What is so Holy about Fish?

One of the most marvelous--and most terrifying--moments in a mother's life is when your six-year-old suddenly calls you out as a hypocrite. 

Ranita did this to me last week (fortunately without using the word 'hypocrite'!).  The issue?  Taking the Lord's name in vain. 

Really.  Those who know me know that using 'God' or 'Jesus' as a curse is something I generally do not do.  I will admit to using a few four-letter gutter words in times of extreme stress, but even those are accompanied with shame and apologies all around. 

So when my son pointed his finger at me during breakfast and accused, "You took the Lord's name in vain!" I was honestly befuddled. 

I mentally reviewed the conversation.  Nope.  No use of the Lord's name at all.  What had I said? 

Holy mackerel!

This is a phrase I have been employing for nearly forty years to express everything from surprise to frustration to irritation to mild anger, confident that it was a, well, holy expression. 

As I began to explain the distinction between the NAME of the Lord and the term in question, I suddenly realized my son's wisdom and my error. 

I've read the Bible through more than a few times, and though I remember lots of fish stories--one swallowed Jonah, another spit up some money, a couple fed a crowd of 5000, and a whole boatload refused to be caught until the fisherman cast on the other side of their vessel--I can't recall any one of them ever being called holy. 

On the other hand: Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty. 

Ugh. 

So mid-sentence I stopped justifying myself and thanked my son for his correction.  I also told both him and Chinchita that mommy had a bad habit in this area and it would be hard for me to break and that I needed their help. 

They were more than willing.  It's not every day your mother gives you permission to correct her speech! 

They have been as good as their word, and slowly I am beginning to catch myself as the phrase comes to mind.  I fear it may take some time: it's hard to teach us old dogs new tricks! 

The up side is that I am more aware than ever of how truly unique God's holiness is, and how I should not minimize it in any way. 

Out of the mouths of babes.

First Comes Pain, Then Comes Love

For millennia people have struggled with the apparent contradiction of the presence of a good, loving, all-powerful God and the existence of pain and evil.  I won't deny it: I, too, have had to wrestle with the issue. 

Because I consider myself to be pretty theologically solid, I usually navigated that morass by relying on concepts such as "free will," "the Fall," and "original sin."  That usually satisfied my brain.  It rarely satisfied my heart. 

I am coming to a place, however, where I am becoming not just reconciled to, but thankful for, the pain in my life.  (No, I am not falling into masochism!)  Rather, I am beginning to sense something of the heart of God in the midst of our sufferings. 

This morning, I read the following passage:

"For you, O God, tested us; you refined us like silver.  You brought us into prison and laid burdens on our backs.  You let men ride over our heads; we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance." (Psalm 66:10-12)  

Notice to whom the psalmist is giving responsibility for his suffering?  Not the prison guards or the soldiers.  Not even the psalmist himself.  GOD.  GOD has done this. 

What?  How does that fit? 

All I can tell you is what I've been experiencing in small ways for two years and in a far greater way over the past two months: 

God brings us into pain so we can find relief in Him.  

I would not have known what security in God's hands meant if I hadn't experienced insecurity.  I would not have known the wealth of God had I not experienced penury.  I would not have known the faithfulness of God had I not seen the faithlessness of humanity. 

Most of all, I would not have known the love of our Lover-Creator-Savior had I not known what is is to be unloved. 

For I am now--after nearly 40 years of walking with the Lord--just now experiencing the passion Christ has for us.  I brought my best to the world, and the world counted it as trash.  I brought my broken, tired, bruised self to Christ, and He exulted in it.  He knows my every thought, and He cherishes them all like priceless gems. 

He considers me his treasure, the same person who spat upon Him as he stumbled to Calvary and drove the spikes through his hands and feet and mocked him as I hung dying in my own sin.  This person, he adores. 

I look back over my life and see that the times of ease, though delightful, have not necessarily been the times of greatest growth.  It has been holding God's hand over the slick rocks and the thorny paths and the icy patches and never slipping that has brought me to this place of indescribable, abundant love the likes of which I have never before known. 

I'll be honest:  It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me.  But then, who ever said love makes sense? 

Do Unto Others

When you're going through a personal crisis, it is easy to get so absorbed in your own pain and needs that nothing matters except managing your own "stuff."  That is normal.  It is even healthy.  Putting our energies into managing our own issues is a sign of maturity.

There should come a time, however, when healing has progressed to a place where you can not only recognize the crises others are facing but also lend a helping hand.

My opportunity to do that came a week before Christmas when a farmer I know called me and said, "We're going to lose our farm to a railroad!"

For the preceding year, the only "cause" I had the emotional, physical, and spiritual energy for was getting my kids and myself through our divorce and its fallout.  And it took all I had.  Some days it still does.

But when I heard those words over my phone, I felt a flame rise up within me.  This was a battle I had to help win in whatever small way I could.

Why this one?

It could be the fact that I have lived my life in the shadow of a farm taken by eminent domain "for the public good."  It could be because my first paying writing job was covering a farmer who also lost his farm by eminent domain so it could become a parking lot for his neighbor's significantly larger business.

It could be because I know at least two other farmers in Rhode Island who have either lost land through eminent domain or through unethical government business practices.

It could be I have finally had enough.

It could be the time was just right.

I don't know.  But in the past weeks I have written letters, posted articles, called government leaders, and spoken on radio calling for our state to prevent this railroad from going through.  I have read good portions of the NEC Tier 1 EIS and discovered that I no longer oppose this project just for my friends' sake . . .  I oppose it because it's just a plain old bad idea for our state.

Through this process, however, something else happened.  I found myself re-energized.  I rediscovered a clarity of thought and purpose that has been elusive in recent months.  I saw the sun shining through the clouds, promising that better things were on the way.

I remembered how good it felt to do something for someone else for no other reason than it's the right thing to do. 

Look for your own opportunity to "Do Unto Others" . . . it's good for you!

(By the way, you can find out more about the railroad plan on my LinkedIn and Facebook pages or by visiting the Charlestown Citizens' Alliance webpage!)  

Lego Lessons

We were about to leave for church this morning, and for the first time in forever we were on time.  I was smiling.  My son was not.  In fact, he was running around the house simultaneously screaming and crying, waving his most recent Lego creation in the air. 

"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked. 

Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together!  It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back!  It'll never be the way it was before!"

At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears.  "It'll never be the way it was before."  Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced. 

This was not about Legos. 

I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs.  Just at the floor in anguish.  I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting.  I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it. 

As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way.  But you can come back and work at it later.  It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better." 

Deaf ears. 

After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late.  (Some things are more important than the clock.)  By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind.  There was, after all, lunch to get on the table. 

I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation. 

"Look, Mom!" he cried.  "It's even better than before!  And I made it with all the same pieces!" 

I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom.  My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root.  And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces. 

Our family is different now.  It will never be what it was before.  But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces. 

Ordinary People, Extraordinary God

I'm not much as far as impressive people go.  I write, but I'm no Faulkner.  I sing, but I'm no Sarah Brightman.  I play trumpet, but I'm no Louis Armstrong.  I love Jesus, but I'm no Mother Theresa. 

So there are times, like tonight, when I look back at how God has moved in my life, and I stand amazed.  I see a farm-girl from Rhode Island moving to Po-Dunk New York, attending a secular music camp and meeting a life-long friend who led her to her alma mater in Illinois where she (eventually) finished a Master's in Teaching only to quit teaching, move back to RI and take a job as an Agricultural Extension Agent (a job for which she had no formal training whatsoever) at the University of RI where she met her husband, bore two gorgeous children, survived a divorce and more, and through it all finally found something meaningful to write about. 

Not much of a story when you look at it like that.  But then you add in the details, the little brush-strokes God includes just because He can, and that life is something extraordinary.  Because this little not-much of a girl has seen God move. 

I have seen God provide Christmas gifts to a family of poor dairy farmers in the form of a check from a closed-out account thought to be empty.  I have seen God provide the money for those same three children to attend private Christian colleges.  I have seen God bolster this woman with friends who really are extraordinary, people who share the Gospel in places where they risk their lives every day.

I have been part of a life-changing, campus-wide revival.  I have seen God meet my physical needs when their was no reasonable expectation of it.  I have been the humble recipient of God's hand of healing. 

And I have "deserved" none of it. 

But is that not the beauty of our God?  It is NEVER about us.  It is ALWAYS about Him.  It is about His love.  His mercy.  His grace.  His long-suffering.  And also His justice.  His wrath.  His dominion. 

I am just an ordinary person.  But in the hands of an extraordinary God, there is no limit to what this ordinary person may do. 

The same is true of you. 

Rest, Soldier!

I'd like to share a dialogue I had today.

Me (in a slightly whining tone): "I am just so tired.  Between my various jobs and the housework and the kids and the counselors and the legal stuff . . . I'm beat."

Drill Instructor (loudly and unsympathetically): "Stop your whining, Soldier!  Who do you think you are?  Do you think you're the only single mother in the country?  Suck it up!  You've got it easy!  Your ex pays the child support, doesn't he?  On time?  Do you know how many women would be thankful for that?  Man up, already!  And give me twenty!"

Okay, so I don't really have a drill instructor.  (Me in boot camp?  Not in this lifetime!)  But the conversation was real all the same.  I had just discovered a crack on the inside of my living room window (which is a whole other story for another time) that needed to be replaced ASAP.  As there is no such thing as replacing any window ASAP, I did the next best thing: I patched.

First, on my sister's suggestion, I lined the inside with cardboard and held it in place with duct tape.  Then, because I am neurotic about my kids' safety, I grabbed some of the shrink insulation my ex is so fond of and began my first foray into winter-proofing my windows.

I don't know if you've ever undertaken such a task with two young children underfoot.  If you haven't, DON'T.  It is guaranteed to devolve into chaos.  I began with the cautionary warnings: Please don't touch the plastic or the tape.  

I might have saved my breath.  As I was trying to cut the cardboard to size, I heard rustling.  I turned to see Chinchita skating across the floor on a giant piece of plastic.  Probably should have been a funny moment.  Was not funny in the moment.  I already had dollar signs flying around my head as I contemplated the window.  I only saw more as I imagined the tears being made in the plastic.  I reprimanded her and confiscated the plastic.

I finished with the cardboard and began applying the double-sided tape to the frame.  I heard cutting sounds.  I turned to see Ranita attempting to cut the cardboard with my scissors.  (Have I mentioned I'm a little safety conscious?)  I took away the scissors, warned him about the dangers of sharp objects, and returned to the window.

I got the plastic up more or less smoothly and turn on my hairdryer.  I have a slightly perfectionistic tendency, so I carefully heated, starting in one corner and delighting in the ever-tauter plastic until I could not observe the faintest ripple.  (I would like to say the pleasure in a job well-done superseded my irritation at having to do the job in the first place, but that would be a blatant falsehood.  I was pretty miffed.)

Job done, I turned to the kids on the couch and gasped.  Chinchita had unrolled the remaining length of double-sided tape and expertly created a knotted ball of epic proportions.  Torn pieces of cardboard littered the floor.  I banished both children to their room.

It was at this point I engaged in the internal dialogue above.

People close to me have described my drill instructor's words as "harsh."  I have never really viewed them that way.  Honest?  Motivational?  Spot on?  Painful?  Yes.  Harsh?  No.  Haven't you heard that sometimes the truth hurts?

Truth is a funny thing, though.  It is not always one-sided.  On the one hand, my drill instructor is completely correct.  Compared to many in the world, my situation is NOTHING.  I'm not imprisoned or beaten for my faith.  I'm not homeless.  I'm not out of work.  I'm not without family or church or friends.  I've got it good.

There is another voice in my head, however.  His is harder to hear.  He doesn't yell.  He whispers.  He doesn't blame or condemn.  He comforts.  He woos.  He says, "Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Rest in the Lord.  Wait patiently for Him.  Be still, and know that I am God."

Not only are His words truth; He is truth.

So I wrestle with the dichotomy of work and rest.  (Maybe another version of faith and works?!)  I have to do.  There are children to love, bills to pay, property to maintain.  It is a heavy burden, yes; but it is mine.  And a part of me admits to relishing the challenge . . . on the right day!

But there is also the need for rest.  Emotional rest.  Physical rest.  Spiritual rest.

How do you get rest without forsaking responsibility?

Today I thought about some ways to incorporate rest into our daily life.  I say "our" because I suspect my children are in as much need of soul-rest as I am.  And let's face it . . . we spend a great deal of time together!  Here are some of my ideas . . . I'd love for you to comment below with things that have worked for you:

• Reading together
• Watching a movie together
• Playing in the leaves in the backyard
• Coloring together
• Playing trumpet while the kids "accompany" on "percussion"
• Mini yoga sessions 
• Blowing bubbles
• Playing Pollyanna's "glad game" (Don't think this clip reflects my views of Sundays . . . the kids and I love our church!) 
• Singing silly songs . . . or praise songs . . . or just plain singing!

We're going to start tomorrow.  I'll let you know how we make out! 

"God Loves Small"

A friend at church recently gave me a book by Lori Stanley Roeleveld entitled Jesus and the Beanstalk.  I am only in the beginning of the book, but I've been struck by a phrase she repeats frequently: "God Loves Small." 

She talks about the biblical pattern of "small" defeating "big."  You can probably come up with a list pretty quickly: David fighting Goliath, Gideon's "army," a little boy's lunch, a dozen apostles, the baby Jesus.  Each of these seemed destined for nothing until God made them something. 

I guess I'm resonating with that because I feel so small in so many ways.  The challenges of motherhood are pretty huge in and of themselves, but they are much bigger when you're doing it "on your own."

Starting a new career as a self-employed person is daunting, but even more so when there is no real safety net in place. 

Managing a property with "acreage" and a rental and multiple outbuildings is nearly a full-time job for an experienced handy-man type.  How much more so for someone who just learned that the needle-like thing in the basement with the slow leak is designed for an ice maker.  (Why, then, is it located under the bathroom?  Couldn't tell you.  Must have made sense to someone sometime!) 

Then there are my little ones.  They are navigating some major upheavals in their lives, and I often feel it is "unfair" of them to have to grapple with grown-up griefs at their tender years. 

And yet . . . GOD LOVES SMALL. 

God loves to use the "foolish things of the world to confound the wise" and "the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty."  (I Corinthians 1:27)  As believers in Christ, it is not our power or wisdom or skills that brings the victory, but God's. 

I see this each time I am able to meet one of my children's needs in just the right way at just the right time.  And when my work opportunities provide the income I need in just the right measure.  And when my home makeover attempts succeed despite a severe lack of expertise.  And when my precious little ones suddenly show a tenderness of spirit and a maturity I would not have expected from kids their age. 

I used to hate being weak, under-prepared, ill-equipped, insufficient.  (Who am I kidding?  I still do!)  But I love watching how God takes that weakness and does something incredible through it. 

My little family sometimes feels like it's treading water, just focused on the next breath.  But we aren't drowning.  And we're not done.  (No matter how "done in" we sometimes feel!) 

I suspect some of you are in a similar place.  Your struggles may be different, but I'll wager you have giants just as big as ours.  Many of you have ones much, much bigger.  They can feel overwhelming.  Debilitating.  Unconquerable. 

Hear God saying to you, "I LOVE small.  The smaller you feel, the bigger the work I can do in and through you.  Don't give in, little one.  Rather, give it all up . . . to ME.  Cast those fears and worries on me.  I will handle them.  Give me the praise, and watch me live up to it." 

My friends, God has big plans for us yet, you and me.  I don't know what they are.  I don't know even if I'll get to see them, or if, like King David, I will have to be content to have my children build the glorious temple.  But I know they're coming. 

I can't wait!

When Come The Locusts

Joel 2:25 reads: “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm—my great army that I sent among you."

While thinking about this passage--and the past 9 months--I wrote this poem: 

 When Come the Locusts

They blow in on the west wind

A couple weeks before the harvest. 

In ones or twos they appear,

Few enough to dispose of underfoot,

Satisfyingly,

With a

Crunch.

Pop. 

Negligible. 

All at once the air is black with them:

The sight of their winged bodies swarming,

The sound of their winged bodies buzzing,

The feel of their winged bodies assaulting,

Relentlessly,

Man.

Beast.

Crops. 

Inescapable. 

They do not remain long.

Like bombers on an evening run

They race in from the darkness

To ravage everything in their wake.

Ravenously

Chomping.

Tearing.

Ripping.

Inexorable. 

In an instant they are gone. 

Behind them lie despoiled

Acres of wheat and rye

And hollow-eyed peasants

Incredulously

Staring.

Praying.

Weeping. 

Inconceivable. 

So begins a season of want,

A season of penury,

In which there is no cash for luxuries,

In which all things become luxuries

Seemingly:

Food.

Clothing.

Heat. 

Pitiable. 

This is not the end, however.  

Among them are those who persevere,

Who scrape together enough

To start over once again.

Heroically

Sowing, 

Growing,

Reaping. 

Invincible. 

Let Freedom Ring

I've been thinking about freedom today.  The Bible says, "It is for freedom that Christ set you free."  It's a stirring sentiment.  But what does it mean? 

In counseling, I've been practicing something called the "Emotional Freedom Technique."  I like a couple of things about EFT.  The first is that it immediately (usually!) reduces the intensity of negative emotions.  It takes the "ouch" out of a situation, allowing me to be less reactive, less angry, less "stuck." 

The other thing I really like is that it enables me to take a situation and isolate the individual feelings/triggers and deal with them one at a time, rather than trying to handle them all at once.  I sort of liken it to swatting flies: with one, you take your time, follow it, and nail it.  With a whole swarm, you swat around blindly and generally end up hitting yourself in the face without killing a single fly. 

What does all this have to do with "freedom"?

At the end of counseling today I realized that what I wanted more than anything was to be free from the particular issues we were discussing.  The thing that surprised me was that the freedom I thought about was multi-faceted.  I didn't just want to be free of the immediate pain, I wanted to be free of seeing myself in relationship to the situation at all.  I wanted to be able to make choices without reacting to it, either positively or negatively. 

I wanted to view it as fact, but to have no visceral response, to have no sense of regret or waste or stupidity or just plain bad judgement.  I didn't want to spend the rest of my life--the rest of the day--being defined by it.  I wanted to embody Paul's words: "Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead . . . "  

Whole treatises can be written on the freedom we have in Christ.  Freedom from sin.  Freedom from punishment.  Freedom from death.  From guilt. 

Then there are the freedom "to's":  freedom to be in relationship with God, to be holy, to obey, to be filled with the Spirit and His gifts, to serve others, to be an ambassador for Christ, to love, to forgive. 

I was reminded today in a fresh and new way that it is God who has set me free . . . spiritually, relationally, emotionally, physically.  The work is done.  It's time for me to get with the program and embrace it. 

His work is Freedom.  For me.  For my kids.  For you. 

"He whom the Son sets free is free indeed!"

Cracked Mirrors

In my counseling session last night, my therapist said something that has been tumbling around in my head like tennis shoes in a dryer: "I don't want to see myself through a cracked mirror." 

Her comment came as I processed the messages of worthlessness I internalize from the behavior of those around me. 

(But not all those around me, mind you.  Why is it that the one person who treats me like refuse is so much easier to believe than the dozens who treat me like a diamond, even if a diamond in the rough?) 

Sitting at the keyboard tonight, her words remind me of I Corinthians 13 which my High Road leaders had us memorize.  (Thank you, Anita and Kathy!)  Verse 12 reads, "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." 

It has been my habit, I think, to believe that those around me see me "face to face."  I am a pretty transparent individual, after all.  There isn't much mystery here!  So when my honesty and openness is met with derision, confusion, rejection, betrayal, or just plain disdain, I believe that to be a fair and accurate evaluation of my self and my character. 

What I never take into account is the fact that the other person is a cracked mirror. 

Well, almost never. 

If my sister tells me I'm pretty, I discount her words as those of a too-kind best friend and sibling.  If someone in church compliments my trumpet playing, I tell myself they have not heard many trumpeters.  If someone tells me I'm a good writer, I quickly remind myself of my stack of rejection slips. 

Why do I dismiss these people?  It is because I believe them to be, in some way, a cracked mirror.  But my critics?  Somehow I give them credit for complete honesty, perfect vision, infallible judgment. 

You know what the kicker is?  The people in my life that I respect the most, the ones I most want to emulate, the ones who have proven themselves to be faithful and true in every aspect of their lives, those are the ones whose opinions I find so hard to trust.  I think they are just being kind because, for some unfathomable reason, they love me. 

There is something to that.  Love does cover a multitude of sins, allowing us to forgive foibles . . . even ignore them . . . in those most valuable to us. 

It is also true that all of us, in our own unique ways, are cracked.  All of us see but dimly at times. 

However, there's a difference between a mirror with a hairline fracture along the outside edge and one with a spiderweb radiating from the center and reaching to the outermost edges.  The first may distort a couple details; the second will render an image virtually unrecognizable from the original object. 

I am finished with the spiderweb reflection.  With God's grace, I am going to look deeply into the reflections I receive from my family (most of the time!), my dearest friends, my spiritual mentors (who are often my dearest friends as well) and trust their images, as I know I can trust their character. 

Most importantly, I am going to trust the words of the One who knows me better than anyone, the One who made me, the One who redeemed me.  He says I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  He says I am a princess: the child of the King of Kings, the younger sister to the Prince of Peace.  He promises that He has plans to prosper me and not to harm me, plans to give me a hope and a future. 

I am tempted to doubt.  It is so easy to doubt.  BUT, my God cannot lie.  It is against His nature to do so.  He could not lie even to cover up my sin and spare the life of his beloved Son. 

So who am I going to believe?  The Creator?  Or the Destroyer?  The Truth and the Light?  Or the Father of Lies and the Prince of Darkness?  The One who Forgives?  Or the One who Condemns? 

This night, who are YOU going to believe? 

It's in the Bag

I have been struggling mightily with "doing" forgiveness, particularly in showing kindness to my ex.  To be honest, I haven't been kind at all.  "Frigid" is probably closer to the mark.  I have made a commitment to forgive, so my unforgiving behavior has been weighing on me.  It is one thing to decide to do something; it is altogether different to actually do it.  And wanting to do it?  Different planets!

Anyway, in Sunday School this week we were studying 1 John 1.  Verses 6-8 read, "If we claim to have fellowship with [God] yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live by the truth.  But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.  If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us." 

Ugh. 

(You know God loves you when you simply cannot go to church without having Him speak directly to a sin in your life!  I am very loved by God!) 

I'd been making all kinds of excuses for myself.  Forgiveness takes time.  This has been a deep, personal betrayal.  Don't expect so much from yourself. 

They're nice excuses.  Plausible excuses.  Universal excuses.  In reality, however, they come down to two pernicious lies.  1.  It's okay to hold onto a little bitterness, anger, and even hatred if the hurt is of sufficient magnitude.  2.  His sins are worse than mine. 

God's truth doesn't say that.  He says to get rid of wrath and hatred and anger.  He says all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.  Period. 

By the time we got halfway through class, I knew I had to apologize to my ex when he picked the kids up for Daddy Day.  Galling?  A little.  Purifying?  A lot. 

After the kids left with him, I loaded the dishwasher and talked to God.  I told Him, for the first time in my life, "I feel like I see the woman You're making me to be, and I like her.  I don't like who I am right now, but I like who I'm going to be." 

I shared that sentiment with a dear college roommate, and she said I was "marinating."  How I love that image!  Like a tough cut of venison, God is soaking me in a bag filled with all kinds of acidic, caustic substances designed to soften the rigid muscles (heart of flesh, anyone?!), add flavor, and transform second-rate stew beef into a gourmet meal. 

By the time I'm done, I'll be a meal fit for a King! 

The Dishwasher Devotional

I had to clean my dishwasher today.  If you have never undertaken this task, count yourself lucky.  It is a dirty, back-breaking, thankless chore that always takes longer than I think it will (or should) and usually ends with near-cussing, especially when I realize that--once again--I put the longest screws in the wrong place only after having ratcheted them completely into place. 

(You are asking two questions.  1) If you put the screws in wrong each time, why don't you use a system to remember which goes where?  2) How do you even get the long screws into the short screw slots?  The answer to the first: I do use a system . . . I just forget what it was after two hours of scrunching, suctioning, swiping, and sweating.  To the second, I don't know.  I ask myself the same thing every time.) 

Because I detest cleaning the dishwasher, I do it as infrequently as possible.  Unfortunately, my dishwasher is old.  How old, I don't know.  Suffice it to say it looked old when we bought the house 7 years ago . . . and they left it behind, so what does that tell you? 

Anyway, for the past couple years I have been taking it apart every few months because yuckiness starts to show up in cracks and crevices.  I had just been bragging to my sister that I haven't had to do the dirty deed since I switched from liquid detergent to packs when I awoke one morning to half-clean dishes and a half-dissolved pack.  (Pride goeth before a fall.  She who laughs first laughs last.  Etc.)  

Hmmm. 

I hoped it was a fluke and tried again.  Same result.  Bummer.  Then this morning there was a dishpan's worth of water sitting in the drum.  Blah.  Couldn't avoid it any more. 

Funny thing about this time: the dishwasher LOOKED spotless.  Even when I pulled it apart it was weird.  The tops and sides of the pieces were pristine, but underneath . . . what a nightmare.  Goopy.  Sticky.  Hairy.  (You recall my two shaggy dogs, right?!)  I dug out a chopped walnut, the plastic tab from inside a child's water bottle (no wonder it leaks everywhere!), and all kinds of other flotsam and jetsam. 

I also scraped a layer of white scale from inside the trap.  Is that soap scum buildup?  Is it the soft plastic finally decomposing with every rinse?  I don't know.  I'm not sure I want to. 

As I squandered nap time on appliance maintenance, I started thinking how much I am like my dishwasher.  The outside always gives a better impression than the inside.  That's a little scary considering how much dirt I expose in my blog posts, but the truth is that even in my honesty I choose what to be honest about. 

I don't lie in posts . . . or in person, to the best of my knowledge.  But I am not above selectively omitting the things that show my darkest sides and strategically showcasing the things I wish represented my whole being. 

Admit it.  You do it too. 

Perhaps we need to.  Perhaps neither we ourselves or those around us are capable of handling the worst of our grime. 

But there is Someone who is. 

My kids are not able to rip apart the dishwasher, face the true disgustingness within, clean it out, and put it back together so that it runs well again.  But I can. 

As for me, there are many people who are loving me and helping me along this journey, without whom I shudder to think where I would be.  But none of them is able to take me apart, clean out the garbage, repair the crimped hoses, and put me back together so I work better than before. 

Only God can do that.  Only God can do that for you, too. 

I wonder if sometimes God feels like I do crammed into my dishwasher: Why can't you just stay clean?????? 

On one level, I think He does.  I think of Jesus weeping over Jerusalem: How I have longed to take you under my wing as a hen with her chicks, but you would not have it.

On another, not at all.  He knows I am but dust.  He expects it to cling to me from time to time.  And He is already living in the day when I will be spotless like the Lamb . . . I can't wait! 

You are His Hands and Feet

Many years ago at Honey Rock Camp in WI, I was part of a foot-washing service.  Each of us took turns both washing the feet of someone and having our own feet washed.  To my surprise, the washing was easy.  Being washed?  Not so much.

I say it was not easy, but it was incredibly humbling and beautiful.  I was reminded of that occasion because this week I have had my feet washed many times by many people, and I am again humbled. 

Last week my sister-in-law's brother cut down four enormous trees in my backyard for a shockingly small amount of money.  My neighbors, who share a boundary line, paid half the tree removal, despite having had some unexpected bills from another source.  I expected to pay the rest.  My kids' dad did instead. 

The lovely thing about dropping trees is, of course, the cleanup.  I wish I could put a number on the volume of trash and wood in those trees.  I can't.  I can estimate that it would have taken my neighbor and me roughly 1 year, 2 hernias, and 3 trips to the psychiatric ward to clean it ourselves.  Today, apart from a trailer or two of rake-able debris, it is done.

How?  Well, my dad, brother, and their pastor's son (who works for them and presumably got paid...not by me) spent a day with chainsaws, a pickup truck, and my other neighbor's lawn tractor and trailer cutting, dragging, hauling, driving, dumping, ad nauseum.  I helped some, but with 2 little kids to keep track of, my contribution was minimal.  

Despite putting in a full day, they didn't get it done.  Two days later, my father-in-law came down with his dump truck, chainsaw, and servant's heart and we cleared up the rest.  (Aside from the aforementioned leavings.)  

Pop did more than that, however.  He patiently watched my sleeping babes while my neighbor (the one who shares the border with the former pine wall), brought me to get Cebu the Subaru, complete with a new set of (soundless!) brake pads.  

(Alack!  The radio cannot be repaired without sending it out to a specialist.  I haven't decided what to do about that . . . I told you God broke it in the first place!)  

This same lovely neighbor also picked me up at the shop in the morning after dropping her own two grandsons at day care.  

This week my Pastor, he of the soon-to-be-arriving goats, popped in, listened to me blab, and helped me determine what kind of hardware is required for changing the locks.  (I never have had the keys to two doors on the property, so this seems like a good time to rectify that little oversight!)  

Last night my mother stayed with my kids until around 10:30pm while I went to visit a family counselor (who was another blessing from above!) about the kids.  (I was happy to hear that with a little work on my part, and a lot of divine grace, the kids will most likely handle this as well as can be expected.  What a relief!)  

Today, my in-laws came down, ostensibly to help set up the pool.  I got us derailed by buying a little grill to replace the one that belonged to my kids' dad.  So instead, Pop watched the kids (mostly!) while Grammy and I set up the grill.  That's right, we two gals did it on our own.  

Might I just add that Char-Broil has lovely grills and the absolute WORST directions ever?!?  Would it kill them to add a few words like "front of grill," "right side of grill," etc.?  I'm also a bit annoyed that one piece was missing a hole and while I own a cute little drill, I apparently no longer have the driver attachment . . . or a set of drill bits.  Looks like Mommy is taking herself to Ace for Father's Day!  

Pop also took the time to drag out our giant, self-propelled, walk-behind Lesco mower and give me a crash course on operating it so I would be able to use it without cutting my leg off and bleeding out in the middle of my pasture on Father's Day weekend!  After they left, I put it to use.  Between the Beast and the Toy (which is what my other mower now feels like!)  I finished the entire yard, pasture and all, in under 3 hours.  Not bad for beginner learning curve, huh?  Thanks, Pop!  

Thanks also have to go to the kids' dad for leaving it behind for a while.  

Then there's my sister, who is my REAL counselor, the one I call every morning at 8am and text throughout the day . . . my "oxygen mask" as my counselor puts it.  She is also hosting the Father's Day bash tomorrow, which I will blog about on Monday, I suspect.  She is my best friend, most honest critic, and all-around greatest sister ever.  

Add to that, I have friends around the world--and around the corner--texting and emailing their encouragement and support . . . and praying for me.  Some of you are reading this right now.  

So it is with honesty that I say I feel very fortunate.  Suffering is part of life.  ("Life is pain, Highness . . . and anyone who tells you differently is selling something." Wesley, The Princess Bride!)  We all do it in different ways and to different extents.  And whatever struggles we face, to us it sometimes seems insurmountable.  

But I am not sure that everyone who suffers has been surrounded by such an amazing support system.  I certainly do not deserve this kind of love.  I can only bathe in it, as it truly is a healing balm, and pray that one day I will be able to do the same for someone else, hopefully these someone elses. 

To Forgive is Divine

For the past week, I have traded in the Lord's Prayer for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep as the capstone prayer with my kids each night.  The reason for that can be found in one line: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."  I do not want God to apply my standard of forgiveness to myself at this particular juncture.  Right now, I have one person I don't want to forgive. 

This is, I freely admit, not a very Christ-like mindset.  As he hung gasping for breath, ravaged by pain, suffering from shock due to physical abuse and blood loss, moments away from being separated from his Father for the first time in eternity, he somehow found the love to utter, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." 

I could argue that some of that mercy came as a result of that last phrase: "they know not what they do."  Ignorance is generally a mediating factor, to my way of thinking.  But in this situation, ignorance can't be used as an excuse . . . what my almost-ex is doing he is doing with eyes wide open and without any visible sign of remorse.  (My counselors keep reminding me I cannot know what he is thinking, and I grudgingly admit they are right . . . hence the word "visible.") 

Tonight, however, as God will, He gave me a shake and is beginning to work on my heart. 

I was covering the Farm Credit East 100th Anniversary and Customer Appreciation event this evening, a 45-minute drive from home.  I kept moving to turn on the radio and escape from my thoughts and kept being reminded that my radio was already on and simply refused to transmit sound. 

Then God began to speak.  (Don't try to tell me He didn't break my radio . . . I'm sure He did!  I only hope my mechanic can fix it tomorrow!) 

I heard God say, "Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you."  I answered, I don't love him.  I don't want to love him.  I almost added, "and you can't make me," but I knew enough to stop before that!  (Remember the radio . . . !)

So I began to truly ponder the nature of forgiveness, I think for the first time in my life.  What is forgiveness, really?  How do you forgive someone and maintain healthy boundaries?  What kind of feelings, if any, are connected with forgiveness, and how do you manage them appropriately?  And how does love play into forgiveness when the violation is so intensely elemental?

1.  What is forgiveness?  

Not too tough.  It's willingly letting go of a debt owed to you.  My ex is in debt to me.  I deserve retribution.  Can I choose not to try exacting revenge and leave that to God?

The first step for me will have to be changing some nomenclature.  I've been a bit Homeric lately, granting my soon-to-be ex a descriptive epithet.  (Not so much "Faithful Penelope" as, say, "My cheating, 2-timing skunk of an ex.") 

While in the short term that definitely provides a sense of satisfaction, I already feel the rancor eating away at my soul.  As I reminded my son yesterday, "Holding onto anger doesn't hurt the person you're angry with; it only hurts you."  From now on I bestow upon him a new epithet: "my kids' dad."  Not quite as dramatic, but far less detrimental to all involved.   

2. How do I forgive and maintain healthy boundaries? 

This is challenging, as I am still learning what those healthy boundaries look like.  In short, they are supposed to keep out the bad and let in the good.  Okay.  So . . . ?

So.  If I let go of the pursuit of retribution, I am showing forgiveness.  If I then open myself up to being hurt and betrayed again, I'm being stupid.  ("Fool me once . . . ")  So while I do not try to create pain and suffering for him, I also must prevent him from creating any more pain and suffering for me. 

Right now, that means that unless it has a direct bearing on the kids, it's none of his concern.  And (swallow hard) the same is true for him.  How am I feeling?  None of his concern.  How is my work going?  None of his concern.  Where or with whom is he spending his time?  None of my concern. How is he feeling?  None of my concern.  As long as the kids aren't involved, it's none of my concern. 

As someone who has spent most of her life trying to make people happy, ease their discomfort, or take the blame for their failings, this is a tough one.  As a person who was literally joined together in the sight of God and man until the two became one flesh, this is incredibly tough.  But it is necessary.

3.  As for feelings? 

Blah on feelings!  The truth is that every possible human emotion is flying around within my person at any given time, crashing into each other like atoms and releasing the most unexpected explosions of joy, anger, relief, and so much more.  I think I will let the feelings be.  Let them come.  I will name  them, accept them, and pray over them.  That's all I can do right now! 

4.  What about that pesky "love"?  

What, the love that defines God?  Yeah.  That love.  I Corinthians 13 says it all: Love is patient, kind, not self-seeking, not easily angered, keeps no record of wrongs, does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth, always protects, always hopes, always perseveres, never fails. 

Nothing in there about feelings.  All about action and motive.  It goes back to those boundaries.  Should I maintain those emotional walls?  ABSOLUTELY.  Should I be snotty about it as I kinda was when he came to get the kids today?  Absolutely NOT.  One can be cordial without being close.  Cordiality is the goal. 

My anger remains.  That is okay.  (Refer back to #3.)  What is not okay is sinning with that anger.  I admit I have sinned by failing to love my kids' dad this week.  I ask God's forgiveness.  And in this digital confessional, I ask the forgiveness of those I've hurt with that anger, both intentionally and unintentionally. 

Starting tonight, I am choosing to forgive him . . . and his girlfriend as well.  I trust that in time my feelings will match my intentions.  I will fail in living this out . . . probably many times! . . . but one thing I know for certain:  tonight before I fall asleep I will again be able to pray the Lord's Prayer . . . every line. 

My Lover is Mine, and I am His

I love fire.  I love the color of it: red, orange, yellow, blue, green.  I love the warmth of it, burning off the deepest cold. 

But I also have a fear of fire.  Not the panicky, oh-my-gosh-there's-a-fire-where's-the-water fear . . . although I guess I have done that once or twice!--but mostly a cautious respect, a respect born out of the knowledge of the danger fire poses. 

So with all this in mind, I am reflecting on the image of the Refiner's Fire and finding it apt indeed.  For that is where I believe I am right now.  Right smack-dab in the middle of God's blaze. 

It is the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced.  My soul is blackened, scorched, completely covered with third degree burns.  As if that isn't enough, every day God brings something--or someone--into my life to debride the damaged flesh, to further rip apart the nerve endings so desperately trying to reconnect and renew themselves. 

As the wounding-healing hands approach me, I shake uncontrollably.  I scream.  I rage.  I rail.  I ask them and myself and my God when it will be enough.  Why isn't it already enough? 

The answer is simple.  The work is not yet done.  I have more to learn . . . about others . . . about myself . . . about God.  I have more to lose . . . more pride . . . more wrath . . . more bitterness. 

Most of all, I have so much more to gain.   More compassion.  More mercy.  More forgiveness.  More honesty.  More purity.  More holiness.  More joy.  More Jesus. 

Just as Isaiah could not be used until the angel purified his lips with the burning coal, so I cannot be used--really used--until all my dross has been burned away.  But when that day finally comes, when I am shining like the purest gold, what a sight I will be! 

Sometimes I would like to to sit down with God and suggest that he hurry this process just a smidge.  I've spent 4 decades pursuing godliness . . . isn't it time I get to see a little more of that in my life? 

And in that moment, when the raw, exposed soul of me is crying out for relief, I hear it.  It is Jesus speaking to the storm: "Peace, be still!"  Only this time, it is not a sharp command, impossible to resist. 

No. 

It is a whisper.  A breath.  A kiss.  A caress.  It is the voice of the Lover to his Beloved, the voice of a Lover who will never--could never--be untrue, untrustworthy, unkind.  It is the Balm of Gilead oh so gently being poured on the livid wounds.  It is coolness and relief. 

And it is good. 

Becoming Penny Tweedy

I was planning on writing this inspiring blog about how I want to be like Penny Tweedy, the owner of arguably the greatest racehorse in history, Secretariat.  In the movie named after the horse, Penny is this wife and mom who overcomes nearly insurmountable odds to keep her family farm, her horse, and her personhood.  She does it with grace and dignity . . . and in the movie she's even book-ended the story with one of my favorite passages from Job. 

Then I made the mistake of doing an internet search and found out she'd had an affair with her trainer while they were both married to other people and she and her husband got divorced.  Not quite the rosy ending portrayed in the movie.

And yet, perhaps I still want to be like her.  Not in having an affair, for sure, but the fact remains that she took on society, her husband, and even her own fears . . . and she emerged victorious.  She made some mistakes along the way, but who of us doesn't?

And at 91 years old, with the world seeing her as the archetypal "angel in the house," she has the courage to set the story straight, to be honest about her story.  There is much to be said for that as well.
 
So what is it that started me on this train of thought?  Mowing my lawn.  Naturally.

Tonight was Daddy Day, so the kids went to the beach with their dad for supper.  I took the opportunity to mow the lawn, which didn't get done last Sunday due to rain and won't get done this Sunday due to a PawSox game.  (Go, Sox!)

As I was mowing, I was looking at my almost-finished fence, straight and proud and looking like a fence should look.  And I was proud.  Not that there's anything very remarkable about repairing fence . . . I've been doing it for years . . . but now I'm truly doing it on my own for the first time.  No backup.  No support.  (Except for my ex's explanation of how the ground wire attaches . . . he did that the last time!) 

I also realized that I was not angry at my ex while I mowed the lawn this week.  And that was new.  And refreshing. 

My neighbor stopped to chat and said, "You've got a lot ahead of you," looking around at the barn with the broken window (still . . . after 7 years!) and the pasture with the long grass and the pine trees that need to come down because they're being killed by some mysterious pathogen. 

I agreed with him, but I realized I want to do this.  I want to be able to keep this property, and keep it looking ship-shape.  I want to keep writing, finding my own path with my own unique set of skills.  I want my kids to grow up and be proud of what their mom has done, of who their mom is.  And perhaps one day it would be nice to have my ex say that there was more grit and determination and success . . . more value . . . in me than he thought. 

But most importantly, I want to be able to first of all make it to 91--some days that seems like a very daunting proposition!--and second of all, be able to look back on it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly, and be content.  Not to make excuses, or to place blame, or focus on the things I wish I could have done differently, but to accept it.  To be able to see how God took it all, in His own time and in His own way, and made something beautiful out of it.  To be thankful for it all.  To rejoice, every day. 

So here's to the Penny Tweedy within us all.  Here's to the streak of almost pig-headed determination that refuses to back down in the face of opposition.  Here's to the fallen and broken parts of us that get transformed by God's power, grace, love, and mercy.  And here's to the opposition itself, without which we would stay weak and untried . . . and unremarkable.  Here's to the journey. 

My Garden Prayer

Give me rest.
Give me peace.
Give me freedom from grief.

Give me joy.
Give me hope.
Give me faith in what's ahead.

Give me grace.
Give me mercy.
Give me forgiveness for myself. 

Give me sunshine.
Give me rain.
Give me room to bloom and grow. 

Give me children who love You.
Give me work that sustains us. 
Give me creativity and passion and strength for the journey.

Give me a heart that is whole.
Give me a soul that is clean.
Give me a self that reaches out and ministers to others. 

Give me Yourself, and I will have everything else besides. 

My Brother's Keeper

Many of us are familiar with Cain and Abel, the characters in history's first murder mystery.  (Read all about it in Genesis 4.)  Abel was a shepherd; Cain was a dirt farmer.  When the time came to offer sacrifices, Abel brought livestock; Cain brought produce.  Abel's offering was accepted; Cain's wasn't.  In his anger, Cain lured Abel to the fields and murdered him.  When God confronted Cain, Cain famously replied, "Am I my brother's keeper?" 

On some level Cain's response has always baffled me.  I am a firstborn, and for as long as I can remember, I have felt that I was indeed my brother's (and sister's!) keeper.  As the oldest, it is my job to look out for my siblings, protect them, guide them, encourage them, and from time to time rebuke them.  I am responsible for them. 

That is a concept I am beginning to disavow, thanks to Cloud and Townsend's seminal work Boundaries.  The problem lies with that pesky little preposition "for."  As Cloud and Townsend present it, I can only be responsible for myself.  This means I am responsible for my actions (and their consequences).  I am responsible for my emotions and how I communicate (or don't communicate) them to others.  I am responsible for setting and maintaining limits on myself.  I am also responsible for choosing what/who is allowed within my circle. 


Notice what I am responsible for: myself.  I am my responsibility.  Nobody can do this work for me.  And nobody can really take that responsibility away from me. 

Also notice what I am not responsible for: anyone else.  I am not responsible for anyone else's actions, thoughts, emotions, successes, or failures.  I am not responsible for anyone else's happiness or contentment. 

If we stop here, it seems as if Cain actually had it right.  How can he be his brother's keeper if he is not responsible for Abel? 

Ahhh.  Cain was responsible in regards to Abel, but he was responsible to him . . . not for him.  What does that mean?  To my fledgling understanding of this matter, it means that Cain (and you, and I) are responsible to show our brothers love, compassion, and concern. 

Where we see a legitimate need and have both the ability and the inclination to meet it, we should.  Where we see persistent sin (in a believer), we should gently and lovingly confront it with the goal of fostering spiritual growth.  It means we should consider our brothers' feelings, thoughts, and needs in our interactions with them. 

Wait a minute.  Didn't I just say I wasn't responsible for the feelings of others but now I suddenly am again?  NO.  Example.  Let's say my son falls down and gets a gash on his knee that requires stitches.  My son is screaming in terror.  (Did not happen . . . this is hypothetical!) 

Responsible for means that I take ownership for my son's terror because I am bringing him to get stitches.  I do all I can to make his bad feelings go away, taking credit for it if they do, feeling the blame of it if they don't.  I probably end up feeling guilty as well as angry at my son for making me feel guilty. 

Responsible to means I empathize with my son's terror and offer him what comfort I can while assuming no personal ownership either for his terror or for the alleviating of it.  I give what I can without basing my value or effectiveness as a person or a parent on his reactions. 

Back to Cain.  He was not responsible for Abel: his walk with God, his offerings, his anything.  He was responsible for himself: his walk with God, his offerings, his everything else.  He was responsible to Abel: responsible not to harm him out of anger, not to blame him for his own deficiencies, not to try avoiding the natural consequences of his own sin by eradicating the one who "sinned not." 

This is a challenge for me, and for all of us who have grown up with an over-exaggerated sense of responsibility.  The irony is that by assuming responsibility for everyone else, we often give up responsibility for ourselves.  In my case, it was my emotional well-being that I surrendered.  I somehow expected others to take care of that for me while I was busy taking care of it for others. 

It doesn't work that way.  Instead, my needs weren't being met and those around me were deprived of the opportunity to identify and meet their own needs.  Everyone lost out. 

So, with the help of my supportive family and brilliant counselors, I am working to break that pattern.  I am allowing my children to handle their own emotions while providing them with the love, support, words, and techniques to do so effectively.  (Responsible to!)  I am allowing the people in my life to make their own choices, whether I agree with them or not, and to experience the natural consequences of those choices.  (Responsible to!)

I am also learning to identify my needs and come up with ways of meeting them.  (Responsible for!)  I am accepting that my feelings of guilt are mine.  Nobody can make me feel guilty; they can only try!  (Responsible for!)  I am learning to accept that sometimes making the moves that protect my heart, my mind, my spirit, and my family can be painful, but that pain also is mine . . . and it is not necessarily an indication that those are the wrong moves.  Many times it is the sign that I'm in just the right place doing just the right thing. 

This is a hard process for me.  I have mostly been able to forgive people freely because, in a sense, I usually blamed their failings on myself!  It's easy to forgive if there's really nothing to forgive!  Now that I'm seeing "me" and "not me" more clearly, that forgiveness thing is sometimes a lot harder.  It's more difficult to forgive when one actually has stuff to forgive. 

But the struggle is a good one.  It is an opportunity for growth and maturity . . . and with God's grace, it will bear fruit. 

What is "Right"?

Maybe you're like me and were raised with a strong sense of "right and wrong."  Some people rebel against that construct.  Not me.  I like a world where black is black and white is white, where right is right, and wrong is, well, wrong.  I like rules, regulations, clearly-defined expectations.  

This is why I was always a good student.  The teacher would give an assignment.  In the words describing the assignment were expectations: length, type of writing style, necessary elements.  Some teachers even handed out rubrics!  What could be better than that?!  Not only did you get the assignment, you knew how many points were ascribed to each requirement and what kind of performance would result in which grade.  

Surely this is Heaven!

Over four decades, I have internalized those same values, judging myself against the assignment of perfection.  Now, mind you, I am also very orthodox in my acceptance of the Bible and Christianity, so I know (cerebrally) that no one is perfect except Christ and that Christ died to cover my imperfections with His perfection, gifting me with an undeserved imputed righteousness.  

That's in my head.  My heart is another story.  

My heart is striving for perfection.  Perfection in thought, in emotion, in intent, and most definitely in action.  How I suffer in soul when I fail!  

I am finding that there is something even harder than failing . . . determining what is actually "right."  It seems so simple: What does the Bible say?  Well, the truth is that the Bible says different things in different situations.  The Bible says, "Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse" (Romans 12:14).  The Bible also has Jesus overturning the money-changers' tables and calling the Pharisees white-washed tombs.  

You can argue that Jesus can get away with those things because He is perfect and knows all hearts, etc. etc.  And you are right.  But there's the rub: in some cases the perfectly "right" thing to do involves cursing, NOT blessing.  

I have been trained that Christians do "good" things: we smile, we placate, we sacrifice selflessly, we serve joyfully, we speak kindly.  It is true we should do these things . . . when they are warranted.  Frankly, though, there are times when doing the "good" thing is actually doing the "wrong" thing.  

Yikes!  My paradigm is all out of wack; my world is in chaos; my mind, heart and soul are in distress!  (I joke not.)  How am I to know what to do when the truly right thing feels wrong and the wrong thing feels right?  

I didn't run into these quandaries so much in my all-knowing teens and twenties.  Getting married, having kids, getting divorced . . . those have rocked my world.  Ask yourself, when is letting your spouse choose a restaurant you don't really like compromise . . . and when is it losing your sense of self?  When is issuing a punishment and then changing your mind rectifying a wrong . . . and when is it failing to build healthy boundaries? 

And when is the amount of heart-rending self-doubt and second-guessing so counterproductive that the best decision is to stop worrying about it, do what you do, and be at peace with the fact that you will sometimes make mistakes and the God of the universe is big enough to fix them if we are humble enough to leave it in His hands? 

I do NOT have this all figured out.  What I think I've learned can be summed up in a very few points. 

•  I am not God.  I will make mistakes.  God expects them, that's why He sent Jesus.  I need to rest in the person and work of the triune God . . . and stop trying to be what I can never--should never try to--be.  
• Boundaries are healthy.  God invented and maintains boundaries.  Some boundaries are brick walls, and it hurts to run into them.  It does not mean the wall is bad or wrong; it means the person running should have had sense enough to stop before making contact.   
• The fact that something makes you feel badly does not mean that the thing itself is wrong.  Having an emergency C-Section is painful (hopefully after the fact . . . not during!).  Does that mean the doctor should have let the child or mother or both perish to spare the short-term suffering?  Of course not!  Life is full of C-Sections.  
• Godly counsel is worth its weight in gold.  Caveat: NOT ALL CHRISTIANS HAVE GOOD ADVICE!!!!!  Some have downright terrible advice.  Test the spirits of your "counselors" before relying on them.  Once you find them godly, honest, and correct . . . listen to them.  Their third-party objectivity will often be invaluable when your emotions are rioting.  
• Pray . . . and trust the Holy Spirit.  There will be times when God is telling you something that doesn't make sense to anyone else.  How you recognize it as the voice of God is probably unique to you, but for me it comes as a solid, unwavering conviction in the pit of my stomach.  I just know.  Always go where God is leading.  

I don't know where God is leading me right now.  I can see options down the road, but I don't have any idea what will actually happen.  What I know is that He is taking me one small step--albeit rocky, precipitous, terrifying steps--at a time.  And I know He loves me and my children . . . and my ex.  And I know He has never failed me in the past . . . and He will never fail me in the future.  "Yea, though he slay me, yet shall I trust him!" 

And in that I rest.