GE-pgGdICNwBQUQ4-CLxdLvY38jtyTtnnPtkxRKbQVt1FcHgozYi4heW9DVx1dOC9mmU71Gtm8xp4-I9EsH_4lKmYW8iyU-ajiYCF00WEMDgVLDnYFC5bEqlfbjGWFbbheg2cXLD2M/s2902/20230626_105524-EFFECTS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2902" data-original-width="2177" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdOYM5ic33O2Iib2_DxUKvzaQfNp5xWzQyy0HGhxXsf_lzd-21GE-pgGdICNwBQUQ4-CLxdLvY38jtyTtnnPtkxRKbQVt1FcHgozYi4heW9DVx1dOC9mmU71Gtm8xp4-I9EsH_4lKmYW8iyU-ajiYCF00WEMDgVLDnYFC5bEqlfbjGWFbbheg2cXLD2M/s320/20230626_105524-EFFECTS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>(One of the 9 monarch butterflies we recently hatched and released - such a picture of freedom and transformation).<br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-59328733293038723192023-06-01T09:51:00.005-05:002023-06-01T10:36:41.109-05:00Musing: The Giver and the Self<p> <span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">When I come to myself -</span></p><p><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Realize there is a self to come to,</span></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A space, a moment, an in-between -</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>find surprise - there is a me beyond the doing.</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The doing of things is necessary,</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A blessing, even. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But a self that thinks,</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">That feels the ground beneath my feet</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">That beholds beauty and is awestruck,</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This is a gift - the first gift to me</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Is me. </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I am taken with the Giver -</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">From His hand come all good things.</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But would He not have me welcome this first gift?</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">To know it, receive it, accept it?</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I think He would.</div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZSRY6kxHqhDq5AvfD49qUxVnfLqixo1pb-11ruC6If_8bavJofJRndzr50pgtlHQdyL7z8iFfMTmG0Y4sq1MDzxy8hqd-9CY2-OXI9mEwKVXClGclZoZKIKKcyNb2S-628z_rw4gs2N7_76y5aX97sl0KhbvI3myg1hMLnu57fAj7NgIWfzCatEH/s4032/20230517_065918.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZSRY6kxHqhDq5AvfD49qUxVnfLqixo1pb-11ruC6If_8bavJofJRndzr50pgtlHQdyL7z8iFfMTmG0Y4sq1MDzxy8hqd-9CY2-OXI9mEwKVXClGclZoZKIKKcyNb2S-628z_rw4gs2N7_76y5aX97sl0KhbvI3myg1hMLnu57fAj7NgIWfzCatEH/s320/20230517_065918.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4dBivMyZD_J2N3da5-974gSl3ZX2tDWH7UxCoiATrL0b-ozT6Nh0SYcWz0N0iykNwOpWt76S3G5bOUdcph5chyqf0mDoExazdez12s3Sx-FYMigaGmAf492O5NpQlrTRoz6Bw6Z9vAROgzUsUaeUw5DbOn5XHmjG7dOfP0oPoIGt22yHHjzzu_HM/s3120/IMG_20230419_160611187~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="3120" height="87" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4dBivMyZD_J2N3da5-974gSl3ZX2tDWH7UxCoiATrL0b-ozT6Nh0SYcWz0N0iykNwOpWt76S3G5bOUdcph5chyqf0mDoExazdez12s3Sx-FYMigaGmAf492O5NpQlrTRoz6Bw6Z9vAROgzUsUaeUw5DbOn5XHmjG7dOfP0oPoIGt22yHHjzzu_HM/s320/IMG_20230419_160611187~2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-73990516544647692462023-05-09T11:50:00.007-05:002023-10-05T00:11:53.022-05:00Radical Hospitality<p> I was about 15 when I first read the small tract-pamphlet, "My Heart, Christ's Home" and I'm not quite sure how I felt about the message it brought. I think I cringed a little. It felt like I was tempted to hide parts of myself from God, for fear or shame of what He must think of me. It evoked something contrary in me...something...amiss? I can't quite place words to describe my misgivings. Even so, it left a seed - a thought-seed - in me, to germinate, ponder, and dialogue in prayer, asking, "Lord, are You welcome in every crevice of my heart?" And I lay that before God and we explore together, even the darkest corners of my soul. I believe in the exploring there is grace. And discovery - not so much for God - surely, He knows what's there before I do. </p><p>Many years later, I discovered Theresa of Avila's <i>Interior Castle. </i>It harkened back to that germinating seed - is my heart Christ's home? Her writing drew me in differently somehow. I suppose it was the quickening desire, the call of love, the Voice of Welcome, Nurture, and Grace, that flowed through her writing. I read it and yearned that my interior castle be an inner oasis for the Holy Spirit and Me to discover <i>communion. </i>That place where loneliness cannot be, because God is there, in the most intimate way, in the depths of my soul. Surely He abides in our hearts through faith, so say the Scriptures, and so in the depths of my heart I meet and commune with Him. </p><p>These writings seem to focus on the internal. On the inner life with God. The heart, the secrets, the hidden places. These are well worth exploring. But nothing that goes on inside is meant to simply sit and marinate. It's meant to work itself out into real life - life with others, life in our homes, families, marriages, communities. I wouldn't mind so much going deep with God, if only it could just remain at that level. I think my spiritual life has been like that in the past. And it was needed. Nothing outside of God seemed safe enough to open. I didn't know we could reverse the damage of betrayal, trauma, harm, and come into a place of being with others that included the dark, shadow-side of my self. For a time, God allowed me to incubate in safety with Him. And slowly, as I read Scripture, fed on Christ in communion with others of His children, yearned for transformation, and went deep into prayer, God began to nudge me out of my cocoon. Oh, how I love my cocoon. I could stay in my inner self forever, like a hermit, and never emerge. Yet this is not God's call to me. </p><p>In thinking of myself as a vessel, a temple, a habitation of the Holy, I started to think about the word, 'hospitality.' Mostly we think of this in terms of serving tea to guests. Or making a place for travelers to sleep, or a hearty meal, or a service - such as rides to and from an airport. These are all appropriate ways to think of hospitality. Hospitality means welcome, comfort, belonging, acceptance, nurture, provision. Theresa helped me envision my being as a hospitable dwelling for the Divine. And God began to bring me to a new place of extending that hospitality beyond my soul, to my home, my presence, my activities, my time, in essence: all my life.</p><p>This means the discovery does not remain in the theoretical. It does not get to germinate in my soul forever. This kind of growth will form buds, spring open, and responding to the light of Grace, yield its fruit in its season. Yet so often I look at the leaves of my soul and wonder if they aren't shriveling in the drought. I must push deeper roots into the soil and reach the deep wells of water - those living streams that never run dry. </p><p>Last year, God invited me to explore what radical hospitality might mean. I have been memorizing Psalm 119 (I'll likely never finish, but it's a good exercise). I noticed numerous times the Psalmist referring to himself as the Lord's servant. It made me think of Mary, of Apostle Paul, of so many servants in Scripture. And I wondered if I might have missed something. If I am the Lord's servant, then surely, all my life is His, and He might have things for me to do (like it says in Ephesians 2:10). This, of course, is plainly obvious, and pretty basic Christian teaching. Any Sunday school kid would know this. I'm guessing we all hope to live as servants of Christ - not out of droll duty or drudgery, but from a place of devoted love: My life is yours - do with it as you will! And some of us are called to go far away to serve in some foreign land (but where the Spirit of the Lord is, surely it is home in some sense!). What would it look like if each of us gave God the 'OK, ask me what you will, and I'll do it!'?</p><p>When I think thoughts like this, my mind goes nutso: Yeah, well right now, maybe God is calling you to sweep the floor, go through the mess in your room and walk away from the computer? What if God is calling you to diet and live on monastic rations to develop your soul just a bit? I hear these things in my head and plead for mercy. And I remember the verse: "His yoke is easy and His burden is light."</p><p>So last year God did call me to step up in the realm of radical hospitality.</p><p>You see, I live with depression and it can be paralyzing at times. I sometimes can barely function. I know myself, I know my struggle, and it is work simply to manage. And last fall, someone sent us an email and said, 'There's this girl who needs a home and family to live with, and we think your family would be a great fit!' And I saw that email and said to myself (and to God), "There is no way I can add one other thing to my life." A month before that I had heard of another family who needed more volunteers. The Mom had had a stroke a year before, and needed hands-on assistance with her young children. I did not jump at the chance. I thought, 'Young children exhaust me.' I had heard of their need and did not volunteer, but prayed others would step up. And then I was chatting with one of their family members, and she expressed how much they were needing someone to come on Wednesdays. I thought for a moment, "You don't have anything scheduled on Wednesdays." And I hesitated. But this Mom had served my daughter as her 5th grade teacher - she gave a year of herself to build into my daughter - could I not spare a morning a week to serve her in her need? It was a risk to commit. I might be flattened by it. I might not have stamina. I would rather curl up in a ball most Wednesdays and shut the world out. Or I could give of myself to be the hands and feet this family needed for a few hours. </p><p><br /></p><p>I began to go each Wednesday, and at first found it challenging. I had forgotten how hard it is to chase around little kids, to be 'on' all the time, to be constantly in motion, moving, directing, feeding, changing, tidying, sweeping up crumbs, wiping grubby hands and faces. I had been there, done that. But maybe I needed to revisit this scene. So I did. And slowly God opened my eyes to why I was there. I was learning to see things afresh, yet again. Watching children think, wonder, play, reason, emote - these are gifts they give to me each week. A new baby was born, and I hold her. I watch her brain develop, her eyes light up. I see in her a picture of me with God. I am held, dependent, needy, helpless. God brought me to serve, but I am in His schoolhouse in the process. Radical hospitality isn't so much about what we bring to others; its the openness, the welcome, the acceptance that God offers me when I open my door to serving others. It's a two-way street. I'm not saying we should all jump up and start volunteering (though don't let me hold you back!). I'm trying to point out that offering ourselves as servants isn't so much about we do for others, but about opening our hands to the blessings God wants to pour into us. If we are to gather the crumbs from His table, surely our hands must be open to receiving them. And sometimes the crumbs come in the form of willing service.</p><p>I let that email about the girl who needed a home sit. I was not in the least interested. I didn't reply. A week went by. And then I mentioned it to Sam. He let it sit for a week. </p><p></p><p><br /></p>We both felt compassion for this girl. She was 24, had lost her Dad in a motorcycle accident 2 months before. Her sister had drowned 2 years before. She now had no resources to keep her home. She was facing another loss - her situation was heartbreaking. We decided to pray for her and about her.<p></p><p></p>And long story short, after I told God, "My heart is absolutely closed to this. So if You want to have her live with us, You'll have to open my heart." God did just that. (I can say how in another post).<p></p><p></p>In December, Kathryn moved in with us. We have now had her 6 months and I'm continuing to learn what radical hospitality means. <p></p>(Kathryn also came with 2 dogs...stretching our understanding of hospitality to new levels :D)***see addendum below for update***<div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTrExjvX0LCLYP8vsOhWcD9RPeHC5OWVXTl1HZ2_p-XmYcnmrU5U1TPamEXHVa_btHiLxtM2EGsnhBIA2kvcNhIElADD5CWqqzLswf4638p5QqrCvyh-bHqDKlzyHV4hh4RwL5I5P0_H5q2de0xJchJ6uhfwN5Ze86IEuNm9keFcS5QVs58bLHZQ5/s4032/20221206_213753.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTrExjvX0LCLYP8vsOhWcD9RPeHC5OWVXTl1HZ2_p-XmYcnmrU5U1TPamEXHVa_btHiLxtM2EGsnhBIA2kvcNhIElADD5CWqqzLswf4638p5QqrCvyh-bHqDKlzyHV4hh4RwL5I5P0_H5q2de0xJchJ6uhfwN5Ze86IEuNm9keFcS5QVs58bLHZQ5/s320/20221206_213753.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>You may have noticed I've slowed down in writing. Some of that is writer's block. Some of that is life in general, depressiveness, family struggles -what-have-you. Some of it is simply living the life I'll write about at some point. </p><p>This inner work of yielding and opening my soul to God has implications for how I live life. God has radically yielded the life of His Son to welcome me into His family. If I am to be a little Christ (a Christian) it might mean the opening of the doors of not only my heart, but my home as well, to one in need.</p><p>Radical hospitality is not only of heart, of presence, of service, but also of car, of tools, of lawn mower, of a cup of sugar or 2 eggs, of home, of laundry, of listening, of silence, of tears. Hospitality makes room because God has made room in His kingdom for me. </p><p>Oh Lord, make me a vessel overflowing with Your grace. Amen.</p><p><br /></p><p>****I'm adding this a few months after I posted this: Kathryn's dogs needed greater care than we or she could give them - they both had health conditions that were urgent. It was yet another loss and difficulty when she had to give them to a shelter that found them a new home and covered their medical needs. We are grateful the dogs are healing and in a new home, but the parting has been difficult for her.</p></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-75920784282942299332023-04-23T17:23:00.004-05:002023-04-23T17:25:26.975-05:0023 years and half my life<p> 23 years ago today I woke up and felt miserable - I think I had vomitted in the night and I phoned Sam first thing in the morning. "I don't think I can get married today," I said. This was, of course, disheartening to him. But I gingerly drank some weak tea, handed my Dad a folded up plastic bag to keep in his pocket while he walked me down the aisle, and proceeded to prepare for our wedding later that day. It was Easter Sunday - a day full of hope, joy, and resurrection celebration. Maybe I was hoping that Easter would represent our marriage - the resurrection power of Christ infused into our union. Easter is a day of hope fulfilled, faith becoming sight, the unbelievable becoming real.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIA47kd7aKk3SPcD2ZTpiTJWIl6coFonDRyFPJVdKk8lralevT5bJpACGwi_2s9Q1RMC_pJGOYewL0nlA79uPMd9PeLd-w6F-Uob8nh1DFItJFYsxIfV7ySeHliXVIayEMzZ0SDXsh9wZnujEqsvamY3on6_54z_esJ6c_4IMc4UG7HgcaYBLsE4X/s2988/Scan10046.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2988" data-original-width="2918" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIA47kd7aKk3SPcD2ZTpiTJWIl6coFonDRyFPJVdKk8lralevT5bJpACGwi_2s9Q1RMC_pJGOYewL0nlA79uPMd9PeLd-w6F-Uob8nh1DFItJFYsxIfV7ySeHliXVIayEMzZ0SDXsh9wZnujEqsvamY3on6_54z_esJ6c_4IMc4UG7HgcaYBLsE4X/s320/Scan10046.JPG" width="313" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>That's essentially what I felt marriage was going to be. </p><p>And I don't intend to dampen the romantic notions I had but I must say, these were indeed, romantic sentiments. Marriage has turned out to be gritty, challenging, (rewarding, yes!), hard work, stretching, painful, on the negative side. On the positive side, instead of listing descriptors like 'joyful' and 'life-giving' (um...5 lives, in fact!), let me take each of the negative descriptors and give why I can be grateful for each of these:</p><p>Gritty.</p><p>Friction...like grit under the skin. How is this in any way positive? Let's ask the oyster who endures grit, rolling it around in the ocean's gentle, and sometimes violent waves. Let's ask how the grit becomes a thing of beauty. Yes, I believe the grit of marriage has yielded its pearls for me. </p><p><br /></p><p>Challenging.</p><p>Marriage for us has been challenging. We both brought our hard heads into this. And we have challenged each other and from these challenges has come growth, deepening dependence on the Lord, greater awareness and understanding of each other (and society in general, by extension), and greater love for each other as we endure the challenges of trying to see eye-to-eye. We have had to learn how to build a marriage including the challenges, in spite of the challenges and FOR the challenges we have faced together. </p><p><br /></p><p>Hard Work.</p><p>Marriage is not a walk in the park. I imagine for some it might be. I hope you have the picnic idyllic marriage life. It just hasn't been that for us. Sam and I, for all we had in common, had a whole lot NOT in common. Sam is an engineer. I'm a....(what am I? think, think, think...) free spirit?! Writer, kind of? Sam grew up in rural Zambia. I grew up in Hong Kong (albeit in a village on a mountain). Our cultural, family styles were extremely different. Sam's family was more reserved, polite, British, proper. My family was more casual, expressive, informal, and emotionally charged. Sam had never seen his parents have an argument (!) I had lived with conflict rampant in our home from day one. These dynamics take a lot to work through and patience to endure our differences. </p><p><br /></p><p>Stretching.</p><p>Marriage has meant I've had to grow in selflessness. I've had to stretch in ways that felt difficult and uncomfortable. When I stretch physically, I feel a strain and discomfort, and I hold the stretch, allowing for a measure of discomfort so that I can prevent a backache in the future. Marriage has demanded that I stretch myself to consider others' needs and desires (because we also have children thrown into the mix :D). I'm still being stretched. It's still uncomfortable. And some of the stretching is also in finding ways to meet my own needs - not merely to consider myself a 'need-meeter' - a fixation of the household to support everyone, but also a member with particular and significant needs. It is stretching for me to admit I have needs, and to advocate for meeting my own needs is its own kind of stretch. Often Christian marriage commentary focuses so much on everyone becoming more selfless and trying to be better, do better, be more humble, more serving, more giving. I think I tried that, a lot. I never succeeded much. It's still good to try in these things, but it feels like so much striving, when God has given us everything we need for life and godliness. I think the secret is less in the striving and more in the abiding, but don't quote me on it, or I might be labeled a heretic. (Oh well).</p><p>Painful.</p><p>Yes, marriage has been painful. Both for the ways I've been hurt and the ways I've dished out the hurting. It has been frustrating and lonely at times. It's a myth that marriage ends loneliness. Marriage can be, and often is, one of the loneliest states of being. A single person can hope for or look for a mate and hope for the ending of loneliness. Loneliness in marriage is a very common and hidden, under-expressed reality. I have been lonely in my marriage for many seasons. Sam has also lived through many times of loneliness. It isn't that we weren't there for each other - we were. But so many misunderstandings, perspectives that were warped, or even unwillingness to express our loneliness or need, kept us from companioning each other. </p><p><br /></p><p>And for all these things, I'm thankful. I'm thankful that God saw fit to bring Sam and I together - even if it came about in such a violent, gut-wrenching, traumatic way. I'm thankful that God sovereignly orchestrated our lives to meet and that Sam actually wanted to marry me. I'm grateful that even in my traumatized state I was able to think clearly enough to pursue getting married, even with the turbulent path those 6 months of engagement took. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIWScFk8MIIQeOPfX4Nb0MiFxbzT91a6s5V3Dyq74n2wXmnjIV-pZQJ3N6IxJThK82T85bs9ExjoOnHUVqhHKNcpG_9jE9eibvRd6-YhqOG-7raJKvo0oJwJirdq8_ZSTAtp1v7KD1wJqIYnQ4jIEvIe-xbgI-M_j0O-zkHx2tJM_AskSknPHLR0Y/s3018/Scan10013.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3018" data-original-width="2965" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIWScFk8MIIQeOPfX4Nb0MiFxbzT91a6s5V3Dyq74n2wXmnjIV-pZQJ3N6IxJThK82T85bs9ExjoOnHUVqhHKNcpG_9jE9eibvRd6-YhqOG-7raJKvo0oJwJirdq8_ZSTAtp1v7KD1wJqIYnQ4jIEvIe-xbgI-M_j0O-zkHx2tJM_AskSknPHLR0Y/s320/Scan10013.JPG" width="314" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>23 years ago I was 23 - half the age I am now. And today, on the 23rd of April, we celebrate our 'golden' anniversary (not the 50 year Golden), and maybe the overcoming of the adolescence of our marriage. I told Sam when we got married that I'd give it a try for 50 years, and then re-evaluate. At this point, I only have 27 years to go!</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBrgcFBi0ALm9J7R1stlOqQQac7kqxqpkCsroRFwbJCsIX5BSOWkH5Tk9OmTSXZ9DYXqPrJvaTT4rQmUI2cUW_rHiGQf-vXmISMR9J4SzbXSCXjXfLTQtsaM225iBudm3_9fFdoL_UXBL_cyu8bME-hT5vhokL6XDngCYD3k6WuHJf4kVYnR6-cum/s3022/Scan10061.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3022" data-original-width="2963" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBrgcFBi0ALm9J7R1stlOqQQac7kqxqpkCsroRFwbJCsIX5BSOWkH5Tk9OmTSXZ9DYXqPrJvaTT4rQmUI2cUW_rHiGQf-vXmISMR9J4SzbXSCXjXfLTQtsaM225iBudm3_9fFdoL_UXBL_cyu8bME-hT5vhokL6XDngCYD3k6WuHJf4kVYnR6-cum/s320/Scan10061.JPG" width="314" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-46397631330524565672023-03-21T09:49:00.001-05:002023-03-21T09:54:28.074-05:00My Pilgrim Journey<p><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">I am a person in process – never quite done I suppose</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We find our start in life with a Mother.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I have a Mother, who had a Mother. I am a Mother</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Imperfectly Mothered, I Mother.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Yet mostly I don’t know what it is I’m doing or how to keep doing it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">But there is no out – No quitting! No vacation! – This permanent job.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Yet because of my own Mother-wound</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Deep, still unhealed – I undertake a journey;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A walk through the interior and find a need, a lack, a soul-longing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">What is this yearning – how does it shape me in this moment?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It tells me I have unfinished business</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Never complete this side of the mansion in the sky.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It tells me this hunger in my soul – both gift and burden –</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A yoke easy pressing about me – weight assures me weariness is real.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I do not imagine the load.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">And a voice whispering Divine Love assures me:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“The hungry are fed and never sent away empty.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I welcome, with joy, this news. My heart overflows with hope:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“Oh please, dear Love, never send me away at all!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Your presence will feed this hunger. I will feast at your table of mercy.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">There is no substitute for a Mother’s love</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So I yield my empty soul to the throne of Grace</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Finding the supply a bountiful harvest:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The Abundance of God spreads a banquet before a famished pilgrim.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I am this pilgrim.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This is my journey:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A quest to the heart of God; to know it, sense it - be lost in it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Danger? Perhaps.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Courage girds me, supplied by the Giver Who paved the way in blood</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Spilled in extravagant tenderness</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I immerse my whole self in love so amazing, so divine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Clouds and showers of blessing burst and I splash in the ocean</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Underneath, all about, swept by currents</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Lifting, drawing and moving me to longed-for Treasure:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The heart of God.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikquMwlUUq3wY1sbz2Rs-JAXmZBgxRUpcdRTIv9TuB8-VEcEaEAxo2aIb7YYVHIQsMx46Tm3GInyqHZwISBjvUMqnUOcbD1JTY7xzH4194IxP7jCS_RizNRqZrjGWROrmjBpa_9ic-KPx3Fbd52GiqQvt0evVFkVBSh4M7HorlqEnkmZRrzlU0Ww1X/s4608/HK%20PML%20563.JPG" style="background-color: #f3f3f3; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3440" data-original-width="4608" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikquMwlUUq3wY1sbz2Rs-JAXmZBgxRUpcdRTIv9TuB8-VEcEaEAxo2aIb7YYVHIQsMx46Tm3GInyqHZwISBjvUMqnUOcbD1JTY7xzH4194IxP7jCS_RizNRqZrjGWROrmjBpa_9ic-KPx3Fbd52GiqQvt0evVFkVBSh4M7HorlqEnkmZRrzlU0Ww1X/s320/HK%20PML%20563.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-52649875202281353302023-03-14T12:10:00.004-05:002023-03-14T12:10:50.887-05:00When the Words are Slow<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWLh6kdIW8R3vS47YhX5HtoA9OHJe9XHov3mrcT-uTmKGUojwD61RhQQUINLpKu-1wX5TjZByDakwXi09nup3aC0W_gaIgM9sO_tG8KdT8du36zL0kaP0x0ilVYK8V3W3yLIIL2OkUYRbzTVZufQwg8K2wO5NMrCReVKdXqWt48z-hkKu86NpzXMc/s4032/20221005_062350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWLh6kdIW8R3vS47YhX5HtoA9OHJe9XHov3mrcT-uTmKGUojwD61RhQQUINLpKu-1wX5TjZByDakwXi09nup3aC0W_gaIgM9sO_tG8KdT8du36zL0kaP0x0ilVYK8V3W3yLIIL2OkUYRbzTVZufQwg8K2wO5NMrCReVKdXqWt48z-hkKu86NpzXMc/s320/20221005_062350.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p> I haven't ceased to write. </p><p>No. I have merely withdrawn to cultivate the land of words that lies buried deep beneath the life I've lived.</p><p>The temptation is to compare - my life isn't yours. Others have greater gifts. Order. Organization. Discipline. My weakness is that of fear of trying. Fear of trying and failing. Maybe just failing altogether. And yet, if 'facing our fears' is the kind of advice given for such dreads as failure, it seems I should come out ahead.</p><p>There's this thing called 'impostor syndrome.' With me, perhaps I'd like to drop the second word of that phrase, and merely stick with 'impostor' because the 'syndrome' part seems to indicate it is merely an experience, rather than a reality.</p><p>Please...don't. Don't jump in here with explanations of how I am all that great (because it is my God that is great). And the sense of being an impostor - of being seen as That Which I Am Not - is not only a sense, but in actuality: a reality. </p><p>Why might 'impostor' fit me? Because you don't have to live with me. I don't intend to project an image. But people think more of me than is wise. And I have to be okay with that. Others perhaps see the best of me. And maybe my family sees the worst. But also the best, because I don't hide the worst from anyone, and so people think more of me - I am so...so <i>authentic</i>. Well, yeah. But that is a hard-won authenticity.</p><p>My life has certainly shaped me. The yearning for <b><i>real. </i>In Me. In You. The Church. Our world. Our society.</b> I bet you long for that too.</p><p>And in the yearning, if it goes deep enough, I believe we come to a place of commitment: Realness will begin with me. I will tell you who I am, even if it scares you. <i>Even if it scares me.</i></p><p>There are labels: shorthand for stories that wait to be told, if ever told at all. Clinicians research and collect data and codify and sort and organize until so many people show parallel symptoms that they slap a tag on it, much like a merchant taking inventory. "This one we'll call A.D.H.D." they say. "Or should we leave out the H and stick with A.D.D?" one queries. No matter, they attach the tag and a guidebook and shelve the sufferer in the case section appropriate to that type. It is good and useful information. And saves time. Gives relief - 'Oh, there's a name for this. Now I know which section I belong in.'</p><p>Or it might also be shelved in the layaway section: "You'll be paying on this one for years. We put all Trauma brands over here, and you can come visit from time to time to make a payment on this. We'll keep it for you until you're ready to take it home." </p><p>And sometimes I kid myself into thinking there'll come a day when I'll actually bring it home. When the stories that have shaped me will meld into a reality, rather than scenes that feel like I'm reading a story-book from another time and place, where I wasn't a participant in the play. </p><p>So, yes, the words are slow. I enter Lent and even if it weren't a practice I choose, the world has chosen it - reminders everywhere, not only in culture, but in nature itself. A time of patient waiting. The earth speaks her longing - brown grass awaits its greening. Bare branches await their clothing. Spring buds await their blooming. And the soul awaits the Rising Dawn: the glory of the Risen Christ. </p><p>Some say to practice Lent is somehow amiss. I'll leave them to that, as surely God has each of us on a particular soul journey, and who am I to nay-say when one carries a particular conviction? I don't take much stock in the naysayers myself. Even for those who abstain from Lenten practices, the observing of others who do so must beg some questions. May I encourage the asking of good questions? Not jaded, biased, assumptive ones, but curious, engaging, and winsome ones?</p><p>Though my words come slowly, I remember that God, the Word, came quietly, and we only have a small collection of the words He spoke. If my soul must soak in His words for any words to come forth from my deep well, then so be it.</p><p>I listen to the entire book of Psalms and Proverbs regularly. These words shape and form my heart. They sometimes seem abrupt. Sometimes I don't connect. But their poetic pace catches me off-guard and plants word-pictures in me, to germinate and flourish and bring forth fruit in its due season.</p><p>The season of fruitfulness awaits. It is far off, after spring has passed and summer's heat and rain swell the grain. Then we may forget these longer and sparse days of waiting. We will simply enjoy.</p><p>This is what life feels like to me: sometimes the savoring of the gifts breeds forgetfulness of the sacrifice that came before. I live in the 21st century. How easy it is to forget a Saviour walked the dusty road to the cross some 2000 years ago. It is easy to live in the blessing and fruit of His life today, and forget the sacrifice that brought me this life. I wasn't here to witness it. The least I can do is pause to remember what I never knew or experienced. To engage my imagination, to listen to earth's groaning, watch the world turn and wonder if my ears are more often deaf to God's voice that shouts over nature: My heavens declare my glory!</p><p>So I will listen, pause, wait, and remember. </p><p>Maybe you'll join me?</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JN04JmgYCXaYU8J7iBYs681TKwMyurzcB_wr_PRSor5K-DtG4ejdHGTORZN8yjmoIdkAqAUklw1mJb7KWgu5DxCJnuJf1jF-l6TbaFPTMTePSttCYRDWH1unFDdI0QmAvmc9Pu5QA0Th3EOIX2BM1j0nLeuek23NiY-sFv-ZxVlcYbTQSJPYc3vv/s4032/20221005_063928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JN04JmgYCXaYU8J7iBYs681TKwMyurzcB_wr_PRSor5K-DtG4ejdHGTORZN8yjmoIdkAqAUklw1mJb7KWgu5DxCJnuJf1jF-l6TbaFPTMTePSttCYRDWH1unFDdI0QmAvmc9Pu5QA0Th3EOIX2BM1j0nLeuek23NiY-sFv-ZxVlcYbTQSJPYc3vv/s320/20221005_063928.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-42707564782874847292022-10-26T21:28:00.000-05:002022-10-26T21:28:01.760-05:00A Biblical Take on "Best Practice"<p> I'm going to let a bee fly out of my bonnet just now, so brace yourself.</p><p><br /></p><p>The term 'Best Practice' annoys me. It annoys me A LOT.</p><p>It has burned me. I've used it myself; I've had it promoted to me. I've seen it in research, in literature, in pseudo-guru-speak jargon. And now I think I finally have the courage to push back.</p><p><i>Hang On a minute!! Isn't 'Best Practice' automatically, by its very literal nature, completely warranted as acceptable? Doesn't everyone want to follow 'Best Practice' in every situation?</i></p><p>Actually, No. No, we don't. And I'll tell you why.</p><p>Because it's arrogant, proud, assuming, and lacking in nuance. It lacks a 'here and now' understanding of things.</p><p>Sure, there's probably times where 'best practice' is helpful. If you are a clinician of some sort, and following a static experimental process; if you are a professional whose work is to follow exacting procedures, fine, go ahead, and consult 'best practice' outlines. Follow that. But please, PLEASE, don't assume some document out there with 'peer-reviewed-data-research-based-best-outcomes-practice' is the end-all be-all of wisdom.</p><p><br /></p><p>Because you know what? Best Practices can BURN. They can burn people. They can burn institutions. </p><p><br /></p><p>Here's why: it removes the need for on the ground discernment. You know what's <b>not</b> 'best practice'? To go to war and cull your soldiers from 32,000 men down to 300 men. I can just imagine Gideon consulting his 'Best Practice Guide for Fighting in War' and telling God, 'You can't be serious! You want me to cull my men down to 300?! That's not <i style="font-weight: bold;">Best Practice</i>!!' </p><p>The idea of 'best practice' appeals particularly to those with a need for perfection. <i>But doesn't God want us to strive for perfection? </i> I can almost hear the rebuttals begin. Yes, to some degree. But maybe we need reminding that perfection is only found in Christ, not in our manuals of peer-reviewed-researched-outcome-based-evidence-proved-data-analysis-formulated-best-practice. Scripture is full of stories of times where God seemed to act in ways contrary to the best peer-reviewed data out there! </p><p>You know what's <b>not</b> 'best practice'? When Daniel refused to eat and drink from the royal feasts and turned down meat to eat only veggies. You need protein to build muscle! But he discerned a different practice and went with that.</p><p>You know what's not best practice? To pray in public when the king says only praying to his statue is allowed. You know what's not best practice? To preach in the public square in the name of Jesus when they're gonna haul you away and throw you in prison!</p><p>You know what's not best practice? To choose 12 rag-tag, mostly uneducated, average guys to revolutionize the world. </p><p>I daresay, this idea of best practice is rooted in human pride and a deep desire for certainty in outcomes. There's nothing wrong with wanting the best for all situations. But God didn't hand us a manual of best practices. He hands us a book full of stories that incline us to understand that the best practice we can shoot for is unswerving, undying loyalty and trust in our sovereign King, to guide us into a moment by moment understanding of His good will. And sometimes that guidance will show us things that make no sense to us. It may fly in the face of every 'best practice' out there. And so be it. My loyalty isn't to any manual of best practices; my loyalty rests with the Lover of my soul, the King of Kings.</p><p><br /></p><p>No, I daresay the best practice, spiritually speaking, is unwavering, bold, daring trust in Almighty God. </p><p><b><i>That's best practice.</i></b></p><p> But it's harder than reading endless manuals. It's harder than implementing a strategic plan. It's harder, scarier, more uncertain, and forces me to seek my comfort not in predictable outcomes, but in the welcoming embrace of my loving God, Who I trust to guide me into every best practice He has for me to follow.</p><p>Jesus issues this call: "Come, follow me..." Not 'follow my manual of best practices.' Not, 'strategize for best possible predictable outcomes.' No, He invites us to follow <i style="font-weight: bold;">HIM. </i> A person. Not a method, a plan.</p><p><br /></p><p>I've been personally burned by trying to follow 'best practices' in parenting. (Cue memories of books we read and tried to follow because the results were guaranteed!) I've been burned by others trying to follow 'best practices' in institutional settings. I forgive others' ignorance, but have a hard time forgiving my own. </p><p>And lately I've observed this term being tossed about in a kind of angry 'everyone should know better and follow these well known and documented best practices.' It comes from a place of demanding (that everyone else get on board with what she seems to know and require) - a place that says, 'I know better and the data I hold is far superior to everyone else's.' </p><p>I'm sure I'm being too vague here. But maybe you catch what I'm saying. I think the academic world can move on with their 'best practice' quest. And there are those of us in Christ who live in that world and need to grapple with that. At the same time, let us not imagine that there is a substitute for an ongoing, synergistic, organic, moment-by-moment, living-breathing, engagement with the Spirit of God Who dwells in us, Whose voice can be discerned, Whose word is written, yet alive, very near us, in our heart and on our tongue. We cannot hush the Spirit of God in an effort to follow a manual of best practice. </p><p><br /></p><p>How about we start to promote the spiritual best practice of radical trust?</p><p>How about we call out the term 'best practice' for what it really is: something to feed our desire for control of outcomes and predictable data? (Please know, I'm not saying all of these desires are bad necessarily - just questioning whether this desire should have supremacy in all circumstances and situations).</p><p>I do believe in testing everything against Scripture. And if we apply what we know of 'best practice' to most of what we read in Scripture, I think we must admit that human strategizing may miss the mark in developing best practice. God's invitation - even God's command to us - is to follow His best practice for us. </p><p>Most of my spiritual life and growth has been simply testing this notion: What is it like to fully trust God in all things? What would it look like in my life to <b><i>not rely on my own understanding?</i></b></p><p>Now there's an idea for God's best practice for us.</p><p>Why not give it a try?</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamZYSWCE0WA4fZaa0dpL-jqYP1G4ixhYHMXzsdFBevY8WsfpFKioU1qJ_ZZiVyPOpMrZwIqxiWqdwzK-DqwdGEN4BKbRSp10PysVV8YtM-8NzE9Hkl6mwvVwQUCG_SebdxVq6VaL2vAAKfBMkqoysuov27yWdHdANcQKBPtauwjPt8fd83ntAy_D8/s3003/IMG_20221026_212207835_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2185" data-original-width="3003" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamZYSWCE0WA4fZaa0dpL-jqYP1G4ixhYHMXzsdFBevY8WsfpFKioU1qJ_ZZiVyPOpMrZwIqxiWqdwzK-DqwdGEN4BKbRSp10PysVV8YtM-8NzE9Hkl6mwvVwQUCG_SebdxVq6VaL2vAAKfBMkqoysuov27yWdHdANcQKBPtauwjPt8fd83ntAy_D8/s320/IMG_20221026_212207835_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-43904736326180533412022-10-18T10:47:00.003-05:002022-10-18T10:56:32.861-05:00What it's like being an adult with A.D.D.<p>I notice there are lots of articles out there for parents to address how to raise a kid who has A.D.D. or is on the Autism spectrum. And for good reason! There are unique challenges and difficulties that arise in helping a child to grow whose brain wiring and personality are different than the norm. I get that. Mostly because I <b>was</b> that child, and I <b>have</b> that/those child(ren). </p><p>I used to write a lot as a child - sometimes inventing imaginative stories, sometimes just chronicling my life. It was a way I could cope with all the world around me. And I dreamed of being a writer someday - of putting my thoughts on paper and seeing them reflected back to me, and imagining others would read my words, and they would land in other hearts. Like an arrow going out from my inner life and landing in the soul of another. And as I grew and had my struggles, and faced my woes (I was a lamenting type of soul from very young, apparently), I made a sacred vow to myself. 'Never forget.' Never forget how you're feeling, how others aren't understanding you, how you are suffering, how the adults around you don't get it. Never forget what it is like to look out through these 8 year old, 10 year old, 13 year old eyes. Keep these thoughts, feelings, impressions alive, and make it to adult-land and spread the news: What it is like to be me in this complicated world.</p><p>Perhaps this is why I retain so much of my young life - between that and trauma, which imprints the brain with memory stronger than most anything. I hung onto the sense of aloneness and alienation. Of having to comply with orders, requirements, expectations, and trying to learn to keep my mouth shut and just write things down instead. </p><p>Part of my writing voice comes from having my real voice hushed over and over and over. Silenced, more like, even to the point of physical suffocation. My voice has been trapped within me for many, many years. In time, perhaps it will make its way more to the surface...in time.</p><p>For now, I think back over the weekend, the month, and I sit in a shame-fog-struggle. Welcome to the struggle-bus! I've been a bit more depressive of late, and it's understandable - I give myself grace and space to be as I am. It feels shameful, embarrassing, awkward. Everything is off just a bit. And I sometimes tell myself I shouldn't go anywhere, see anyone, or say anything when I'm in these darker moods and seasons. And I should've taken my own advice. But the A.D.D. part of me is so super distractible, I fail to remember and heed my own advice. So I go places, and see people, and even show up to a few social settings (which sometimes social phobia with fear and trepidation keep me away from). And then I leave and shame-explosions erupt within me. "You said that? Out loud?!" my inner critic says. Inner critic is not entirely to be dismissed. She <b>DOES</b> have a point. "Why didn't you just keep your mouth shut?" I attack myself. </p><p>So what do I do with all this shame? All this reproach? </p><p>Shame is toxic to my soul, to my well-being. I reflect on it and allow it to surface. "Here it is, God. I just want to crawl into a hole and disappear. I should never show up and be around people in social settings. Will you help me never to go out again, and just become a secluded hermit, like, forever?" And God says, clearly, 'No. I will not help you do that. How about let's look at this together. Come, let us reason together.' (Please, know I'm not speaking for God here. Prayer is partly an imaginative exercise). </p><p>Ugh. I hate the shame. The embarrassment. The way I go unchecked and say things. I get dragged into overthinking, overly self-conscious. Worrying about offenses I've caused. Worrying that others are going to hate me forever. I tell myself to be more guarded, more aware. But people get me talking, or I just begin talking and I say things that are sitting in my head and forget normal people have a filter. They think about the things they're going to say. A.D.D. at its worst means I simply have no filter.</p><p>I remember in my late 20's getting properly diagnosed with A.D.D. My Doctor (God bless her!!) helped me figure it out. I mean, I knew I had it ever since digging through a filing cabinet during my college years. My parents had discovered my challenges early on, and wrote to some researcher who wrote an article in a news magazine they had read in the mid-80's. It mentioned a new thing, Attention Deficit Disorder, and they, being far off in Hong Kong, and under-resourced in the newest educational research, thought they'd reach out to the writer of the article. There was a letter from that same writer in our files, giving them some insight into this condition. In my late 20's my doctor noticed I never followed up with any other referrals: You need to see a dermatologist, a podiatrist...etc. And I'd come back a year later and say, "I just need you to be my <b>everything</b> doctor. I just don't get around to looking at the number on the card, picking up the phone, dialing it, and making an appointment. That requires executive functioning of the brain, of which I have about zero. So you need to be my everything doctor. I have A.D.D. I'll likely never get around to any follow up appointments." She is an amazing doctor. She knows her stuff. She looked back at me and said, "Have you ever been tested and diagnosed?" And I said, "No. But it's obvious from my whole life," and I told her about the letter in the files my parents had. And she took her notepad and wrote out the titles of two books, and told me to go to the library and read them. I did so. And that began everything to help me on my way.</p><p>Through the journey of events, I did end up taking medication for a season and what an amazing breakthrough that was for me. Among other things, it was the first time in my life that I experienced what it is like to have a mental/verbal filter. I remember thinking things and having the wherewithal to <i style="font-weight: bold;">not</i> say them. It was a huge mental, emotional, and even spiritual learning curve for me. I wrestled with many theological issues - doubt, regret, shame. I thought, 'I prayed and prayed for years that God would help me with impulse control. I fasted, a I changed my diet, I eliminated all food dyes, I cut out gluten, I looked at gut and psychology diets, I took supplements, I even tried exercising (brave, I know), I tried sheer-will-power-discipline, you name it, I tried it, and a simple chemical compound packed into a tiny pill did what all that effort and striving couldn't do?!' I was dumbfounded. Don't get me wrong - all the other stuff is great, kind of, if you're convinced of that, don't let me stand in your way. But I really had to come to terms with the fact that my brain was simply wired in such a way that all the other lifestyle corrections was simply not going to address. Medicine helped me immensely, even if only for a season. And during that/those seasons, my brain would increase its learning, experientially mostly, by giving me opportunity to practice what it is like to have a filter, now that I had the super power available to me. And the learning stuck even when I wasn't on the medication. God bless the scientists who figured some of this out!! We thank God for ALL His good gifts, even pharmaceuticals. I'm sure there are Christians in that field who actually seek to use their intellect and gifts to the glory of God by finding great resources in nature (like, the periodic table of elements!!) and putting them together in such a way that they benefit people like me. (Sorry if I'm stepping on toes here, I just simply love science combined with decent logic).</p><p>So, through prayer and the amazing answers to prayer - the resources God supplies, including medicine, I journey with more than one limp. I have so many I lose count, and my non-neuro-typical brain can handle not knowing all the limps I have because I might be overwhelmed if I did.</p><p>But what about the shame? What about the deep difficulty of being me - of living with an unpredictable mouth that seems to think for itself, disconnected from wise discretion? </p><p>Yes, it does suck to be me at times. Combine A.D.D. with Depression and you get way worse muck than you might otherwise. I still think I should just not go places and see people, given the unpredictable things I might say. It is embarrassing.</p><p>But I'm driven then to take my pain somewhere. And the only place I have to go is to the heart of God, to my Rescuer, Jesus, to my comfort, the Holy Spirit, all one and the same loving and welcoming God. His Spirit is with me and in me, and I run hard to Him and bare it all and say, 'See, see this!! It's horrible! This is me! Help! I don't know what to do with myself!!' God allows me to come to Him like this. Poor, helpless, suffering, ashamed, needy. I crawl in close and nestle on His lap and tell Him how awful I feel. At times I just want to be relieved of the pain. Then I come to a place of repentance. I really struggle with the word repentance. It seems to represent shame to me. But it's something I need - I need an unleashing of the old, and turning away from the yuck and towards the new, the life, the hope, the right (as in, correct :D), the healing. Repentance is turning. And shame tells me: turn - please turn, as fast as you can!!. </p><p>There is safe haven with Jesus. I can't imagine doing life without Him. </p><p>I'm sure there are some reading this who don't know Him as I do. It would be my greatest joy to share more of what it is like to know and live life in love with Jesus. Sounds sappy and sentimental and perhaps even a little unorthodox. But it's not even about me loving Him as much as it is Him loving me. John, the apostle, says, 'We love Him because He first loved us.' And I have to agree. His love is the softest pillow for my shamed-self to land on. </p><p>I don't have all the answers. And I'm not sure it's answers I truly need, truth be told. It's really Jesus I need. It's Jesus you need too. </p><p>Let me tell you about Him sometime.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsV1jjOzCOB2Yl6dNawTfSJk3Dz4ojsLaN3I4ZIExBkEXMdg-j4NeqNkK9V3b5Zq5K_Rv8KQhkQaIVY8dFD2DWOuF0i_hRjSUHBdjgSo6oKT48eHuH-E64H0r-_aMkTs5oOI-0dDUAl97BGU3Ek-eEFQIKHtm5vrXLmQETHBSotHy4JuOXawPefO3H/s1079/Aspen%20road.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="1079" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsV1jjOzCOB2Yl6dNawTfSJk3Dz4ojsLaN3I4ZIExBkEXMdg-j4NeqNkK9V3b5Zq5K_Rv8KQhkQaIVY8dFD2DWOuF0i_hRjSUHBdjgSo6oKT48eHuH-E64H0r-_aMkTs5oOI-0dDUAl97BGU3Ek-eEFQIKHtm5vrXLmQETHBSotHy4JuOXawPefO3H/s320/Aspen%20road.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photo credit: David Logan)</span><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-7703622623247638022022-10-17T09:33:00.002-05:002022-10-17T12:26:17.010-05:00The Telling of my Life<p> People tell me I've had an interesting life.</p><p>And finally, I've begun to believe them. But here's the thing: I was taught that talking and writing about myself was a form of self-centredness. When I was younger, I used to talk about myself and my life and experiences and stories quite freely. But likely some of this was excessive. And along the way, with certain ones giving me negative input and reprimanding me over this issue, I became more cautious. Now, likely some of this negative input was valid. Maybe I was self-centred. Maybe I did talk about myself too much. And well-meaning others meant to help me learn to interact better. And I hope, these many years later, I have learned something of the value of limiting the telling of my life. But I'm not sure the shaming and reproach were exactly helpful to my soul in this matter. And I've had to overcome a lot to even begin to tell some of my life here on my blog. </p><p><br /></p><p>Joseph in the Bible comes to mind. He had dreams and visions, given him by God. And he seemed happy and excited to tell about them. But his brothers were not so keen on his sharing. They resented him, and scoffed at him. Perhaps they rebuked him for over-sharing and being self-centred. Maybe they interpreted his dream-telling as a pathological grandiosity. We don't know the attitude Joseph had when he shared things from his life. Maybe he was simply being plain and matter-of-fact. Maybe his brothers and family were merely projecting their own insecurity onto him and rebuking him unfairly. We don't know for sure. Perhaps it was unwise of Joseph to be so forthcoming about his dream-life. </p><p>I find these biblical narratives fascinating and strangely comforting.</p><p>I got told off for talking too much about my experiences, my sufferings, my pains, my losses, my adventures. But woven throughout each of these parts of my life is the unmistakable presence of God. It takes eyes to see and ears to hear Him in the telling - and perhaps I have missed highlighting all the very subtle and bold ways He shows up in everything. But I do believe that if I have over-shared in my life, it is likely from a place of a simple relaying of facts, rather than an obsession with my own importance. If anything, I want to get out of the way so as to reveal God's importance: He must increase; I must decrease.</p><p><br /></p><p>I wanted to share this here so you will know that the telling of my life doesn't come easy. It comes from knocking down hurdles - mostly inner hurdles: writer's block, insecurity, and lacking a sense of purpose, but often external ones, like fatigue, and many people and distractions keeping me from the work of writing. These inner barriers arise from a lifetime of trauma. Without a willingness to go into these past experiences, I doubt they'd resurface in my memory.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrjv7-T6xdTLrwwAURa6lJTe01FXteP66KVHdb9ShI57JgYHVVH2O3gNHvIlUs-ZGZNKMiGgPndyx_zvTjT7b5Q_WoXCKA7izoTRPyi5N7ES9KNCbG4aH9xGlcSI5ZEMhz9brY51UdoOcti9qMCY_X1Va4AVvsmFyvzGdsdj_wn26wVk82yH9ufb8/s2976/20180804_155145.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2976" data-original-width="2976" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrjv7-T6xdTLrwwAURa6lJTe01FXteP66KVHdb9ShI57JgYHVVH2O3gNHvIlUs-ZGZNKMiGgPndyx_zvTjT7b5Q_WoXCKA7izoTRPyi5N7ES9KNCbG4aH9xGlcSI5ZEMhz9brY51UdoOcti9qMCY_X1Va4AVvsmFyvzGdsdj_wn26wVk82yH9ufb8/s320/20180804_155145.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Life trains us somehow, doesn't it? In my early teens I was depressed and shared my woes with friends. Some were kind. Some ran out of patience - understandably. I learned the hard way that even if "Nobody really cares - no one wants to hear it!" was said to me, and even if I wanted to reject it as true, there was still a shred of wisdom in there for me, if I could get over the stinging barb. I learned to hear criticism with different ears. "You just want attention!" was told me often, as if wanting attention was inherently bad. And I learned I shouldn't want attention. And what kind of attention might I be wanting in the first place? I didn't know. And I thought long and hard about that line: "You just want attention!" No, in fact, I wanted love. Plain and simple. To be seen, heard, validated, understood. But my younger mind couldn't put all that together, so I did wallow for a time in wondering what was actually wrong with me.</p><p><br /></p><p>The stories of my life are indeed wild, crazy, almost unbelievable. And I haven't exactly chosen them. I didn't write my own life story. It seems God is doing that just fine without my help. And so I show up to witness my own journey and to share it with select others (I suppose that selection includes whoever reads this blog). </p><p><br /></p><p>This weekend I was invited to this epic party - I had no idea what we were in for! A crab boil and a talent show. I once had lobster when I was a kid at my Aunt Lydia's house, and we dipped it in melted butter. This was similar - giant crab legs were served in huge trenches in the middle of the table. It was incredible. But then, the talent show...</p><p>I need to be clear here: though I am a pianist, I am not exactly a performer. Some say I'm talented with music. But I didn't know how to demonstrate this talent on this particular evening, so I simply began to share stories from my life - like the time my mom accidentally grabbed a can of beer instead of juice and put it in my preschool lunchbox when I was attending a Baptist kindergarten.</p><p>I didn't tell about going exploring near a beach in Hong Kong around 9 years old, and getting stuck on a cliff and having to jump off into shark infested waters to swim back to shore, per my dad's instructions. (Of course we didn't know about the sharks until much later). </p><p> I then went on to tell about the best field-trip ever, when I was 10 and we got a train from Hong Kong to Beijing, and while we were staying there I fell into a man-hole and a huge crowd gathered to watch this funny-looking freckled red-head stuck and wedged in a manhole. I told about getting to Ulaan Baatar in Mongolia and my parents getting a birthday cake for my brother and the train starting to pull out heading to Moscow with us three kids on it and my parents running as fast as they could to make it to the train. I told about getting into Russia without visas in 1987, and my parents wiggling their way around that so they could take us around to the Hermitage, The Palace, and the Kremlin. I forgot to tell them that there was a grand piano in our hotel suite and that I had to practice the piano every day we were in Russia. Our suite was overlooking that beautiful river in Leningrad (which is of course now St. Petersburg). I skipped through the rest of the countries we went to on that trip: Finland, Sweden, Austria, Germany, Switzerland, France, Leichtenstein, England, Scotland. </p><p>Then I told them how my life has had a number of twists and turns: we moved to the U.S. so my sister and brother could start college and when I entered public high school, they put me in as a Junior. But then they got my transcript from Hong Kong and I was called into the office: 'You've already completed high school according to this,' they told me. I agreed and said I knew that but I'm 15 living in America so I thought I'd go to high school here. They thought on that for a while, and pulled out some papers. They switched my status to a senior, enrolled me in American Government and Economics, and said I'd have to complete those to graduate. I was the only senior on the school bus, as I hadn't begun to learn to drive. </p><p>Then I went to Moody Bible Institute, and was the youngest student there. </p><p>Some of coming to the States meant that I needed to learn to at least try to respect the culture. I noticed most people didn't know Hong Kong existed, and if they'd heard of it, figured they must speak Japanese there. Some liked to imitate the Chinese language saying, 'Ching Chong Ching.' I quickly learned that maybe I shouldn't mention where I come from in the first few months (and maybe never) of meeting people. It seemed to come with a certain weight that I didn't want to encumber relationships. If I told people I was from Hong Kong, they'd always think I was a kind of oddity (and they'd be right). I just figured I should keep it more quiet in the future, and they can come into discovering my oddities more slowly. I considered it a kindness. </p><p>I'm describing things as they were 30 years ago. My current experience tells me people are much more aware of the rest of the world now than they were then. Kind of.</p><p>At least I find people in churches to be keenly aware of the rest of the world, actively in prayer for specific needs in various countries, with genuine interest, concern, and even sacrificial generosity to those suffering and in need around the world. Though the church has its struggles and imperfections, on the matter of global interest, these are most definitely my people.</p><p>So, there I was at the open mic, and I shared more - about going to Hong Kong in 1999 and how the neighbors assualted me, clobbering me on the head with a brick when I was 22. And how my Dad was enraged and wanted to go after them, but my Mom held him back. It wouldn't look good for a missionary to attack his neighbours. </p><p>And then how a few weeks later we had a houseguest who got stabbed in a random burglary, how I jumped off the balcony to get the police, how they stitched him up in hospital and how we read Psalm 56 the next morning. </p><p>And how we got engaged 5 weeks after that. Due to time and distraction, I skipped the bit about the fire that happened the week after we got engaged. There's only so much an open mic can handle.</p><p>I told about getting married and having 5 kids, and how I was hoping to find a certain catharsis during the baby years (and actually, maternal hormones do have a great feel-good benefit, so there's that). But how that didn't actually help me connect to my own emotional state. And then I went to therapy.</p><p>And I kinda ran out of time, and mentioned the time we crossed the Zambezi river in a leaky dug-out canoe - 25 feet long, with 12 people, each given a cup to scoop water out as we crossed. And how I was sure the crocodiles were swimming right next to us ready to tip us over at any moment. That was perhaps the longest 20 minutes of my life, and my prayers were very fervent then.</p><p>These were just random stories from my life. I could've told about waking up in ear surgery when I was 12, or about coding in surgery when I was 31, or having a pulmonary embolism when I was 20, after a long-haul flight to Hong Kong. I could've told about assisting at the delivery of a baby in Zambia, who never took her first breath, but was perfectly formed in the image of God. </p><p>And I could've told about the journey inward, of the ways I've delved into psychology, theology, biology, and bicultural anthropology. Or how God has undertaken to help me in the monumentous task of parenting, sending helpers along the way to fill in the gaps and meet their needs for education, nurture, companionship, and discipling. How we've journeyed through and with churches in upheaval and calm, how we have experienced the church doing exactly what it is meant to do: being the hands and feet of Jesus, while also proclaiming a message of hope, redemption, and justice.</p><p>I didn't tell about having a homebirth with my first kid, how our 3rd fell out of a backpack carrier at 7 weeks old and fractured his skull. I didn't tell about #2 baby getting RSV (a dangerous respiratory virus in infants) at 6 weeks old and spending 3 days in hospital, or how she was 10 pounds at birth and there were some emergencies to get her born and her spending 3 days in the NICU. I didn't tell about our oldest being on a road trip with his grandparents when he broke out in a rash from head to toe and ended up in a hospital in Ohio, and how we had to drive out to get him, and seeing our forlorn 4 year old on a huge hospital bed covered in red patches. I didn't tell about when I was pregnant with Caleb and we traveled in France, England, Poland, Hungary, and Zambia. And how I mark memories by all the places I puked from all-day-sickness along the way. There is a certain kind of intimacy that comes from puking in someone's car or driveway. </p><p>I didn't tell about the time Andrew was in kindergarten and choked on a corn chip and his teacher had just refreshed her CPR training and swiftly took action, and saved his life. How I had to go to the school right away and the firetruck was there with paramedics, and as I entered I wondered what they were there for, never thinking it was for my kid. </p><p>Or about the time I was volunteering at school to help with younger kids doing their tests and there was an intruder situation, and I spent an afternoon with the sweetest little girl, keeping her company while hiding on the floor in a dark corner of a room. How though I was terrified, my job as a protector gave me something to focus on and got me through that long couple of hours. </p><p>I didn't tell about when a child of mine was volatile and broke my nose. </p><p>I didn't tell them about the time we went to Cuba to lead a marriage retreat for pastors - about how awkward that felt since most of them had been married longer than us. And how I didn't feel we were qualified, other than that we had had so many struggles and stayed married. </p><p>I didn't tell them about launching our first 2 kids to college, navigating some special needs amongst our kids (which I must be vague about out of respect to them). Or about the time a guy was murdered and spent his last moments on this earth on our front lawn. </p><p>I didn't tell them about the time a car thief used our driveway as a place to park his car, and how the police were at our door throughout the night while they combed through the neighborhood - and how they thought my son was somehow involved because he was still dressed in his school uniform at midnight (it might have looked less suspicious if he'd been in pj's - but he's refused to wear pjs since around age 8). </p><p>I didn't tell what it's like to begin losing friends and family to cancer or sudden death. How every year since 2014 I've lost someone significant in my life. Or what living with grief while driving kids to school is like. What carrying an ache in my soul while throwing together a spaghetti dinner for a dozen is like. What living with an emotional limp while holding others' stories feels like. What resting in Jesus looks like in the day to day of busy schedules and feeding 9 at dinner every night is like. </p><p>Whew...there were so many stories I spared the audience from. </p><p>And after running through some of these, I think I must agree: I've had an interesting life. </p><p>And in time, perhaps, with increased confidence, and growth that my stories are worth telling, I may write them all. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSToTz8WO7eYm1OxL4jgRseDQqLeeaIJFj7hHHlSAEHqE_9VS8JZDnU6Uknr8edYM-TTbRIhM7LpJ5t2tDt90LPWWp_FG7w9tM-CesGsRyzHdjDoVFOCy6dZZADQt_KpWs6fBHw6aQqD26d-4BfyKb3G7JuUFF3ECCk4GXA-Z7bzEc1njsQm-Q4xCK/s5312/20180905_063223.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSToTz8WO7eYm1OxL4jgRseDQqLeeaIJFj7hHHlSAEHqE_9VS8JZDnU6Uknr8edYM-TTbRIhM7LpJ5t2tDt90LPWWp_FG7w9tM-CesGsRyzHdjDoVFOCy6dZZADQt_KpWs6fBHw6aQqD26d-4BfyKb3G7JuUFF3ECCk4GXA-Z7bzEc1njsQm-Q4xCK/s320/20180905_063223.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-28570407000358875632022-10-14T11:10:00.005-05:002022-10-14T14:08:33.884-05:00Emotional Leprosy<p> Part of being highly distractable is that when something is mentioned that has a whole category of memory or feeling, the mind takes a small hiatus - a short adventure into the realm of everything-in-that-category. This happened to me on Sunday when the sermon was regarding the 10 lepers (or, more accurately, the 9 and the 1). He was talking about what gratitude looks like, and trying to help us appreciate, in some small measure, what having leprosy was like in those days. He started saying how it was a socially isolating disease, a disease of separation, loneliness, scorn, rejection, humiliation. They had to walk about if they encountered healthy others, by calling out, 'unclean' to warn people to stay away. And he went on to focus on the theme of his sermon, which was gratitude. But I was already captivated, and brought to tears. (There is something very healing about church: I go there to cry, then wait a whole week to return, only to cry again). </p><p><br /></p><p>I believe God speaks through His word to us. And He uses mere mortals - imperfect people - to prophetically steward His words, helping us catch their meaning. Of course people are not infallible in their proclamations. And I'm not looking for a hidden, mystical message when God's Word is preached. I merely sit and soak, wait and listen. I've heard so many sermons in my life - and many boring ones, dry ones, poorly delivered ones, as well as those more polished and dynamic ones we tend to call to mind as memorable. Preaching is a subject near and dear to my heart, but lest I digress, let me just state plainly that almost any sermon can be used to help us hear God's truth, His voice, His gentle whisper. If we're waiting. If we're listening. And even if the preacher isn't high-octane.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD4EsBuZ5F3gvcPJXOevxdqOUXAjP7ZM7rUMX7BG7ytYfCDeZwUGGnAvJeEgsddM_IFM5gXY6FXc_-4T_vRXINKwLtP2zJbwcUvxENyPDE2SIXhFrJuf6BPcykqgAjgGA-cQc_Fyam9-AXJ01O54q9zygdJWtnX7EgBDXoElH_GUURNs6vZv9fiGIv/s3451/IMG_20221014_110043256~2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3451" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD4EsBuZ5F3gvcPJXOevxdqOUXAjP7ZM7rUMX7BG7ytYfCDeZwUGGnAvJeEgsddM_IFM5gXY6FXc_-4T_vRXINKwLtP2zJbwcUvxENyPDE2SIXhFrJuf6BPcykqgAjgGA-cQc_Fyam9-AXJ01O54q9zygdJWtnX7EgBDXoElH_GUURNs6vZv9fiGIv/s320/IMG_20221014_110043256~2.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>This past Sunday, I'm sure the message was not meant to be about leprosy. But it's where I was taken in my thought-imagination-journey. When he talked about the horrors of what people who suffered this disease experienced, mostly in their social setting, something shifted and moved in me. Being a spiritual director means I'm trained to notice these shifts, to wake up, pay attention. Why was I so suddenly gripped with this pain in my soul? Why was I fixated on his description of these who suffered - nameless, faceless ones who are the characters of this story? And I began a thought conversation with God, and my deepest, hidden self - the self that doesn't dare speak sometimes. </p><p>"I feel like that, God. Like one who is separated from society. No-one sees my lesions, but the wounds on my soul feel so isolating. I may as well cry out, 'unclean!' because the weight of sadness and depression feels too heavy to inflict on others. Leprosy is a physical ailment that hinders feeling and sensation, and depression is an emotional ailment that hinders, at its worst points, any feeling whatsoever. It can feel like floating outside onesself, like I don't belong with others at all. It feels lonely, quiet, disengaged, cut-off."</p><p>"Do you remember going to the Leper Colony?"</p><p>"Oh yes, I forgot about that." </p><p>"Do you remember meeting Father Nico? And the people you greeted there?"</p><p>And my mind went back to that place. Let me tell you about it.</p><p><br /></p><p>In Macau, where we often went for excursions or brief holidays, was a small secluded area set aside for the housing and care of those suffering from leprosy. I didn't even know it existed for most of my childhood. Sometime in my teen years, I can't recall when exactly, we were staying in Macau for a few days, and Dad said, 'Today I'm going to visit the Leper colony - who's coming with me?' (I have since learned that the word 'leper' isn't appropriate to use as it identifies a person by their illness, but I'm telling this as it happened). I don't know what possessed me, but I figured if Dad was going, I may as well tag along. </p><p>We went to a nearby market and got bags of fruit and some bakery items. Dad explained that the people in this area were somewhat like prisoners in that they had been placed there to live, often taken away from their families (even spouses) and sequestered there for the rest of their lives. People coming in from the outside were a great encouragement. Dad was teaching me the power of being seen. In some sense, because we were white Westerners, others viewed us as a bit of a novelty. I'm not saying it was warranted, but, if simply being fair-skinned with freckles and red hair is somehow fascinating to others who are cut off from the world, there's no harm in showing up so they can somehow enjoy this novelty. We made our way out to the outer corner of Coloane island in Macau and trekked up some steps to a beautiful spot with numerous small colonial-style huts. There were various ones shuffling about, and as soon as they saw us, they hobbled over to greet us. We handed some of them the groceries and shook their hands (even if they were mangled). Their faces were radiant. I couldn't understand their exceeding joy. We showed up with a bit of fruit and they openly welcomed us and our gifts, but with smiles as wide as their faces, with more happiness I can image anyone expressing. Father Nico came to greet us and showed us around for a while. They loved our visit.</p><p><br /></p><p>I've been reflecting on this encounter and the few others I had visiting there. It strikes me as odd that I suffer a leprosy of the soul at times - an isolating scourge - a numbing of everything: joy, sorrow, shame, reproach, peace, pleasure. It's not a visible illness. It's not accompanied by the requirement to shout 'unclean!' when I'm near others. It doesn't physically remove me from the company of others. So why do I feel like depression is an emotional leprosy? When the preacher talked about the life of these men, why did I react so strongly? </p><p>"It feels like I must stay away from others. That the weight of sadness isn't appropriate to share in polite company. That the warped thinking, the self-denigration, the shame, doubt, and discouragement are a form of uncleanness to society. That's why I feel like I have leprosy sometimes. Because it requires professional attention, and it strikes fear in those not trained to deal with it," I told God. </p><p>"But I healed them - all 10 lepers. Don't you think I can heal you?"</p><p>"Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!" I responded. </p><p><br /></p><p>It is tragic to think leprosy still exists in the world today, though there is a cure and it isn't as contagious as it was thought to be in the past (oh the power of education, discovery, and science!!)</p><p>And when I think of what people have suffered in ages past - the excruciating separation from home, comfort, family, and society as a whole, it makes my heart hurt. Leprosy struck children often, and, once discovered, they would be swiftly carted off to the nearest leprosarium. This was the fate of many I met those few times in Macau. They had suffered the deepest traumas imaginable - losses so huge, they could not be counted. They lost physical stability, the loss of limbs, sensation, health, appearance; they lost family stability - familiar love, touch, embrace, soothing; they lost societal connection - acceptance, laughter, freedom, agency. I do not pretend the suffering I've encountered in my life is anything to that degree. But I have felt that deep ache of longing, of pain, of suffering of soul that resonated with those who I met in that small village in Macau. I could not speak at length with them - we had a language barrier, as they spoke Cantonese and we spoke English, and Father Nico translated a bit - He was Italian. But these who had sufffered so much had come into deep joy; they had developed hearts of gratitude. They loved their community, accepted their isolation, and became deeply devoted to each other and to their spiritual practices. Father Nico had been called to this mission from his humble home in Italy as a farm-boy. He had devoted his life to establishing this community and helping them to know the One Who suffered outside the camp, on our behalf. </p><p>This is where their joy came from. They knew the Man of Sorrows. </p><p><br /></p><p>These days it feels almost wrong to resonate with another's suffering, as if it negates it somehow - 'suffering appropriation' might be a new catch-phrase term to add to the political correctness glossary. But maybe I'll take a pass on being cautious about that. I know my pain is different that those who suffer leprosy. And yet, through my imagination I can touch it somehow. I can feel traces of leprosy in my soul. And I trust the Man of Sorrows will also reach out and touch me, and welcome me with the ache, with the sense of uncleanness I carry at times. He doesn't cast me off. He pulls me close and welcomes me, hurting as I may be.</p><p><br /></p><p>The story of the 10 lepers is about gratitude. To go deep with gratitude, I must uncover what my soul most deeply needs, and bring this empty place to God, and watch Him fill these gaps to overflowing with His love, healing, and peace. Then I hold myself before Him and say, "Look what You've done with me! I was hurting and needy, and You met me in this! I am Your held child. I'm so grateful to be here with You!"</p><p>Gratitude comes from a place of seeing, of feeling - feeling my need, my lack, and entrusting it to God Who visits us as more than a novelty. He takes on our flesh and walks our road, and drinks our cup of suffering. And I can't help but be thankful. I'm not alone in my pain. Jesus enters it.</p><p>Leprosy is chilling to think about. It represents outwardly what many of us feel inwardly - that we are trapped in a state of bondage to decay. So we wait for liberation, along with all creation:</p><p>The Apostle Paul tells us: "I consider that our present suffferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration...in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God."</p><p><br /></p><p>Freedom. There is a freedom Paul is speaking of that is glorious. It is free from decay. Free from suffering. Free from the brokenness of this world. </p><p>Perhaps the groaning and yearning in our souls is there for a reason. It beckons faith, it enlivens hope. It tells me there is something more. There is a freedom that only God can bring. </p><p><br /></p><p>We have a taste of it now. </p><p>But we know there's more. So much more. </p><p>Paul, in the same book, continues with these words a few chapters later: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." </p><p>This is my prayer for you, dear reader, for me, and for each of those I encounter. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOafIT26ToLT74XNDxfD3nQA_Sm-cfYZ-H3k1YwWgWrdgoipb0h1pq8pdtDAcA_yPyzwbKqUrR2SYcvX-yOw31mL5BTpegTd9-EVl9HckPMjSC4cTafwM6TJhbZkqV04sggQT2xqMaEZ5gbzyVzsyyNHDHdHZKIrgSbA4HnYcUWM2gIBTpn73CSIcN/s3959/IMG_20221014_110015311~2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3959" data-original-width="1890" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOafIT26ToLT74XNDxfD3nQA_Sm-cfYZ-H3k1YwWgWrdgoipb0h1pq8pdtDAcA_yPyzwbKqUrR2SYcvX-yOw31mL5BTpegTd9-EVl9HckPMjSC4cTafwM6TJhbZkqV04sggQT2xqMaEZ5gbzyVzsyyNHDHdHZKIrgSbA4HnYcUWM2gIBTpn73CSIcN/s320/IMG_20221014_110015311~2.jpg" width="153" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-62920201681951181342022-09-29T22:40:00.000-05:002022-09-29T22:40:02.365-05:00Grief Changes Us<p> I know the words in me have dried up. But they're in there, and somehow, in someway, maybe they'll seep out of me, albeit slowly.</p><p>I go through my days and many times it feels like I'm floating, with my feet not quite on the ground. It isn't only grief, coming into the reality that my Mom left this earth over 6 months ago. It is all the many changes and challenges that a life holds - a life that is mine somehow, the life I live as mother, wife, friend, and neighbor. </p><p>The traumas of my life have seemed to break me. And it is reasonable to think that. But I don't say that to engender pity or even awe. I simply state it as fact. I'm not quite all here, and I trust God allowed even my own responses to trauma to protect me...somehow. </p><p>And yet, adaptive strategies like floating through life without really feeling everything that can be felt, or even the natural normal things that would bring others - unbroken others - joy or sorrow, these are not helpful in the long run. They are a good bandaid, but a poor healing balm.</p><p>I can't yet reckon with the reality of loss. My Mom and I did not have a great relationship. There were lots of stings and barbs and hard things, and I won't go into it here, but I say it because it makes my grieving process long, winding, turbulent, complicated.</p><p>Her absence means there is a work I must do - an inner work, a hard work. It is a sifting, a reflecting, and a prayerful work. One that I cannot do in a few hours, but takes time and solitude. My soul longs for quiet rest - to get away somehow. But I am a mother; I am a wife. I carry a life whether I want to or not. In time, I trust God will lead me to quiet pastures where He will work in the silence, in the healing balm of His Word, and minister grace to my limping soul. Surely, He binds up the brokenhearted.</p><p>There are times when I wake up to my life and wonder how I got here. How I happen to have 5 growing-up children. How we have survived - how they've survived me, and I them. It hasn't been easy. </p><p>Truth be told, I had kids as a way to cope with trauma. There, I said it. People have children for all sorts of good and bad reasons. More often than not, they're self-serving reasons. By the 5th kid I realized it wasn't working. I wasn't actually beginning to feel more, to connect, to engage fully in life. I only was becoming more exhausted. And I was a crazy volatile mom at times. It was not fun for me or my kids. </p><p>It began to dawn on me that my kids didn't ask for a broken mom. And that the basic responsible thing to do would be to raise them as if I wasn't as broken as I was. I shifted my parenting over the years as I grew to understand attachment and healthy childhood psychological development. Remember Erik Eriksen? The guy who labeled stages of human development? How 0-1 is the phase of 'trust vs. distrust'? Yeah, that spoke to me. Our parenting had to change, as each child arrived on the scene with different needs and our basic model of parenting wasn't going to work. We had to grow up as parents and realize the task we're given isn't for us to prove ourselves via our kids' behaviour. It wasn't to garner respect from others for how sweet and well-behaved they were. It was to bring forth in them the beauty of Jesus in their lives; to honour the person He made them to be. To welcome them, even when we're overwhelmed.</p><p>I grieve many losses. Not just those I've lost through death, and there are so many in the past few years, that is a work in itself. I grieve the loss of years. Of years I've been checked out, unable to welcome the joys of each day. And I cling to the promise, 'I will restore the years the locusts have eaten.' </p><p>Depression, trauma, grief, loss - these have sucked decades from my life. I look back over 20 years and much of it is vague, like looking through an opaque dream. I didn't know how to anchor myself in the moment. Often marriage was difficult and I found refuge in the heaven narrative that all will be well when I get to heaven. But God didn't let me linger long in that notion (though it's true, I'm sure it will be well in heaven!), because I kept reading the Bible (a stubborn habit, I admit) and the Psalmist wrote: I know I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. And God started me on a journey to discover what might His goodness look like here, in this land, the land in which I live?</p><p>And I've walked a road and continue to limp along. And once in a while I pop my head up into blog-space and spew my meandering thoughts. I share them as a way to invite dialogue, or at least to be honest. I think we need more honesty in the world - less sugar-coating, more: 'this is the way it really is.'</p><p>Wouldn't it be great if I sat here and wrote all the amazing things, the insightful things, the uplifting things that I discover in my journey with Jesus? Yes, and I do this on occasion. But I hope it is delightful on some level to realize that when I tell those things it is only because I am traversing the course of life with many, many handicaps. Maybe it is uplifting for you to know that I carry dead-weight in my soul that is not easily shaken. That I suffer from years of confusion, difficulty, self-abasement and despair. </p><p>If there's anything to inspire, I suppose it's that God has kept me and keeps me. He continues to carry me through, and I continue to trust His word. </p><p>God does indeed seem to move in a mysterious way. He moves in ways I cannot always understand. Sometimes I want to rail at Him and say, 'Fix me! Let me feel!' And sometimes He answers that and I feel for about a minute, some of the grief, some of the loss, some of the ache in my soul that rises to the surface. And then I say, 'Oh Lord, this is enough. You'll need to strengthen my capacity to feel before I can take on anymore.'</p><p>As I open up to God, and to my own process of grief, I notice I am not the same me as I was. Part of grief is grieving the person I was before is no more. It adds layers to it. As if the losses and sorrows aren't enough, we lose ourselves in the process. But actually, the unfolding of what my heart can hold reveals there might be a refining of the hidden self that was buried in there. There might be more to me than I knew. There might just be something God will make beautiful in His time. </p><p>So I wait, and work, and watch for His movements in me. And I allow...when I can, those things to surface which need to see the light of day. For everything hidden in the dark corners of my soul needs to feel the fresh breeze of God's grace. He has called me out of darkness and into His marvelous light. But sometimes that light is blinding and my eyes which were used to the dimness can't handle it. And so be it. God keeps shining light into me so as to awaken the dullness where I have ached too long and lost hope. </p><p>I will trust the grief that is changing me is what God ordains. That He is never far from my yearning. That His Word is still fresh, and speaks hope and life if I will take it up and drink deep from His well of Living water. </p><p>Maybe you'll join me in this in your own way. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMDmxEM0HK9Qh6hTzT9iZB1i1EKKPhYL1zl0aRvIr0woCMB2-vm9tjmkhVPkZuv03luh_HbIy1AOFygBHb3paG6u7GgZUzLA8DYfNgFUvQqSKuKUBuMNGQciK9lqjdswh27909geL0yjVOWSTTns7M_zonATOAi9j7pvqh7XNa5LEaIZwn1bMJzEp/s2560/20220618_093735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMMDmxEM0HK9Qh6hTzT9iZB1i1EKKPhYL1zl0aRvIr0woCMB2-vm9tjmkhVPkZuv03luh_HbIy1AOFygBHb3paG6u7GgZUzLA8DYfNgFUvQqSKuKUBuMNGQciK9lqjdswh27909geL0yjVOWSTTns7M_zonATOAi9j7pvqh7XNa5LEaIZwn1bMJzEp/s320/20220618_093735.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-40839854125241411782022-08-23T11:05:00.003-05:002022-08-23T11:14:22.821-05:00In My Covid Trial - Psalm 116<p> When I was at the worst part of covid last year, I could barely keep awake and when I was awake, I had no mental stamina to read or concentrate on anything. I couldn't listen to a narrative, or I'd get lost. My mind felt numb and consumed with the pain going on in seemingly every part of my body. So I went to BibleGateway.com and started to listen to Psalms. I have been memorizing Psalm 119, so I listen to it routinely. I've made my own voice recording but I hadn't a year ago so I was still using the online Bible Gateway version, in the ESV. Because I wanted to focus on Psalm 119, and I often was tossing or turning for a few minutes beforehand, I would back it up to a few chapters earlier. Sometimes I'd start at 113, or 115. I wasn't necessarily focusing on the words - simply letting them fall into the air and pick up a phrase here or there which might settle in my soul. </p><p><br /></p><p>Somehow, in some way, my mind was clear enough at one point to actually <b>hear</b> what Psalm 116 was saying. It seemed like my own longing, my own prayer, my own 'truth' (I know people get annoyed with the phrase, 'my truth' - but for now, let's just go with it, ok?). I think Psalms are like that - they give us words for our inner selves where we may lack them. I know I write to express myself, but not everyone does. And I don't even do it all the time. Hey, I've just gone an entire year with no journaling, which is concerning at some level, but goes to show, there are times where words simply don't flow. Some of us need a connection to our selves that words doesn't always supply. But then there is that need to frame our experience, our prayer, our inner life with God. Psalms does that for me. It might for you too, if you let it.</p><p><br /></p><p>I know not all who read this are Bible readers like I am. And I'm not suggesting we all need to be copycat imitations of each other. Got puts each of us on a journey towards Him (I believe), and there are those who choose to walk this journey with His words close at hand. I am one of those. It seems to me, in my experience, that over time, as I have read and soaked in Scripture that a slow metamorphosis takes place in me. The words seem fantastical at times. They seem bold, daring, depressing, sometimes audacious. The words fascinate me, and at times, befuddle me. They irk me, annoy me, raise multiple questions, and sometimes leave me wondering at the nature of God Who gives these words to us.</p><p><br /></p><p>But on my very sick bed a year ago, I stumbled into Psalm 116. With what little energy I had, tears were able to form and soak my already sweat-drenched pillow. I marveled that I could even cry, that I could even emote. But here these words floated into the air, and I never got to Psalm 119. I simply listened to Psalm 116 over and over. These were my words, my soul-words to God. My truth, if you will. My heart had somehow joined the Psalmist and claimed his words as my own. This is why we say Scripture is inspired. Because it breathes new life even into the deadest of souls. And sometimes that is a perfect description for me. </p><p><br /></p><p>I may write expressively at times, and sometimes there just is that smidgen of life in me that bursts out through words. But often that is the polar opposite of how I feel. Sometimes I live numb, disengaged, checked out of life. There are so many things that overwhelm me, whether they should or shouldn't isn't the issue here: they simply do. And this past year I think I just crashed somewhere along the way and the words were sucked dry.</p><p><br /></p><p>In that dark few weeks, I sensed my body shutting down, but there was a stillness, a quiet, a reflection that took place in that inner sanctum that is me. Surely our bodies are a Temple, and the Holy Spirit communes with me in the Inner Castle of my heart (<i>thanks for that thought, Teresa of Avila!). </i>The words of Psalm 116 became knit into me - when I had no prayer to pray, this became my soul cry:</p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"I love the LORD, because He has heard my voice and my pleas for mercy."</b></span></p><p>I love how it's not this very pious notion that I just love the Lord because He is so great and worth my love (et cetera et cetera). Of course that is true, but in this Psalm it's fairly existential: God has heard my requests, so I love Him. It's very matter-of-fact - a transactional relationship. It almost feels like an equation or formula: God does this, so I love Him. It's everything the most devout Christians work against. We promote loving God when it seems He doesn't hear us (and yes, that's good too). But I love how this Psalm opens with this plain, self-interested statement. I love God because He actually <b>hears</b> me. It sounds like there might be more, so let's read on:</p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"Because He inclined His ear to me, therefore I will call on Him as long as I live."</b></span></p><p>It's almost like that foxhole moment where the soldier knows he's about to die, but then makes a vow that He'll follow God the rest of His life if God will spare Him. This time the Psalmist is making that same kind of vow. God has opened His ear to me, so I will keep talking into that open ear the rest of my days. </p><p>A year ago, I thought this very thing. "God, obviously You are hearing me. I will keep talking as long as You're listening...forever." In these dark days as I thought I might not make it, I looked back over the 44 years of my life and saw many things I was sad about - regrets I had - ways I'd squandered the years God had given me. I thought about how I had often wanted not to live. How through the various seasons of life, I had succumbed to deep despair. Even in those moments of regret, I found grace. God was not scolding me, wagging a proverbial finger in my nose. Much to the contrary, He offered me love, and through these words, confirmed that He heard my prayer. He granted me mercy.</p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"The snares of death encompassed me; </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: bold;">the pangs of Sheol </span>(place of the dead)<span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: bold;"> laid hold on me; </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b>I suffered distress and anguish. Then I called on the name of the LORD:</b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b> 'O LORD, I pray, deliver my soul!'"</b></span></span></p><p>As these words floated over me, I began to weep. I felt like I was in the snares of death. I was suffering, not only physically, but emotionally. I felt I had done nothing with the years of life God had given me. I realize that is a bit dark and heavy and probably not true at all. I know I've raised some kids and been a wife, and friend, and teacher, and pianist and, and, and... These are the things others see, things I have done. There is an inner critic in each of us, and with me, sometimes she can be very pronounced. I'm not saying I agree now, looking back, with my own self-judgements. But that they sat on my soul like a heavy weight. In the moment I heard these words, it's as if I was being befriended by a wise sage, a sufferer like me, from long, long ago. These words were written before my greatest great grandparents were born, before Jesus came, before the modern world! And yet they speak to the deepest pain of my life. How had I not discovered this Psalm before? How had I not soaked in its truth?</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"Gracious is the LORD, and righteous; our God is merciful.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>The LORD preserves the simple; when I was brought low, He saved me."</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p>When I thought of all my regrets - of ways I hadn't filled up my time with lasting fruit - I felt that shame that whispers the lie "You aren't good enough." And God says, I am Gracious, I am righteous, I am merciful. For whatever ways I feel not good enough, the answer isn't, "Oh, but you are!" or "Oh, but you can be! Just try harder!" or "Oh, you're not so bad!" None of these responses will suffice for the hurting soul. The only real comfort for the not-good-enough is that God is good enough. That His goodness extends to the simple, the low, the disheartened, those who carry shame based in truth or not. "Grace, all is Grace - and there's grace for this, in ME." I seemed to hear God say to me in these words of Psalm 116.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the LORD has dealt bountifully with you."</b></span></p><p>As God ministered His truth to my wounded soul, He also instructed me. Giving me a pathway forward: return to rest. What could this mean? Where is rest found? I recalled Hebrews 4 where it says, "There remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God." Resting is foundational to trust, to salvation, to being rescued. When I think of rest, I cannot help but to think of work. It takes work to rest. Those who observe a physical, weekly Sabbath know this. To get to that place of calm, quiet, and rest, much effort is required. For me to return to rest, might mean clearing space for it. It might mean saying no to certain activities. It might mean feeling withdrawn, removed, unactive. And that's ok. God invites me to His bountiful provision, so that I might rest.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"For You have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>my feet from stumbling; I will walk before the LORD in the land of the living.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>I believed, even when I spoke: "I am greatly afflicted"; I said in my alarm, </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"All mankind are liars."</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p>God has delivered me - my soul is delivered from death - but for now, my body also. And the tears that I shed, He continues to deliver. Whenever I see the phrase 'my feet from stumbling' I remember the fateful night that drew Sam and I together, when I jumped off the balcony to call for help in the middle of the night when 4 men broke in and violently assaulted us. I had recently been on crutches and had a weak ankle, but I was able to land and not re-injure it. I was able to run, and not stumble. God preserved my feet from stumbling then, and He continues to guide me each day. God has done so much for me! I like how the Psalmist says, "I will walk before the Lord..." I think it's a phrase we often miss as to what that means. It's easy for me to think "I will walk before my husband, my family, my church, my school, my workplace, my friends." To think what matters is what <b>they </b>think of me, of how I live. But I want to be like this Psalmist: I want to walk before the Lord - it's His face, His joy, His life in me that I orient myself around. </p><p>And I love that bit about 'the land of the living.' This is a big bone I have to pick with the evangelical heaven narrative. It's all well and good. I am evangelical. I believe in heaven. But the heaven narrative is over-used and leads to a warped perspective. God put us HERE in the land of the LIVING. That means, our feet firmly planted on the ground, on earth, <b>not </b>in heaven. Of course Paul writes, 'Set your mind on things above, not on earthly things, for you died and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.' I get that! I DO that! I promote that! But the Bible also tells us to live here and now, in this world, not pining away for heaven, not passively accepting suffering that could be abated! The heaven-narrative can cause deep suffering: it can induce us to accept misery and not work to ameliorate it. Yes, heaven is real, and of course I can't wait to go there. But God hasn't called me there yet. He's called me here, to live in the land of the living. To be His life in the world. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"What shall I render to the LORD for all His benefits to me?</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the LORD,</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>I will pay my vows to the LORD in the presence of all His people."</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p>I love this - what can I give to God for all the ways He's given to me? We're still in that transactional mode of thinking! This is an actual real relationship with the living God. He talks to God like he wants to pay Him back, somehow. (Again, oh, the audacity!) He probably knows there's nothing he can really do to thank God for preserving his life. But he does choose to do <i style="font-weight: bold;">something.</i> He celebrates and recognizes the salvation God has granted. The idea of lifting up the cup of salvation is a way of saying, "Hey everyone, <b>SEE THIS!</b>" He can't exactly pay God back. Nor can we. Every week millions of people gather around a table, and a cup is lifted up. The cup can be seen by all who gather. The cup is then shared among the people. We call it Eucharist (thanksgiving) or Holy Communion (Common union). It is called the cup of salvation. In it, we recognize that blood was shed for our salvation. If you've ever wondered what Christians are doing with all that Bread and Wine, gathering at a table for these simple elements, this is what it's about: celebrating our salvation, recognizing the source of all good, and the sacrifice that was made to redeem us. </p><p>No, the Psalmist can't pay God back. But He can make God famous. He can tell others how God has helped him, how God rescued him, how God spared and preserved his life.</p><p>Hmmm, maybe that's what I'm doing right now. I'm writing about the time God spared my life. I'm telling you how God helped me, preserved me, upheld me, gave me grace upon grace. Christian gatherings ought to be like this: places we go to share before others how God has shown Himself in real and powerful and personal ways. </p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>"Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His saints. O LORD, I am your servant; I am your servant, the son of your maidservant. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>You have loosed my bonds. I will offer to You the sacrifice of thanksgiving and call on the name of the LORD. I will pay my vows to the LORD in the presence of all His people, in the courts of the house of the LORD, in your midst, O Jerusalem.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>Praise the LORD!"</b></span></p><div class="poetry" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Noto Sans", sans-serif, Arial; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 1em; min-width: 0px; padding-left: 2.6em; position: relative;"><p class="line" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 1.6rem; line-height: 2.4rem; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-width: 0px;"></p></div>And yet, not everyone lives. Not everyone's life is spared. And even in this, there is grace. Here I am reminded that even in death, God is present. God looks on His dying ones and loves them. They are precious to Him. As these words came over me again and again, I wondered why he would repeat 'I am your servant.' I pondered it at length. In this Psalm he goes into the darkest places - the pangs of death were about to overtake him. And then he ends with 'I am your servant.' I too, felt a re-orienting taking place in me. I was coming to what I thought was the end of my life. I had regrets. I had shame. I had the mercy of God. And I had to consider, what is life, but time? What do I fill up my life with? That's where the regret came in. I hate shame - detest it really. And it's often not that helpful. It's hard to see clearly when shame clouds the view. I prayed the tears would be windshield wipers to my soul: that I might be moved out of shame-fog into grace-glory. And God did move me. That is a prayer He delights to answer, I assure you.<div><br /></div><div>And there was this Psalm, still instructing my soul. I can fill up my life with serving God. I can be His servant. But that's not the least of it. Because I do have the rest of the Bible, unlike the Psalmist. In John 15, I am assured that Jesus doesn't call me servant, but He calls me friend. So, while I can orient my life around serving God, I may come up empty at times. I may fail Him, I may not do a good enough job. But that's not really the point. The point is that I am called His friend. If a friend doesn't serve me well, will I be mad? No! Because they're in the friend category, I don't expect their service. If they do serve me, that is kind and welcome, of course. But because they are a friend, they have my companionship regardless of service. </div><div><br /></div><div>God surely loves it if I serve Him. But He offers me more than an opportunity to serve in His realm. He offers me friendship, salvation, mercy, grace, forgiveness, shame-covering, welcome, peace, joy, love.</div><div><br /></div><div>And these are just a few of the things I learned soaking in Psalm 116. </div><div><br /></div><div>I lived to tell the tale.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVowXN4lSguJmQoVQQit13Ly5-GHv9YyNamEpWv5BzeBF0BFtiVGwBYsjMYaZLKL1cHTUzeX1WJ49c2fM_Q6mtX-VF53HaJu_awKUpjcfvRl5XnsLmHqZoeDLuT9QRs6oLRssWT89dmSrKloCGaUaLmaKdj0qmFJzlZSnuBv5rxTLATRqn47iaUohQ/s3264/20210513_073852.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVowXN4lSguJmQoVQQit13Ly5-GHv9YyNamEpWv5BzeBF0BFtiVGwBYsjMYaZLKL1cHTUzeX1WJ49c2fM_Q6mtX-VF53HaJu_awKUpjcfvRl5XnsLmHqZoeDLuT9QRs6oLRssWT89dmSrKloCGaUaLmaKdj0qmFJzlZSnuBv5rxTLATRqn47iaUohQ/s320/20210513_073852.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"His mercies are new every morning. Great is Your faithfulness."</div><div><br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-10357155261380729932022-08-20T20:36:00.001-05:002022-08-20T20:36:35.819-05:00My Letter to Priscilla<p> So what might one write when not quite in a lucid state of mind? What might I say when I struggled to breathe, to prepare my teenage daughter for her life ahead? </p><p>I thought a lot about death a year ago. I looked at my life and told myself, 'Well, I guess 44 years is a good enough life. God hasn't promised more or less. Who am I to say that is too soon to go?' Then, of course, I noticed that in Hong Kong they didn't seem to like the number 4 very much. They thought the way it sounded 'say' sounded very similar to the word for death: 'sei'. And in fact, to me, they sound identical.</p><p>And here I had completed 44 years around the sun, and in my glum state of being, figured my life was rapidly closing up shop. </p><p>I asked one of the kids to deliver the laptop to me, and I was able to put together a few thoughts for Priscilla on her orientation weekend. </p><p><br /></p><p>Here is what I wrote, thinking it might be the last thing she hears from me:</p><p><br /></p><div>Dear Priscilla,</div><div><br /></div><div>I so much wish I could be there as you begin your college life at Wheaton. I'm sorry to have to miss the orientation and meeting all the great people you are probably meeting. In some way, though, I am thankful you were at passage when I contracted covid so you can be more at ease and begin with your classmates instead of in a quarantine.</div><div><br /></div><div>You have made it to this day, and I'm so incredibly proud of you - you survived your 3 brothers and sister, and even survived our parenting!! Way to go!! </div><div><br /></div><div>As you launch into this season of discernment (what to study?! who to befriend?! how to spend time? how much sleep to get?), I want to encourage you with some of my favourite verses from 2 Peter 1: </div><div>His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of Him Who called us by His own glory and goodness.</div><div><br /></div><div>You have been given everything you need to live a godly life, by knowing Jesus. I love learning things. Biology, history, Bible - you know that. But growing in knowledge is one thing. Growing to know Jesus is another. Grow in THAT knowledge most of all. I can only assume that the more you know Him, the more you will love Him. There is no greater Treasure you can acquire.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know you will encounter need in your life - need for relationships, resources (college funds!!), health and wellbeing - you name it. But the greatest need you have is already met in Christ. I'm sure you know all this. I only say it to remind you and for you to have in writing as a 'stake in the ground' - an anchor for the soul.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We have an anchor that keeps the soul,</div><div>Steadfast and sure, while the billows roll.</div><div>Fastened to the Rock which cannot move!</div><div>Grounded firm and deep in the Saviour's love."</div><div><br /></div><div>The Anchor of the Love of God has sustained me throughout my life. It is a sure anchor - one that sustains our very lives, physically, emotionally, spiritually.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love you so much.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, go live in the knowledge that you are perfectly loved, known and supplied in the riches we have in Christ. Without Him, we can do nothing (see John 15, Ephesians 1).</div><div><br /></div><div>love,</div><div>Mommy</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKboYHOqfhrfMpJfLQML97wIMIhG8Iher2vomdMGM_B0LkpZwU4JDw5EFkZHlOkSfJfTs7inEZpNP5968LVNvR5uhhbmkTeDkrZM6t9zzHWyU9UNIigxC07qM-ZIlPbGMQlg9T3gS--EhhK19JeMZWUhO0wZUCXOmDrAeKPwZ6n1BBj3S91H5INGg/s2560/20220618_093735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKboYHOqfhrfMpJfLQML97wIMIhG8Iher2vomdMGM_B0LkpZwU4JDw5EFkZHlOkSfJfTs7inEZpNP5968LVNvR5uhhbmkTeDkrZM6t9zzHWyU9UNIigxC07qM-ZIlPbGMQlg9T3gS--EhhK19JeMZWUhO0wZUCXOmDrAeKPwZ6n1BBj3S91H5INGg/s320/20220618_093735.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><br style="background-color: white; color: #500050; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div></div></div></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-36460675599284175992022-08-19T23:28:00.001-05:002022-08-19T23:37:51.985-05:00A Year Ago<p> It was on this day one year ago that I ended up in the Urgent Care because of chest pain. They didn't find an immediate cause for chest pain, but did a routine covid screening test, and it came back positive. I had not had covid yet, and I was trusting it would be a mild case and geared up for the obligatory quarantine. I had been focused on my 2 oldest starting college, and all the logistics that involved - one going to Georgia, another nearby, and planning how one parent could be in one location, and I in the other. It was going to be a stretch to attend parent orientation, and try to take in all the upcoming changes. Our family was suddenly going to be shrinking. I didn't seem to have time to think about it or prepare for it. I didn't know how I'd feel settling Priscilla into a dorm room, watching her connect with friends and shift her focus from home to school and social events. I had already had a year without Caleb as he had been at a gap year program in Wisconsin. But Priscilla had spoiled me the past year, often driving kids to and from school for me, running errands, cooking meals, going shopping when the younger kids needed something. I was facing an increase in my work load in sending her off to college! Even though she is close, her life has demands that don't leave room for being my right hand helper.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNV5cXI8V4PHfkLNWqH6R3I20Pgm2rN4bw1WTJXexslZMD5FCG-lSoydt5PtESMH5p-VUnlphAHiJXfQojuSF7-mk2uGMZ2dh3bUuJ2tgE_f1SDVNG_1xkh95U_bhacF83Li3eYYTPgoSpvS2NLvXBWekcSH6rEY22OEoJxKDXhDEw7wA9wFDLbGq/s4032/20220818_173742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNV5cXI8V4PHfkLNWqH6R3I20Pgm2rN4bw1WTJXexslZMD5FCG-lSoydt5PtESMH5p-VUnlphAHiJXfQojuSF7-mk2uGMZ2dh3bUuJ2tgE_f1SDVNG_1xkh95U_bhacF83Li3eYYTPgoSpvS2NLvXBWekcSH6rEY22OEoJxKDXhDEw7wA9wFDLbGq/s320/20220818_173742.jpg" width="240" /></a><br /><p><br /></p><p>And there I was, newly diagnosed with covid, and now parent orientation was out. I would not be going to any events. I would not be meeting other parents. I would not listen to inspiring talks about the excitement of these years. I immediately saw the silver lining, and fully expected to endure a few sniffles at home. I had no idea what was coming.</p><p><br /></p><p>The symptoms were quite mild at first. I was surprised the test had come back positive. But slowly, my symptoms got worse. A friend insisted I have an oximeter, and she delivered it along with fruit and other sustenance. It became the monitor and gauge of my declining health. I saw my oxygen dip a few times, and refused to worry. But when it got under 90, every single part of my body ached and seemed to cry for help. It began to be cumbersome to get up to walk 5 steps to the bathroom. I would urge myself to take deeper breaths, but that only brought my oxygen up to 92 or so. The effort it took to breathe was monumental. My focus quickly shifted from the loss of college experience with Priscilla to getting through each hour. It dawned on me that this was no mild illness; that people had and do die from this Delta variant. I became utterly dependent on others, for almost everything.</p><p><br /></p><p>My younger kids stayed out of my room. Friends, acquaintances, and family showed up with meals, vitamin C, other interesting remedies, advice, support, care, prayers, and offers of help. My kids were driven to and from school somehow. People ate and nutrition was dense. I was completely bed-ridden, and life went on around me. I didn't cook, clean, drive, talk (speech required too much breath). I entered a surreal time-warp as my fever began to rage. I entered a number of delirious states where I couldn't tell if I was awake, asleep, in reality, in dreamworld, in another world, or in my pseudo-right mind. I felt my weakness with every breath. I woke up with drenched clothes clinging to me and wondered who had dumped all the water on my bed. It turns out, I had hit an intense sweat in my sleep and my hair and clothes were soaked. </p><p><br /></p><p>I tried to distract myself from the pain. I picked some lame show that barely kept my attention and tried to watch it. But then I would drift out and forget what was happening in it. So I switched to listening to Psalms. I fell asleep during those times too, but I could remember the last one I was awake for and go back. I began to reflect on life. I thought I might not make it.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now, I realize that can sound melodramatic. I remember in the worst throes of labour thinking, "I'm dying! This poor child will never know me!" There have been a handful of times I thought I was dying. I got a vaccine that rendered me unconscious, and as I floated in my stupor, I saw that bright light and was sure I was coming to see Jesus very soon. The strange thing is, in these times of facing what I thought was imminent death, the physical strain of breathing or surviving seems to take all energy and the fear and sadness just seems like a floating cloud that I can't quite touch or reach. A year ago, I laid on my bed thinking, "I may never get up from here. And I guess that's ok. I should probably be sad or something, but right now, I need to take another breath." It is a surreal feeling, like a regret at not being able to commit energy to sadness. </p><p><br /></p><p>During this time I was thinking a lot about Priscilla, how she would be starting college and I wouldn't be by her side. I delegated the parent-job to a good friend and I was so grateful she could have a Mom-like person there for her. I'm amazed at the amount of care, support, and help I received at this time. I began to list them all out one by one. People sent me gift cards for pizza for the kids ("Yay!" they all cheered!). People asked where we like to get take-out from, and we had to come up with something as we never get it. The kids were spoiled! They loved it! So many people stepped up and cared for us. We are so grateful!</p><p><br /></p><p>But back to Priscilla. There was this part of the parent weekend where they had asked us to write a special letter to our child, to give them to launch them into this new season of life. I had not informed Priscilla that I was so sick. She knew I tested positive for covid. But she didn't know the degree of my illness. I intentionally shielded details from her because I didn't want to cloud her excitement with worry over me. Whether I lived or died, her worry would not have helped me. So I thought it best to keep my impending demise to myself. (I did tell her much later, and that was a lot for her to take in). </p><p><br /></p><p>I thought to myself, "If I write this letter, it may be the last thing she reads from me." My mind was so fuzzy. I couldn't think straight. I could hardly gather my wits or thoughts - my mind was murky as a mud puddle. And I had no passion. No sentiment. No feeling whatsoever. Sadness required a certain kind of energy. I did feel sad for my kids, and gave a cursory thought that 'oh, this might be hard for them.' But I knew I needed to write a letter to Priscilla. I didn't know what I should say. I didn't want it to be a goodbye letter, as I didn't want her to think I was in serious peril. I simply wanted to give her some guidance for her coming year, and some of the most important things I wanted her to know. </p><p><br /></p><p>My oxygen had been dipping, sometimes to 89, then 88 and even lower. I worked to breathe so I could think and type. Handwriting would have taken too much energy. I clumsily worked through writing a few thoughts to her that my friend could print out and give her. </p><p><br /></p><p>I look back at a year ago and realize it was the beginning of one of the most difficult years of my life, ever. I have done much soul work in the past decade, and I believe God used this to prepare me to face incredible challenges. At any other time, any single one of these major difficulties would have done me in. I have suffered in my flesh, spirit, family, society. I guess my dogs didn't die, so that's good. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSypxU7U_fbgSMe59Ri__5YGVRqM3Pg-y5PZkQMF8Jr-j7g3S5SuMewPfFffzc2R_MJCl26BDE4BVQPnB-qEPD9ERnNSTwJwu4yAi_TPbk8enhoaS3A6_9tfzm6DzD80emckYKC0GvsHD9kcNsT4xk_nlbS6OeIvk08KTeFJau_55ImPFcct5qEhh/s4032/20220811_203504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoSypxU7U_fbgSMe59Ri__5YGVRqM3Pg-y5PZkQMF8Jr-j7g3S5SuMewPfFffzc2R_MJCl26BDE4BVQPnB-qEPD9ERnNSTwJwu4yAi_TPbk8enhoaS3A6_9tfzm6DzD80emckYKC0GvsHD9kcNsT4xk_nlbS6OeIvk08KTeFJau_55ImPFcct5qEhh/s320/20220811_203504.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>A year ago began a year of trial, of loss, of pain, suffering, growth, and the sustaining grace of God in and through it all. I've often wanted to write what I was experiencing, but there was no capacity. My soul was breaking under the strain. There were no words. I intend to reflect and recount all that went on here - maybe the distance of a year will help me bring into focus all that simmered within me during those trials. Some of the trials were so burdensome I cannot explain them in detail out of kindness or respect to others. When others cause us suffering, we may still exercise the covering of love (it covers a multitude of sins, you know). </p><p><br /></p><p>I'll share what I wrote to Priscilla in the next post. She said she wouldn't mind if I did.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcA7jiUbBAdDX-XRufrwEY0n_gdgRrMEBybBKfTlU0D78vZDi1z6TCr5_le9ZL2bZNRIimk_Qep7IL2YWpMCye9g74Mc9PxGVJu30uzHhppX8_7uCitY9EA76nytmoY7Q1ZNcU3bFRzE6yZBTTX79uFf8ersENNomMb4zWqYhKph2wf79_2z7tE1B/s2560/20220428_191656.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcA7jiUbBAdDX-XRufrwEY0n_gdgRrMEBybBKfTlU0D78vZDi1z6TCr5_le9ZL2bZNRIimk_Qep7IL2YWpMCye9g74Mc9PxGVJu30uzHhppX8_7uCitY9EA76nytmoY7Q1ZNcU3bFRzE6yZBTTX79uFf8ersENNomMb4zWqYhKph2wf79_2z7tE1B/s320/20220428_191656.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-15568362119867231272022-07-15T16:01:00.005-05:002022-07-15T16:01:32.019-05:00That Time I Tried Art<p> I like expression, exploration, BOLD, daring colors, uninhibited freedom, shapes, lines - clean and soft, textures, patterns, contrast. I like to think, to put words on my feelings...to find a way to uncage my soul. I often dream of being an artist. "Here's what I'd paint if I could," I say to myself. And when I try it, it looks awful, so I keep the artist part of me in my imagination. Very rarely I give it an actual attempt. What comes forth is rather ghastly, but the process was cathartic, so I consider it a success.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBxkCYrov_TIklsdpmEvPTaeIMOitTMaHvx6lybpXSU2TfeeU_XSpQ381mlTFOB8AFAfXPAzjNRSX9XeuSkkz_t5lXfAKcDmvpVvXYASUh1Gk-ICyRayjLj9XnTmR8Apwg8n05K5Y54QkNPDqm6SSiCdMCrAHWZkgdCFZl74QqoUzzY7_c0V2dYZe/s4160/IMG_20220715_154724653_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBxkCYrov_TIklsdpmEvPTaeIMOitTMaHvx6lybpXSU2TfeeU_XSpQ381mlTFOB8AFAfXPAzjNRSX9XeuSkkz_t5lXfAKcDmvpVvXYASUh1Gk-ICyRayjLj9XnTmR8Apwg8n05K5Y54QkNPDqm6SSiCdMCrAHWZkgdCFZl74QqoUzzY7_c0V2dYZe/s320/IMG_20220715_154724653_2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Knowing I lack skill, I move towards the abstract; a way to simplify the tumult that seeks dissipation. I dig through the stuff: a canvas, kids' art kit, scissors, comb, a random plastic cup left on the table, craft tape. I squeeze all the colors onto the palette and begin with circles. I never know which colors will strike my fancy. Better to have all the colors squeezed out so I can see them on the plate. Just having the options brings its own comfort, somehow. I give up on circles. I need lines. Hard. Firm. Bold. I go back to circles. Am I more circle or line? I can't tell. I end up with something crazy and weird. "Give it a name," I tell myself. </p><p>"No Rhyme or Reason." "How's that?" I wonder. Oh the discussions I have in my head!</p><p>I toss out my first idea. It has <i style="font-weight: bold;">both</i> rhyme and reason. I can't escape that I still want structure, even if the lines are messy and uneven. "How about: 'Bubbling Rage'?" my creative word-self offers up. The circles, both opaque and cosmic, seem to each represent one part of me that is trapped within. They float, partly caged, partly free, ready to emerge in their own good time. There are breaks between the bars; the cage will never hold them completely. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTu9wAzw14qtNed19cFdhoYfIqSjxoni8TyJpf2Z0OcMjcJ5ReNwgNL3nuTTY-T7zvCEp4bCI74Woss-COu2LguRPUiQltz8UMpq0s0Vt1jXh5-J6OzfMjRUEiAe_vpBvHhAnuj4hMhZcth0qZDbmkRYYZq4zWhpi_vVy7-X7mFFCYO22d1Vs-Dfr/s4160/IMG_20220715_154730822_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTu9wAzw14qtNed19cFdhoYfIqSjxoni8TyJpf2Z0OcMjcJ5ReNwgNL3nuTTY-T7zvCEp4bCI74Woss-COu2LguRPUiQltz8UMpq0s0Vt1jXh5-J6OzfMjRUEiAe_vpBvHhAnuj4hMhZcth0qZDbmkRYYZq4zWhpi_vVy7-X7mFFCYO22d1Vs-Dfr/s320/IMG_20220715_154730822_2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Behind them lie pathways I once tried. There are murky parts, bold parts, confused parts...just like me. I'll call it: </p><p>Through a Glass Darkly.</p><p>It fits my life, I think.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh185IYdZvaejpKVB-T9EAS9ZxSey-ejlex0fl1gdBWNpatflN9jQ6xWrKrdPimBIKn6fNCNFNcTTy-pcKftorzvLFCaXXDve0aM_FBcQVp06sQJvrRYuvME3GCErZcQVb8rv-mWA2l09d1fh9Uq_Ks7sLrd5nJp2hOpuQ4GgbVaU4-Bh1VJm8zN5pJ/s4160/IMG_20220715_154659265_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh185IYdZvaejpKVB-T9EAS9ZxSey-ejlex0fl1gdBWNpatflN9jQ6xWrKrdPimBIKn6fNCNFNcTTy-pcKftorzvLFCaXXDve0aM_FBcQVp06sQJvrRYuvME3GCErZcQVb8rv-mWA2l09d1fh9Uq_Ks7sLrd5nJp2hOpuQ4GgbVaU4-Bh1VJm8zN5pJ/s320/IMG_20220715_154659265_2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Maybe I'll try art again someday.</p><p>But for today, this is enough.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyx91lbLq3SPIRwhbWhVqNhz06mcePw6eSxsGhmLyWlYy4jhoHW1Cl0TlR_2cbkUYj4IvxuCzlS4mnfrYTNsA_XyDuanV7V64mAHExRqE681aDuJz22LYguoQZPpkRIIo_I8kbG-TwuT-h7YVEe2EZbHCzUtd_iGiqFjWRXVdXJbVn_RIIltSioDr/s4160/IMG_20220715_154743398_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyx91lbLq3SPIRwhbWhVqNhz06mcePw6eSxsGhmLyWlYy4jhoHW1Cl0TlR_2cbkUYj4IvxuCzlS4mnfrYTNsA_XyDuanV7V64mAHExRqE681aDuJz22LYguoQZPpkRIIo_I8kbG-TwuT-h7YVEe2EZbHCzUtd_iGiqFjWRXVdXJbVn_RIIltSioDr/s320/IMG_20220715_154743398_2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024768053002787146.post-59431042250819447652022-04-13T14:07:00.004-05:002022-04-13T14:25:55.648-05:007 Things Autistic Children and Adults Learn Incredibly Well<p><span style="color: #800180;"> Ever since I was 11 and saw the movie, 'The Boy Who Could Fly' I had my ears perked for any article or mention of Autism. In Hong Kong, there weren't many movies that came out in English, so if there was one that wasn't off-limits for kids, we would see it, even if we weren't interested in it. The novelty of seeing a movie in English superseded our pickiness about content.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">I had barely heard the word 'autistic' before, and naturally imagined it must be a mispronunciation of 'artistic'. But the movie gave me another perspective. Because I had so many struggles with learning, attention, and getting along with my peers, I was fascinated by the insights I would find in an article or book on autism. I was fascinated that recognition was being given to the various kinds of people in world.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"> People God made. </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">People whose outlook was different. </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">People similar to me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"> I could relate to some of what I read, and what I didn't relate to, I began to understand.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">I used to jokingly say that if a book were written of my life, it could have a one word title: 'Judged.' I don't hold to that idea any longer - it was perhaps in a more cynical phase of my thought-process that I said this. But the idea still holds that I understand what it is to be judged, presumptions made of my motives, disparages made of my lack of stellar performance in all things academic, social, punctual, organizational, orderliness, among other things I'm forgetting just now.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">As I've struggled to watch my own family grow in and through the various personality dynamics and giftings, and I do mean <b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">struggle</span></i></b> (in that some of the watching is entirely painful), I realize that autistic children and adults learn <span style="font-size: medium;"><u>some things</u></span> <i><b>incredibly well. </b></i>I'm going to list them here for you.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>1. The World Around Them Does Not Offer Safety or Justice</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">When a child gets in trouble for an innocent, but poorly understood, reason, it appears unfair or unjust. For example, a particular child observed young students in his school being led in a science experiment. They were holding magnifiers to paper in the bright sun to see if they could burn a hole in the paper. He observed this and decided it is much easier to start fires with matches, and promptly brought matches to school the next day, recruited a friend to gather twigs, and began to build themselves a fire. This was swiftly dealt with and an immediate in-school suspension occurred. It was explained that children aren't supposed to play with matches. Though the child did not have rebellious intent, he still had to serve his sentence. It was a public humiliation, and instructive in that he learned children should not play with matches. But years later, he recounts the story and says, 'I learned that day that there is no justice. The younger kids got to start fires, but we didn't. It doesn't make sense.'</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>2. It is better to put up with being misunderstood than to try to explain to people not interested in listening.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">A child will encounter difficulty and people will misunderstand any child. Normally, people try to repair misunderstandings with dialogue and self-justification. An autistic child learns that they aren't going to be heard or understood, as the things they do just seem so off-putting to others. They learn very well and very quickly to give up any effort of correcting the record or standing up for themselves. They learn despair and distrust very quickly. The world teaches them this by experience. They learn it is best simply to keep to themselves because no-one will understand anyway.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>3. They learn that their gifts aren't appreciated or appropriate if they don't fall in the right category.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Many people with autism have wonderful gifts to share with their communities. They may be hidden gifts - not all are artists and musicians, though some are. Some may have keen insight, problem-solving skills, appreciation for beauty, humor and even a quick-wit. Many of these gifts are kept from blessing their communities because some people with autism learn that they are viewed as so different and odd, they fear to bring their whole selves into the open. This is not their fault, but a failure of the community to lovingly welcome them as they are.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>4. They learn to be quiet and absorb shame and rejection.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">People with autism will sometimes be teased. If they are young, they might get called, 'dumb' or 'stupid.' One child said, 'I learned that if I agreed with them when they called me that, they would say it less often and push me over less frequently.' Children with autism are likely to be bullied if not observed and protected on an open playground. They learn very quickly that they will be mocked and shunned for being different.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>5. They learn to Hide.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">As life goes and is very difficult for children with autism, they may learn very quickly the best way to get by is to keep a low profile and remain hidden as much as possible. At other times, they may seek attention in a negative way, because they so very much long for acceptance and respect from their peers. This usually does not end well and only perpetuates the cycle and affirms the painful belief that their friendship isn't worthy of their peers.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>6. They Learn to Fend for themselves.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Sometimes people with autism learn that because people aren't going to take the time and effort to listen and understand them, that they will need to do everything for themselves rather than asking or depending on others. This is a great gift to them as they become more resilient and self-reliant. The sad part, however, is that this strength comes about because of a lack of patient engagement on the part of their community.</span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;"><b>7. They Learn that Unless they Try to Fix themselves, they won't be accepted.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">Some people don't even believe there is such a thing as autism. Some haven't studied or learned much about it at all. I grant that all people do not need to become autism scholars. But out of basic compassion and care for our communities, it behooves us to at least be aware of the diversity in the world around us, including neurodiversity. I also recognize that Autism is a whole spectrum and not one fixed set of traits. The word itself gives a clue, from the Greek for 'self' - Auto. A person with Autism has an outlook that often come through themselves and lacks an ability to perceive how others look at things. Some would say this is a weakness. I say it is just one way of being in the world and that person's perspective is valid, even if it doesn't consider everyone else's perspective. It's an area for a person with Autism to explore and grow in. And it's an area for neurotypicals to be aware of in interactions with the neurodiverse population. </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">There are many other things I could add to this list, but I think by now you know where I'm going. My point is that those who live in the world with autism need community support, empathy, understanding, patience, and listening. They may not be able to force themselves to speak up for themselves. They may fear how society will engage with them. <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>They may not be able to be forthcoming in defending themselves or explaining themselves. </b></span><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Therefore, the rest of us need to patiently draw them out.</span></i> </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Offer acceptance.</span> </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hope.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Kindness. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Caring.</b></span> </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: large;"><b><i>And not just as acts of charity either, but for <u>OUR OWN</u> benefit. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;">I guarantee that if you patiently engage and listen to someone whose outlook and perspective is very different from yours, that you will grow as a person, and likely they will bless you in innumerable ways. </span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">One amazing gift people with Autism bring to the world is their deep <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>attunement to reality.</i></span> They don't fear to tell the truth as they see it. They <b><span style="font-size: medium;">see and know </span></b>when someone is being maligned unfairly, <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>because they have felt it themselves</i></span>. They can be more attuned to relational dynamics and call out those acting unjustly, <i style="font-weight: bold;">if we would let them and<span style="font-size: medium;"> include them in the discussion.</span></i></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"> People<u><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> falsely assume </span></b></u>that those with autism simply don't 'get' relational interactions. On the contrary, they 'get' them all too well - suffering from neurotypical's <span style="font-size: medium;"><i>brusqueness, cavalier impatience, 'ain't got the time of day for you'. </i></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #800180;">I'm sure not all my readers will agree with what I'm saying here. But if you understand, I hope you will make an effort to bless your community by making more room at the table - the table of friendship, work environment, school, church, neighborhood, clubs - for those with Autism.</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWvMgXXQmJw6RjEfLbTD4_vSU4_LVsTRh5HhoaqpmuBBEdaBEk4c4okE6FBbHs8GpSxU8SebHD5ND9q0Zxoqv8aCvkLwv_7DNwNtoKrpntFqTj6qJhPxVNuzJ6gFBHwdxl11cx8eO9DFng45LaJUfbKFmJ6URf0OiHoTcj_kGjUnim0AsHeWOKqozB/s675/Screenshot_20220413-135724.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="559" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWvMgXXQmJw6RjEfLbTD4_vSU4_LVsTRh5HhoaqpmuBBEdaBEk4c4okE6FBbHs8GpSxU8SebHD5ND9q0Zxoqv8aCvkLwv_7DNwNtoKrpntFqTj6qJhPxVNuzJ6gFBHwdxl11cx8eO9DFng45LaJUfbKFmJ6URf0OiHoTcj_kGjUnim0AsHeWOKqozB/s320/Screenshot_20220413-135724.png" width="265" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06370095814271780946noreply@blogger.com6