Wake Up, Oh Sleeper

“Our pace, the incessant activity, the noise, the interruptions, the deadlines and demands, the daily schedules, and the periodic feelings of failure and futility bombard our beings like the shelling of a beachhead.  Our natural tendency is to wave a white flag, shouting, “I give up! I surrender!”  This, of course, is the dangerous extreme of being weary-the decision to bail out, to throw in the towel, to give in to discouragement and give up.”

“There is nothing wrong with feeling weary, but there is EVERYTHING wrong with abandoning ship in the midst of the fight.”-Charles Swindoll

Waving the White Flag of Surrender

Friends, I waved the flag.

I did more than wave the flag in surrender, I heaved it over the side of my storm-tossed boat into the waves of failure, abandonment, fatigue, depression and boredom.  I raised my puny fist and cursed the endless night with ugly profanity-laced words.  When none but the deafening silence of a seemingly indifferent God and uncaring world responded, I lay down in the frigid waters of disappointment and disillusionment rapidly filling my deck and I slept.

To the world I was normal.  They couldn’t see I was merely the walking dead, sans zombie accoutrements.  I drank coffee at Starbucks.  I encouraged friends.  I hugged children.  I cooked dinner.  I gambled and giggled on a Vegas trip.  All, while sleeping on the inside, violins of crap-t.v., the occasional martini and food kept me slumbering on the deck of my spiritual and emotional Titanic.

I slept until the shout of a kid who manages a movie theatre woke me up.

His name is Chris Bernstorf.  He’s a spoken word poet.  He is a Christian.  And he is a light.  A light so bright, it woke this girl up.

I sat in the pew ready for some worship time at this new church I have been checking out.  I knew the music would be good.  I knew I would sing good.  I knew it was the ‘right’ thing to be there, as I brought a young friend of mine.  I knew it would be good and I would be home just in time to catch my favorite shows on t.v.

Before the worship began, the kids who run the church invited a friend of theirs to share his poetry.  This skinny kid in skinnier jeans and a wrinkled shirt stood on the pew and began to talk.  He shared how amazed he was that God could use him-a kid who swept popcorn and managed a theatre.  Chris asked us to sing “This Little Light of Mine”.  He disappeared into the back of the church.  As “Let it shine…” faded out, and yes, I sounded good, a roar erupted from the back of the sanctuary.  Breaking the fourth wall and the icy glass and depression-fueled stupor around my heart, he shared this:

Chris Bernstorf – Move – 08 Light

I wept.  I shook.  And, most gloriously, I WOKE UP.

It wasn’t the words, in particular.  I, like most Christians, want to be a light.  It wasn’t just the well crafted verse (the kid is a genius), I’m a writer and can turn a phrase or two.  It was the passion.  Chris was passionate because he knew God was passionate about him.  This kid’s words were soaked in a powerful passion through which God could shout His demand for us to truly be His light in a dark world.

I heard.  I saw the light.  Through this kid’s beautiful verse, Jesus said to me, “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall shine (make day dawn) upon you and give you light.” (Eph. 5:14)

I’m awake now.  I’m stretching.  I’m praying.  I’m reading John Bevere’s, “Relentless”.  My muscles are stiff and I stumble about.  However, this scripture is real for me.  “18 By having the eyes of your heart flooded with light, so that you can know and understand the hope to which He has called you, and how rich is His glorious inheritance in the saints (His set-apart ones).” (Eph. 1:18 AMP)

It ain’t pretty, this boat I’m floating in.  Just out of reach, across the bow is that damn white flag.  I choose to look sternward.  I choose to know and understand the hope to which He has called me.

As I pray more, I pray for you.  I pray you would awake, oh beautiful sleeper, to the hope He has for you.  I pray you would awake to His light upon your heart.

The Spin Stops Never

Web by the wall.

On the way to the bus, my 5 year old screamed, “Mom! Look at this!”

In grass bejeweled by the morning dew, lay a gossamer miracle.  A spider spent the night spinning a web held aloft by grass columns.  The craftspider was nowhere to be found, no doubt passed out from exhaustion beneath the mammoth structure.

It was beautiful and by the afternoon, it was gone.

A few mornings later, this is what we saw as we waited for the bus.

There it was again.

Webbed Wonder

The spider did what a spider does.  She spun a web.  (In my head all spiders are the gloriously bulbous, wisdom spouting greatness of Charlotte or Miss Spider of Sunny Patch fame.)

As I take this journey to eat less, pray more and love abundantly, there have been many questions which have been presented to me.  The spider web brought up some more.

The spider created something beautiful in the middle of harsh stones.  It relied upon fragile blades of grass to keep it elevated. What am I creating in the middle of the sharp stones of my own life?  The fragility of faith, friendship and finances-are they keeping me from creating anything?

The spider did what she does best-spin webs.  What do I do best?

It’s been raining and cold for many days here, so we haven’t seen if the intrepid spider remains.  I wouldn’t be surprised when the sun shines again, to find the spin stopped never.  I also will not be surprised to spin a few webs of my own.

So, what are you creating?  Is it time for you to emerge from the crags of your life and spin?  What do you do best?  Perhaps we can spin a tale or two together.

To Thine Own Healing Be True

Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, “To thine ownself be true.” Therefore you must become acquainted with ‘ownself’ first!   A friend, who lives her life praying more and loving abundantly, shared an online personality test.  It was free.  It was easy.  So I took it.  Here are my results.   INFP=Healer Definition

In short, I hate convention and adore creativity.  I am crushed by others expectations but live to raise others of themselves.  I abhor routine and work best in a creative and flexible environment.  My values are solid and the main rudder with which I navigate life.  Cue the irony, but writing is at the top of the list for professional and personal pursuits for an INFP.  Most surprisingly, I seek to heal others.

To be called a healer took me a bit by surprise.  In recent years I’ve been working so hard to keep my own head above water, I rarely peeked out from beneath my blanket of misery to notice others.  Recently, however, I’ve had a moment or two where someone asked me to speak into their life or situation.  Surprisingly, with each conversation to lift others I found my own spirits to be raised.

Someone very close to me recently brought his broken heart and lay it in my lap.  My dearest love bared his bruises and asked me for an ice pack.  His heart was slashed by familiar blades.  I pulled my sleeves down over my own, similarly shaped scars.

My first reaction was to crawl back under my blanket of misery and hide.  After crying, quite a bit, one of those ugly cries which would never be seen in a movie, I realized something.  I was healed.  I was no longer the broken one in this particular area.  My scars are a badge of honor, not a scarlet letter.

I am a healer.  I am a healer because I have overcome much.  I know what it is to be the victim.  More importantly, I know what it is to be the victor!

Therefore, armed with the grace poured out through prayer, I’ll be true to my own healing.  I’ll help my dearest love to find his own healing.  To my ownself I will be true, scars and all.

 

 

Don’t Tell Mom

I came home the other night. The curtains in the livingroom were askew. I waited for the story.

My husband told me they accidentally were torn down. He imitated my youngest, voice and all, “Daddy, I’m sorry! Pleeeeeease don’t tell Moooooommmmyyy!” We had a good laugh and then went on with our evening.

That statement, however, has stuck with me. I know, logically, my dear 5 year old was simply avoiding punishment for whatever behavior led to the curtains crashing. What kid wants to get in trouble when he can avoid it? My heart, however illogical, was a bit hurt by this.

Why wouldn’t he want me to know? Is he afraid of me? I once thought it was better to be feared then loved. I would joke about my kids being afraid of me. Now I am not so sure.

Not telling me is a way to avoid accountability. Therefore, they must not see accountability in a good way. Or I have been too harsh and the accountability I provide is too tough. Either way, it is a withdrawing from relationship.

Lately, I have been practicing a “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” policy with God. If I don’t ask Him anything then He won’t tell me where I need to grow. The curtains of my spiritual life are hanging crooked in some corners. I have, for a long time, pretended He wouldn’t notice.

The thing is, just as I saw the unevenness as soon as I walked in the room, so too God sees the unevenness of my faith and devotion. Rather than hide from me or withdraw, as my children have done with me, He comes running closer.

Take the parable of the Prodigal Son. The Father runs across the field and meets his son with open arms. The son doesn’t even have to confess to his sins before the Father is placing the ring of authority on his hand and wrapping his wearied shoulders in a new robe.

Technically, I don’t have to tell Father God anything. He already knows everything because of that omniscient gift of His. I don’t have to tell, but that doesn’t mean He stops asking.

In fact, He keeps asking. He keeps reaching out, in small and large ways. He tries to get my attention and runs towards me when I am only able to do halting baby steps. He stands ready, at anytime, at every time, to embrace me and place a new robe upon my wearied shoulders.

I straightened those curtains. I also had a conversation with my sons about loving them even when they make a mistake or a bad decision.

I started to ask and to tell Father God all the things in my heart. My curtains aren’t straight yet, however, I can feel His hand reaching to tuck them back into place.

Loving Abundantly: Weeping Willow

There I sat, my nine-year old wrapped around one leg, my five-year old tucked under my wing.  We were poised to witness history.  The pyrotechnics club of somewhere-or-other was seeking to enter a place in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most weeping willow rockets in the air at one time.

Loving my children abundantly that particular night meant tossing the routine out the window.  We jumped into the car, stopping only to get snackies, and raced to claim our part of the lawn in front of the eye surgical associates.

We were a block away from the staging grounds.  This meant the fireworks exploded directly overhead.  My youngest felt like a frog beneath my arm, jumping at the loudest reports.  My oldest, a veteran of fireworks displays, coolly crossed his ankles and gazed overhead.

Me?  I wept.

My mother-in-law loved fireworks.  She would have been ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ right along with us, insisting we all eat more snacks.  I wept because she is gone and my children will never see fireworks with her again.

It is written that all of Heaven rejoices when one makes a decision to believe God and be transformed from death to life.  I wept because fireworks are my idea of how Heaven rejoices.

I don’t want to live where we live.  Haven’t for years.  I wept because we were still here and there still was no open exit door.

The air was cool that night.  Wearing a sweatshirt and huddled beneath an afghan brought to mind a chilling reminder.  I wept because school was starting and the fun summer was ending.

Here is the video, of the world record attempt.  I don’t know if they made it.  If they do, we can cry about it together.

Loving Abundantly: Motherhood Edition

Shanna Groves has an insightful blog up asking, essentially, how to love abundantly as a Mother.  Read it here: Great Blog on “What Kind of Mother Should I Be.

Recently, in an effort to commit fully to a less-more-abundant life, I have stepped back from working a ‘real’ job.  I am concentrating, for the first time ever, on really building a consulting and writing career.  It means, for the first time, I am home with my children for the entire summer.  No camps.  No day care.  Just me.

I, like Shanna, wondered what I was really doing to show my kids I loved them.  Were the slurpy noodles and brown soup served on trays enough?  Was the one on one time learning how to write, cheering every hard-won inch of growth, important?  The Wii tournaments where I would get slaughtered by my 5-year-old, did that show him love abundantly?  Was the purchase of the utterly ridiculous t-shirt a way to touch his 9-year-old heart?

Or was it the whispered conversations long after bedtime with my 9-year-old?  Topics ranging from Lego building conundrums to worrying about the new school year.  Or was it the run/jump/launch/hug of my 5-year-old (my back protesting) which filled his heart?

I did ask them to watch toons so I could work.  I did leave them in the more than capable care of Pap to get shopping and writing done.  I did lose it more than once.  My 9-year-old once answered the question, “How was your day so far?” with this, “Well, it was good until my Mom cussed me out this morning!”  Not my most abundant day to be sure.

Today we cheered when my oldest conquered a level in his Star Wars Wii game he’s been working on for two whole years!  Is that love abundant?

There are the ad nauseam arguments of quality versus quantity.  There are the ‘helicopter’ moms hovering over their children every minute of every day.  There are the ‘sidelines’ moms who prefer to watch and get on the field only when they need to.  I’m still figuring it all out.

Perhaps it isn’t the answer which is important.  Maybe it’s the question which will keep me loving abundantly.

 

Eating Less is Hard When You are Hungry

It’s 10:30 p.m. and I’m hungry. Like starving. Like ready to gnaw on the arm of the couch hungry.

Okay, maybe I am being dramatic (or being guilty of over-using the millennial favorite word ‘like’). Maybe?

Here’s the thing. I’m hungry in nearly every area of my life.

I am hungry for more professional success. Professional success which will feed the sucking black hole of debt and bills; not to mention the black hole in my ego and confidence.

I am hungry for more time with my husband. Time which will let us not only ask the hard questions but remember the answers we once knew.

I am hungry for more of God. More of Him and less of me.

I am hungry.

Went to church not once but twice tonight. Both sermons spoke directly to my heart.

Applied for more contracting work.

Watching ‘Shark Week’ with my husband.

Feeling fuller already.

Tough Questions Part Two

In a previous post I shared loving abundantly means asking the hard questions. I related it to friendship.

As is often the case, as soon as a revelation hits, an opportunity to put it into practice comes around.

It was 1 a.m.. Weary and near blind from staring at Olympics all night we finally settled in for sleep. The fan humming and the dog snoring, I should have drifted away immediately. Instead I was itchy on the inside. I needed-something. Taking a deep breath I popped out of bed and went for it. I asked him the hard questions.

Without rancor, without angst, I laid it all on the table. After sniffling and snorting my way to a conclusion, I waited. He is the epitome of still waters running deep-I knew he is worth the wait.

He then laid it on the table. All of it.

Most was hard to hear as I can really do nothing about it. However, things needed to be said and not only heard, but acknowledged.

We are arriving at the answers because we both were able to ask the hard questions. This time we will cross the finish line together.

We can and will change how the story ends. If we ask the tough questions.

Loving Abundantly Means Asking the Hard Questions

Received a text from a friend today.

“Is something wrong? Haven’t heard from you.”

I immediately called her and we had a frank and honest conversation. I apologized for making assumptions. I decided she couldn’t possibly want to spend time with me individually if we already would be in the same place for a group gathering. I was wrong.

She assumed I was mad or she had done something. She was wrong.

We talked it out and planned to schedule some time as soon as we could. I felt loved abundantly.

Loving abundantly means sometimes asking the hard questions. Questions like, “What is going on with you?”. It also means being willing to do the work to arrive at the answers.

Recently my absolute, iron-clad assumption that I am unworthy of or good at friendships has come crashing to the ground. A very determined and long-suffering group of people have quietly chipped away at the foundation. They simply do not permit me to fade into the background. They do not hear excuses and will show up on my doorstep, children in tow, for a cup of coffee and some peanut butter banana toast.

What my friends really think! And, yet, they call/text/msg me anyway!

It’s easier to let things slide. To inhale the intoxicating scent of passive aggression and simply fade away. It’s easier, however, it’s not loving abundantly.

Sweet Memories

There’s always been a connection between food and love. In my life that connection has resulted in food being my drug of choice to numb the places where love was not so sweet. However, in this less/more/abundantly journey I’ve been thinking about food as a way of expressing.

Take this cake. It’s a GOLDEN cake with RED, WHITE and BLUE colors.

(better known as Jello Cake)

Yellow cake with strawberry and blueberry jello topped with Dream Whip icing.

It’s something I made to celebrate the Olympics. We are Olympic nerds and watch every moment we can. In fact, we taped the men’s tennis finals so we could cheer our fellow Scotsman Andy Murray’s victory after church.

The cake was more than just a way to cool the Olympic fever in my house. It was a touchpoint for my remembering and celebrating my Mother.

Growing up we almost always had dessert. There was always a treat of some kind to wind down the day. I remember some dubious concoction called ‘fruit float’ which resembled the offspring of yogurt and jello with some very smushy berries. Then there were the homemade birthday cakes. Always 9 x 13 and always vanilla. They were served in their silver pans with a flourish.

I miss my Mom. The waves of grief crash far less frequently since it’s been over two years since her sudden passing. However, every now and then the tide sweeps in and I am again overwhelmed with missing her. I make myself remember her high pitched laugh, a rare occurrence for only the silliest of moments. Her quick wit and her no-nonsense, take no prisoners attitude. And I make myself remember her hands, always busy, always with perfect nails. I remember her hands patting my back for our last embrace just weeks before she was embraced in Heaven.

To connect with her, I sometimes take down her ancient box of recipes. Written in her perfect script (she had the most beautiful handwriting of any person I have ever known) were the tastes and memories of my childhood. I read each one and, as the waves take me out on a sea of melancholy, I kiss a card or two.

I couldn’t find the ‘Jello Cake’ recipe in the box. So I made it up from memory. She probably did too, all those years ago. Hers was better.

I’ll have another piece of that jello cake. It violates the ‘eat less’ part of this journey. However, the sweetness of sharing one of MeeMaw’s recipes with my family will make it a little easier to swallow the grief. It will also allow me to do something I failed to do enough of when she was here-love my Mother abundantly. All this in a yellow cake, baked in a silver pan and sweetened with memories.