The Ongoing Pageant of Salvation

“I knew something like this would happen,” Alice Wendleken whispered to me. “[Ralph and Imogene] didn’t come at all! We won’t have any Mary and Joseph—and now what are we supposed to do?”

Ralph and Imogene were there all right, only for once they didn’t come through the door pushing each other out of the way. They just stood there for a minute as if they weren’t sure they were in the right place—because of the candles, I guess, and the church being full of people. They looked like the people you see on the six o’clock news—refugees, sent to wait in some strange ugly place, with all their boxes and sacks around them.

It suddenly occurred to me that this was just the way it must have been for the real Holy Family, stuck away in a barn by people who didn’t much care what happened to them. They couldn’t have been very neat and tidy either, but more like this Mary and Joseph (Imogene’s veil was cockeyed as usual and Ralph’s hair stuck out all around his ears). Imogene had the baby doll but she wasn’t carrying it the way she was supposed to, cradled in her arms. She had it slung up over her shoulder, and before she put it in the manger she thumped it twice on the back.

I heard Alice gasp and she poked me. “I don’t think it’s very nice to burp the baby Jesus,” she whispered, “as if he had colic.” Then she poked me again. “Do you suppose he could have had colic?”

I said, “I don’t see why not,” and I didn’t. He could have had colic, or been fussy, or hungry like any other baby. After all, that was the whole point of Jesus—that he didn’t come down on a cloud like something out of “Amazing Comics,” but that he was born and lived…a real person.

Next cam Gladys, from behind the angel choir, pushing people out of the way and stepping on everyone’s feet. Since Gladys was the only one in the pageant who had anything to say she made the most of it: “Hey! Unto you a child is born!” she hollered, as if it was, for sure, the best news in the world. And all the shepherds trembled, sore afraid—of Gladys, mainly, but it looked good anyway.

[Then] everybody in the audience shifted around to watch the Wise Men march up the aisle.

“What have they got?” Alice whispered.

I didn’t know, but whatever it was, it was heavy—Leroy almost dropped it. He didn’t have his frankincense jar either, and Claude and Ollie didn’t have anything, although they were supposed to bring the gold and the myrrh.

“I knew this would happen,” Alice said for the second time. “I bet it’s something awful.”

“Like what?”

“Like…a burnt offering. You know the Herdmans.”

Well, they did burn things, but they hadn’t burned this yet. It was a ham—and right away I knew where it came from. This was the Herdman’s food-basket ham. It still had the ribbon around it, saying Merry Christmas.

“I’ll bet they stole that!” Alice said.

“They did not. It came from their food basket, and if they want to give away their own ham I guess they can do it.” But even if the Herdmans didn’t like ham (that was Alice’s next idea) they had never before in their lives given anything away except lumps on the head. So you had to be impressed.

“They’re ruining the whole thing!” Alice whispered, but they weren’t at all. As a matter of fact, it seemed to me that the Herdmans had improved the pageant a lot, just by doing what came naturally—like burping the baby, for instance, or thinking a ham would make a better present than a lot of perfumed oil.

Usually, by the time we got to “Silent Night,” which was always the last carol, I was fed up with the whole thing and couldn’t wait for it to be over. But I didn’t feel that way this time. I almost wished for the pageant to go on, with the Herdmans in charge, to see what else they would do that was different.

Everyone sang “Silent Night,” including the audience. We sang all the verses too, and when we got to “Son of God, Love’s pure light” I happened to look at Imogene and I almost dropped my hymn book on a baby angel.

Everyone had been waiting all this time for the Herdmans to do something absolutely unexpected. And Sure enough, that was what happened.

Imogene Herdman was crying.

In the candlelight her face was all shiny with tears and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away. She just sat there—awful old Imogene—in her crookedy veil, crying and crying and crying.

For years, I’d thought about the wonder of Christmas, and the mystery of Jesus’ birth, and never understood it. But now, because of the Herdmans, it didn’t seem so mysterious after all.

When Imogene had asked me what the pageant was about, I told her it was about Jesus, but that was just part of it. It was about a new baby, and his mother and father who were in a lot of trouble—no money, no place to go, no doctor, nobody they knew. And then, arriving from the East (like my uncle from New Jersey) some rich friends.

But Imogene, I guess, didn’t see it that way. Christmas just came over her all at once, like a case of chills and fever. And so she was crying.

As far as I’m concerned, Mary is always going to look a lot like Imogene Herdman—sort of nervous and bewildered, but ready to clobber anyone who laid a hand on her baby. And the Wise Men are always going to be Leroy and his brothers, bearing ham.

When we came out of the church that night it was cold and clear, with crunchy snow underfoot and bright, bright stars overhead. and I thought about the Angel of the Lord—Gladys, with her skinny legs and her dirty sneakers sticking out from under her robe, yelling at all of us, everywhere:

“Hey! Unto you a child is born!”

(The Best Christmas Pageant Ever; chapter 7, abridged)

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Thank you so very much for the gift of sharing this space with me. I count it a privilege to walk with you, and an honor that you contribute your time and thoughts. My goodness, friends, it has been quite a year… I don’t know about every one of you, but I can safely say that Jesus has been refining me with a vengeance these twelve months. So many reasons to praise my Lord and Lover! My year was a journey of heartbreak…of farewells and hellos…belly laughs (the kind that leave your eyes watering and your muscles sore)…painful obedience…joy…of desperate tears and determined worship…bubbles…coloring parties…ping pong…of grace and marvelous provision. And all of this becomes part of the beautiful, quirky, upside-down, perfect pageant the God is putting on to display His eternal Glory.

So, my friends, I will wish you a Merry Christmas; but I do not ask you to celebrate “The True Meaning Of Christmas.” Goodness no! That would be silly!

I want you to celebrate much more than that.

“After all, that was the whole point of Jesus—that he didn’t come down on a cloud like something out of 'Amazing Comics,' but that he was born and lived…a real person.” The child narrator of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever is on the right track: Jesus’ birth is only part of what we commemorate with Christmas. The Son of God never sought to glorify himself, but instead to draw our gaze to the Most High God. And just as our Lord’s arrival on this earth is a part of the whole holiday, Christmas itself is only part of the whole.

I want you to celebrate so much more than Christmas.

Christmas—the events of which spanned nearly two years in actuality—is one of countless examples (Unquestionably vital! But still “one of,” not even the penultimate) which draw our gaze toward, and demand our worship of, the One and Only Lord God. Christmas would be meaningless without the thirty years of quiet, obedient, private ministry and the final three years of adamant but unassuming public ministry—all without sinning. Christmas holds little significance without the willing, tortured death of an innocent man atoning the guilt for all humanity past and future…and his triumphant resurrection three days later. Christmas is augmented by his forty-plus days of continued teaching afterwards (such a beautiful affirmation that he is indeed Emmanuel “God With Us”) before returning to his Home in power and glory. The Son’s entire earthly ministry pointed to the Father, as God unfolded the climax of His divine pageant over the course of roughly thirty-three years.

But that’s just the climax. I want us to celebrate so much more than the climax.

The whole Jesus’ earthly ministry serves as the fulfillment and the promise within the grand epic of Time. Thirty-three years preceded by millennia of God’s glory: The creation of this world and mankind. Our unified relationship with the Creator, the Source of Life. Our choice to sin and consequent separation from the Source of Life. The Lord’s gracious promise of reconciliation. And long, generations of deliberate, painful groundwork to gradually prepare humanity for the arrival and sacrifice of a Savior—the double fulfillment of a holy promise by One who is holy, and the presentation of a new promise.

Time continues to unfold. Thirty-three years succeeded by millennia of God’s glory: Continued generations of gathered understanding. Furthering of the larger, corporate relationship—with each other as redeemed brothers and sisters, and with our holy God through the intermediary of His Son by way of the Holy Spirit. The deliberate, painful groundwork continues, preparing humanity for the fulfillment of that last promise.

God’s pageant continues. The play is not played out. And we, as players on this stage, are commanded and privileged to participate in this grand epic of Time created by the Most High to display His glory. But even when this epic ends, the pageant will continue. Into all eternity. Because God will never run out of glory to display.

We are witnesses and participants of more than this epic, more than Time. We need to celebrate much more than that.

Thank you for participating in this pageant with me, dear friends. Let's give the best, most authentic performances we can! “Hey! Unto you a child is born!”

Looking Back to Look Forward

(Carrion Comfort)

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-earth right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.

Cheer whóm though? The héro whose héaven-handling flúng me, fóot tród
Me? or mé that fóught him? O whích one? is it eách one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

* * *
December: Three

This weariness of mine, may it not come
From something that doth need no setting right?
Shall fruit be blamed if it hang wearily
A day before it perfected drop plumb
To the sad earth from its nursing tree?
Ripeness must always come with loss of might,
The weary evening fall before the resting night.

~ George MacDonald

* * *
.sustaineD

I am the
Widow’s jar
Holding only
Enough oil
For one
More
Morn
But
When
You
Pour me
Out the oil continues
Flowing in unending stream of praises

~ n4m 9/22/08

More Than Gravy and Cranberry Glop

We’re rapidly approaching the day set aside for reflection. In the spirit of worship this Thanksgiving, here are a few of the things I find myself thanking the Lord for right now:

• The basics: food…shelter…sleep…clothing…prayer…hugs…chocolate…bubbles. Because when I stop to think about it, these “basics” are not-so-basic for many people.
• Quote boards! And the witty, delightful people who help fill them.
• I have a job I strongly dislike, but through which the Lord blesses me richly. The often-painful manual labor reminds me not to complain, and also affords me plenty of time to pray and worship. The inconsistent hours cause me to lean heavily upon His provision. The negative atmosphere forces me to consciously strive to give my best, and be optimistic. Isn’t it wonderful that His ways are not our ways!
• A mother who walks with the Lord; there’s really no higher compliment to bestow.
• The rare occasions on which I have a full-blown sneeze! (instead of a small, mouse-like one)
• The imminent arrival of another lovely winter of SNOW!!!!
• Accidentally winning a scholarship for drawing/painting lessons in middle school (and yes, it really was rather accidental)—resulting in my younger sister, who has the real talent, also taking lessons. I’m thrilled that the Lord used something so random to encourage her incredible gifts as an artist! The work she produces today is zany and breath-taking, and such a testimony to her relationship with the Lord.
• Lots of “firsts”: first year with a bachelor’s degree…first car…first college loans coming due…first ten mouse carcass removals…first time being asked out, and first date (now that was an interesting experience, let me tell ya)
• Verbal sparring matches. And the slightly imbalanced people who make it possible to have them.
• A best friend, whose strengths highlight my weaknesses, with whom I share the same personality type although we’re very different, and who is often mistaken for my sister (even my twin!) but is in fact the prettier lady by far. She is brilliant, loving, generous in so many ways, thoughtful, bold, and very wise. The best mixture of sweet and salty. It’s an honor to know you, babe!
• Three little sisters—biological and adopted—who continually challenge and bless me. Personifications of the Lord’s fragrance. I love you, dear ones!
• Numerous friends younger and older than myself, through whom the Lord calls me into greater righteousness and surrender, and who somehow manage to believe I have something positive and intelligent to offer. You all humble me. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of learning from you, of sharing your thoughts and hearts.
• Striking up conversations with total strangers…and the interesting results thereof!
• I’m grateful that my parents’ genes have resulted in wild hair, cute ears, and nose hairs that don’t stick out.
• For being allowed such a privilege as to walk in relationship and learn from “Him who holds the seven stars in His right hand and walks among the seven golden lampstands.…who is the First and the Last, who died and came to life again.…who has the sharp, double-edged sword.…the Son of God, whose eyes are like blazing fire and whose feet are like burnished bronze.…who has the sevenfold Spirit of God and the seven stars.…HaKadosh [the Holy One, I AM], the True One, who has the key of David, who, if He opens something, no one else can shut it, and if He closes something, no one else can open it.…the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the Ruler of God’s creation.” (Revelation 2:1, 8, 12, 18; 3:1, 7, 14)
• My mother’s ability to beat me, the “walking dictionary,” at Scrabble (every. single. time.)
• Whether or not tryptophan really induces drowsiness, I appreciate the psychological manifestation: Thanksgiving Day naps!!!

~ ~ ~

So what praises are you offering up to the Lord, dear reader?

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~The Emporer’s Old Clothes—Part C~

So there I stood: rebelliously freed from my old garment with no replacement garments in sight.

My dear reader, hopefully you are seeking the Lord faithfully enough that He has confronted you with the Truth about some area of your life. If so, I’m sure you can relate to my dilemma in that moment of Truth: realization brought the strong temptation to panic. Instead of waiting quietly before the One who obviously had everything under control, the One who had revealed this lie to me in the first place—instead of asking, “Lord, now that you’ve shown me the Truth, what should I do about this garment? How do you want to fix my problem?”—instead of keeping my eyes and mind focused upon Him, I gave in to the frantic wish to be free of my robe immediately. I had not waited for the Lord, had not sought His solution.

Because of my own haste, I was naked. Completely exposed.

The Lord’s second “knot jerking” session—a far more extensive operation than bringing me to salvation—was under way.

I did not possess the capability of creating my own ideal. I had no concept of how to look like, act like, or dress like “Me.” I discovered that I did not know how to have an opinion; in fact, I did not really know how to think for myself. But I had long believed that I should not ask for help—I would only be a burden, an annoyance. So I could not reason or develop my own thoughts…but would not make any requests of classmates or professors to teach me how. Clearly, this was a recipe for disaster. And because of my own panic, I was still emotionally naked: I had no identity.

So, did I cry out to the Lord, admitting my inability to handle the situation? No. As I mentioned before, I had long believed that I should not burden another with my problems or apparent failure to measure up. Jesus, my Savior and Lord, was not exempt from my prideful fear of being a bother. How arrogant and blind can my human heart possibly be?

Fermatas, Caesuras, and Codas in the Score of Father's Time

Only three or four blank pages remain at the end of my current journal. The frequency of my entries has lessened in the last few months—trying to save open space for the “really important” events and ponderings. It will be difficult to say goodbye and move on to a new set of bound, blank pages. This journal has absorbed so many changing experiences with me. I wrote the very first entry on August 1, 2006, in the summer following my junior year of college. (For some of you, dear readers, the significance of that summer is not yet clear, since we have yet to reach that point in my testimony. In many ways, that summer marked a turning point. It was a time of tremendous growth, and also a respite—storing up strength—before the next gathering storm crashed down on my world.)

I’ve decided to share a few entries from that first year; we can walk down memory lane together.

• 8/1/06—Dear Father, thank you for prompting me to read Psalm 139 again this morning. (Thank you, Holy Spirit, for beginning to show me how to pray through scripture! Please continue the work you’ve begun in me.)
• 8/7/06—God, I’m scared and tired and worried. At the same time that I’m delighted to obey you, I doubt myself. I want to follow you, to be a faithful handmaiden…but that house is the last place I’d go of my own accord. Please rescue me from my frailty and doubt! Save me from myself and lead me down the path of righteousness for the sake of your name!
• 8/17/06—[I don’t believe this was addressed to anyone specific at the time it was written] Describing my relationship with God for you would be like describing a sunset to a blind person or trying to recreate a symphony for someone who was born deaf: there simply aren’t words. A relationship with the Perfect Father, with the Only Savior, must be experienced to be understood. [cont. 8/30] It’s a knowledge that runs through my marrow, a knowledge that becomes the core of my being: I AM LOVED. In spite of who I am; because of who I am. I am loved—forgiven, purified, and cherished. He’s offering that love to you, too. God wants to show you a love more constant and pure than any you will ever receive from a friend, a lover, or a father. It’s not about rules, or appearances, or control. This relationship is about relinquishing our broken selves to the one and only Creator, and receiving from him all that [we] can become.
• 8/30/06—There are two ways to deal with the “threat” of God: 1)Run in the opposite direction—eschew him; 2)Walk around him—acknowledge him as the holder of your “Life Insurance Policy” and the one to complain to when times get tough; get a “feel” for God and continue on your way; [cont. 11/19] 3)Take up arms and battle your life away
• 10/24/06—Thank you for clarifying the true nature of compliments for me! It never occurred to me that, as your child, a compliment to me is really a compliment to you!
• 12/20/06—Save me from myself, Father! Today when I caught myself questioning if perhaps I was really at fault—if I was in fact “on my high horse”—I realized just how worn out I’ve become. Mon Dieu! Sauvez-moi! You alone are my strength.
• 1/27/07—Adonai-Tzva’ot please teach me “tzav la-tzav; kav la-kav; z’eir sham, z’eir sham (precept by precept; line by line; a little here, a little there)” Isaiah 28:10….Father, I’m still controlling and manipulative sometimes; I abhor it!!! Take this from me, please. “Hope drawn-out wearies the heart” and brings about destruction. Isaiah 43; Psalm 56:9. Oh my Love, you have brought me so far! Please continue to deliver me from my bondages. Please liberate me from any...baggage I’m unknowingly carrying. Jeremiah 33:3
• 1/29/07—The cry of my heart this morning: My Lord, please fill me with your beauty and wisdom; I want to be an adornment for your temple—for your throne room. I long to hear you say, “Oh, look how this one sparkles and shines!” I want to be all that is wise and beautiful, so that I may bring great honor to you, my Love.
• 2/10/07—“The only appropriate war rhetoric is war rhetoric that calls our enemies spirits, and people with flesh the victims of this war….If we could muster a portion of the patriotism we feel toward our earthly nations into a patriotism and bravery in concert with the kingdom of God, the enemy would take fewer casualties to be sure” (Miller, Donald; Searching for God Knows What, pg. 88).
• 2/17/07—“Jesus did not lend Himself to war causes, to tax issues or political campaigns….to raising money for education or stumping for affirmative action. It was as if he did not trust us to build a utopia….’Follow me,’ He said. ‘I have no opinion about what color the paint should be in this prison. Follow Me.’” (Miller; Searching…, pg 194).
• 2/27/07—[a.m.] My Lord, thank you for helping me to love Becky and myself with your own pure love. When she climbed into bed with me Friday, crying and hurt, you gave me wisdom, Holy Spirit—wisdom and the urgent desire to relinquish our plans to you. Last night (Monday) you gave me insight as to how I’ve been hurting her, and gave me the words to begin healing [our relationship]….Holy Spirit, please continue to work in me.
• 3/1/07—Father, right now my head is swimming; there are so many things you’re showing me right now about yourself, about me, about others, and about life. Please speak to me—please make sense of it all.
• [undated poem]—“Wrap your arms ‘round me/ and dance on my feet/ I delight in your laughter/ my daughter so sweet/ Let me enfold you/ come dance on my feet/ Just smile through your tears/ feel my healing so sweet/ You hold me tight and/ let me dance on Your feet/ the heavens rejoice/ in your glory so sweet/ You give me joy/ make my whole life complete/ My Father, my Savior and King
• 4/19/07—My Lord, I know you love me: 1)in the context of a master whose servant desires to glorify him; 2)in the context of a long-distance lover whose beloved is purifying herself for him; 3)as a potter who perfects his vessel by re-sculpting, and by fire. But I just can’t wrap my mind around your love as my Abba—that you desire to lavish me with blessings. I can’t internalize the idea that you don’t desire to give me a boy who’s “not too bad;” you desire to bless me with a Man who is healthy, who hungers after you! It’s beyond imagining!
• 5/12/07—Abba, I want to desire to allure those I encounter to know more of your heart. You desire—and deserve—to be sought.
• 6/25/07—My Lord, I long to be fully and completely yours. Please fill me to overflowing with your spirit. Holy Spirit, bring all your power to bear in me: your mercy, justice, faith, joy, truth, love, righteousness, healing, prophecy… I want as much of you as possible. I want you to be glorified by my every breath.
• 7/2/07—Abba, it’s times like yesterday—when I was offered money in exchange for receiving oral sex—that I really struggle against the lie that I’m only desirable to scum, that $20 is all I’m worth. Help me hold fast to the truth: I am priceless in your eyes. Holy Spirit please keep me from self-pity and despair. In your love, I am complete; I lack nothing.
• 7/17/07—Abba, all I can do is choose you each and every day. But that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Thank you for holding me tight yesterday. Between what Dad did and did not say…I wouldn’t have made it without you. “He likened you to Absalom.” That’s what Mom told me last night—Dad sees me as Absalom. He sees me as trying to “steal the hearts” of his family and friends. Abba, please wipe away the tears bleeding from my heart. “God, how I prize your thoughts! How many of them there are! If I count them, there are more than grains of sand; if I finish the count, I am still with you” (Psalm 139:17-18).
• 8/14/07—“Those ransomed by Adonai will return and come with singing to Tziyon; on their heads will be everlasting joy. They will acquire gladness and joy, while sorrow and sighing will flee. ‘I, yes I, am the one who comforts you! Why are you afraid of a man, who must die; of a human being, who will wither like grass? You have forgotten Adonai, your maker, who stretched out the heavens and laid the foundations of the earth. Instead you are in constant fear all day because of the oppressor’s rage, as he prepares to destroy. But where is the oppressor’s rage? The captive will soon be set free; he will not die and go down to Sh’ol; on the contrary, his food supply will be secure. For I am Adonai your God, who stirs up the sea, who makes its waves roar—Adonai-Tzva’ot is my name. I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand, in order to plant the skies [anew], lay the foundations of the earth [anew] and say to Tziyon, “You are my people.”’” Isaiah 51:11-16

It’s bittersweet for me to look back and see what has or has not changed. The quotations still reverberate in my heart. Some of my more specific prayers from that period of time (not shared here, for the sake of individuals’ privacy) have been answered; several of them, quite powerfully. All of the prayers included above are yet on my lips—prayed all the more fervently now, because as I move forward I gain a better view of how very distant I am from the goal. Yet here and there I catch the clear notes of progress. And these honey-sweet tones of growth swell, as deepening chords well up from my heart and ring forth: a hallel of honor, worship, and awe; a maskil of repentance, of lessons partially learned, and of longing for the finish line…for home.

Good Shadows

A friend of mine once posed the question: “Do you think there will be shadows in Heaven?” Light and darkness are such clear-cut metaphors of Good and Evil. Can God, as the source of light, redeem physical darkness? Could there possibly be “good shadows” in Heaven?

I recall my friend’s question every now and then as I explore scripture. Particularly any passage that describes us being protected in the shadow of God’s wings (Ps. 17:8; 36:7; 57:1; 63:7).

What does it mean to be in the shadow of God’s wing? What would a good shadow look like?

I think it would look a great deal like Moses jammed in the cleft of a rock with God’s hand blocking shut the rift, while the Lord’s glory passed by (Ex. 33:17-23; 34:5-7). When we beg God to draw near and show us His glory, and it feels as though He increases the distance. When we long to behold the light of His presence, and He seems to give us darkness instead. These are good shadows. The shadows of God's wing: Someplace small…constrained. Someplace with no detectable updraft; someplace in which we are seemingly alone, shut away from the wind currents of the Holy Spirit.

Someplace protected.

I would like to think that there will be good shadows when we reach Heaven—if only to testify that God’s creation in its entirety is Good. We can not yet know what sights await us there. But I am absolutely certain that good shadows exist in this present life. Moses would not have survived the sight of the Lord’s face. A brief glimpse of His receding glory and the whispered utterance of His holy name was enough to leave Moses glowing like molten metal. We are not yet ready to navigate the unbridled winds of His spirit. The force of such wild currents would crush us. So God protects us. He carefully instills the strength and humility to withstand his intense presence and pure name; He gradually prepares us for the true glories of soaring in His updrafts.

And all the while He guards us in the dark stillness underneath His wing.

Introspection

Jesus, I thank You that "You prepare a table for me, even as my enemies watch; you anoint my head with oil from an overflowing cup." Do I trust you enough to sit down and eat--to enjoy and be satisfied? Do I have enough faith in your protection to surrender fully to your anointing?

Thank you for your patience, faithfulness, and grace, my Lord!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWgeUrD4MHI

~ ~ ~
Everything falls into place when I look toward You, my Lord. You are Good and Perfect, Holy, Righteous, and Beautiful. I will sit down and eat; I will be satisfied by your abundance...in the midst of all that seeks to destort and destroy. I will submit to your anointing; I will surrender the mistaken instinct to protect myself, and the false notion that failure is inevitable.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=7elxC8LXfzE

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~The Emperor’s Old Clothes—Part B~

It’s abuse.

“Abuse. Abuse? Th-that’s just not possible. My parents didn’t beat me, didn’t even hit me beyond proper spankings. Dad never touched me in anger or in lust. I have not been abused.”

Is abuse only physical? Baby, you know better than that.

“But I come from a Christian home, with Christian parents. Granted, I recall seeing Dad read his Bible on only three occasions…and he didn’t partake of church from the time I was six until sometime after my fifteenth birthday. And yes, apparently a Christian husband doesn’t usually convince his wife to stop attending Bible study and women’s group—insisting that her time with the Lord is an idol—complaining that it takes her attention away from himself. Just because I can’t remember him praying with me at any time except his standard supper and bedtime prayers…just because he never had any interest in Mom’s repeated requests for a time of family prayer and devotions…that doesn’t mean anything. Right? Right, Lord?”

Will you listen to my Truth, darling?

Tremors filled me. “But it can’t be true. It just can’t.”

And why is that?

“Because…” My stomach clenched and I released a long, shuddering breath. The words came only in a trembling whisper, “Because…it would mean that what I’ve believed about my life, my family, for eighteen years has been—…”

Has been what?

“Oh God, please! Can we change the subject?”

Has been what, dear one?

“Please…I can’t look at this. Please, don’t make me look at this.”

Oh darling, is life apart from my Truth really Life? Trust me. I am more than sufficient; walk into my Light.

One shaky breath. And another. And then: “…what I’ve believed about my life, my family, for eighteen years has been a…lie.”

As the words left my mouth, they hit the cold air of Truth and solidified into a nimbus of frozen crystals that fell, painfully refreshing against my skin. “Oh, God. It’s been a lie.”

Relief. And Fury. I alternately gulped in cold, heady breaths of each. I looked down at the restricting garment I had worn for eighteen years. It was comprised of lies. And it was thoroughly repulsive to me. I had long struggled in this garment—the robe which bore none of my own personality. So to suddenly breathe in the Truth that my robe was a lie…

I acted hastily. I was sickened to acknowledge that I had carried such an unnecessary weight for years; I felt justified in seeking relief immediately. I would not wear the ideal of someone else! I should be able to dress myself; and that’s exactly what I would do! I didn’t wait to ask the Lord what He wanted to do with my garment—I didn’t bother to ask about His plans. I wanted nothing to do with that robe! In desperate anger, I tore it off and flung it behind me.

For the first time, I discovered that I had the freedom to make and wear my own clothes. More than that, based upon the input of my new friends and classmates, I was expected to dress as myself. So I tore my way out of my father’s garment and declared myself “free.”

But…did I have any concept of how to go about creating my own clothing? No. Absolutely not. I suddenly discovered that I had nothing to wear but the now-discarded robe my father put on me so long ago. So there I stood, with no replacement garments in sight.

I was naked. Completely exposed.

[to be continued in Part C]

no, really, I promise...

I'm seriously getting the next installment of That Which the Locust Has Eaten finished. Honest. Thanks for your patience with my *ahem* "delayed intelligence." ^_~

As Jesus and I finish that up, how are you doing? What scriptures have you been pondering? What questions have you been asking the Lord? What questions has He been asking you?

As always, you are in my prayers, dear reader. Keep pressing in toward the Lord, letting Him work in you.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Tyu9IJKFi0

Plea and Praise

www.youtube.com/watch?v=QU6AhH2a1cU

The Mirror

“The words of Adonai are pure words,
silver in a melting-pot set in the earth,
refined and purified seven times over.”
Psalm 12:6

Now, the question is this: When I look into the white-heat of that pure silver, do I come in search of my own ephemeral reflection or the inscribed face of God? (James 1:22-25)

My Lord, please search my heart. Please search the heart of the person reading these words as well. Enable us to “keep speaking and acting like people who will be judged by a Torah which gives freedom” (James 2:12). Let us seek only Your face in Your words; and help us memorize and imitate the beauty of Your features.

~~~

I am slowly putting together the next installment of That Which the Locust Has Eaten. (At this moment, my struggle is deciding which issue to address first. So I am currently still submitting this installment to the Lord, seeking His wisdom.) Thank you again for your patience and your prayers. Please let me know how to better pray for you, as well.

In the meantime, I would love to hear what the Lord is speaking to your heart right now. What topics or passages of scripture are being highlighted in your life, in your conversations with Jesus?

The Point of the Point:

As a friend of mine phrased it earlier today: "God never wastes a hurt." Just in case you haven’t guessed, dear reader, this is really the heart of the matter. This is the underlying theme of my testimony.

I am grateful for so many of the hurts I have received. Painful words or actions from others, ideals and character traits that were fostered in a warped fashion--sources of pain for myself and those around me--become such blessings as the Lord begins to straighten them, reshape them. I have the great honor of witnessing the miraculous transformation of my own wounds and scars into gorgeous, purposeful designs under the skillful hands of the Most High. Moreover, I have the far greater joy of occasionally seeing Him do the same in the lives of others; sometimes I even catch a glimpse of the artwork He is crafting out of damage that I myself inflicted on someone. In so many ways, the Creator and Lover of my soul demonstrates to me that He “never wastes a hurt.” And while going out of His way to make this clear to me, He grants me the privilege of praising Him... What a loving God we serve!

I’m sure many of you already find weekly reminders from the One who loves you best—little gifts of encouragement and joy to reinforce the truth that He never wastes a hurt in your life. But let’s not simply wait for Him to remind us, my friend. Let’s actively praise Him together!

So please, please share with me: what hurts in your life is the Lord clearly not wasting? It can be something large or small; you can give specifics or stick with generalities; and multiple examples are perfectly fine. Let’s worship our beautiful God as a Body!

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~The Emperor’s Old Clothes—Part 1~

By mutual consent, Mom resigned from her job to become a full-time housewife soon after my younger sister was born. So Dad was the sole breadwinner of our family for much of my childhood and adolescence. He would return home from work with entertaining, though often biting, stories of coworkers and clients. Dad participated in outings with his buddies, and attended association meetings for his favorite hobbies. He would return with engaging tales of his own roguish feats and witty repartee at the expense of less intelligent men.

By the time I entered ninth grade, my father had abandoned his original career and attempted to turn a profit in a commission job; my mother took an administrative assistant position to help financially. By the end of my twelfth grade year, Mom’s hourly pay was the only source of income. My father spent much of his days and nights surfing the internet at home. My sister and I would return home from school; each of us would occupy a bathroom, and escape into the world of a book for as long as possible. Usually we could enjoy at least an hour of quiet solitude before Dad surfaced from his online activities and began banging on the bathroom doors. Frequently he followed-up our bathroom “evictions” with a gracious invitation to sit at the kitchen table with him while he read a magazine or newspaper.

It has been said that a man’s home is his castle. I’m sure there is validity to that expression; after all, everyone seeks a refuge: a safe place to let down his/her guard, people in front of whom no masks are needed. So yes, I would agree that a man’s home is his refuge. But a refuge does not have to be a fortified castle.

I believe my father has always considered his home to be his castle. And he dressed his wife and daughters like queens to fit the part.

~ ~ ~

I don’t know when it happened—perhaps it began early in my parents’ marriage or even beforehand—but at some point in time, my mother, my sister, and I became Dad’s refuge. We were his idol. Well, it wasn’t exactly the three of us whom he idolized; not really. It was the safe, pretty idea he created for us to wear. The ideal. My father dressed up his home, his family, in the trappings of his ideal refuge: we became velvet-and-gold idols. Accessories of a dream.

No human being can wear the gilt robe of another’s ideal for a long period of time. Such a heavy, restrictive garment begins to strain and choke. After all, it is tailor-made for the idealizer, not the idealized. My father designed his ideal on a grand scale; then he placed it upon my much-smaller frame. I was drowning. Such a robe demands perfection. I was expected to fill out this garment; and I truly wanted to fill it. (This was created by my father! I wanted to do justice to his ideal.) But no matter how much I strove to achieve that goal, it was impossible. The ideal was specifically designed to not fit “Me;” and I could not alter Myself enough to match its uncompromising lines. I tried eating large quantities of food—hoping to fill out the robe a little better, or at least be less troubled by the weight of it. (Such a tactic is called “stress eating,” dear reader. We’ll explore this, and several other avenues of self-alteration, in later discussions.)

Idols are sources of comfort and security…but only if they are properly looked after. Because idols do not sustain their own perfection. My father fabricated his idol upon the framework of three human beings who would naturally grow, change, and fall short. The ideal is not designed to accommodate all that wear and tear. Dad needed to be vigilant lest my sleeve become threadbare, or a seam tear loose, or a button be lost. Too much movement or freedom on my part would jeopardize his beautiful creation. So for eighteen years, I lived very carefully in my heavy clothing, desperately praying not to trip as I attempted to walk through an atmosphere of criticism and control.

And then Adonai miraculously intervened: He packed my bags, and created an opening in the castle’s stone wall. I gathered up the trailing bulk of my ill-fitting garment and left for college.

~ ~ ~

My parents and sister helped me move in for my freshman year of college. Afterward, I watched them drive out of the dormitory parking lot, heading home. I cannot recreate for you the incredible relief I experienced as that green van disappeared. Perhaps this will give you some idea: as I mentioned before, I was a chronic stress eater. Dear reader, I entered college wearing a size 20; at the end of only four weeks on campus, I fit comfortably in a size 16. Any student can tell you that college is not a low-stress environment. And yet it seemed like an unparalleled reprieve to me.

Very soon, however, I began to notice something odd in my new surroundings: I registered the fact that I stood out awkwardly from the other college girls somehow. But I couldn’t understand what the problem might be. After all, I was normal! Where could the difference possibly lie?

As I continued interacting with these girls, as I started to know them better, slowly, slowly, I began to see the garments they wore. Several girls wore original creations—robes they had made entirely by themselves. The majority of my new acquaintances each displayed a garment bearing varied levels of input from one or both parents, as well as the girl herself. Almost none of these robes looked anything like mine. And practically all of the girls seemed to find my velvet-and-gold robe very strange, even ugly.

“Why do you constantly apologize? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I just complimented you; why did you deflect it? Why can’t you just accept it and say ‘Thank you’?”

“I really don’t think it’s necessary or appropriate for you to always twist my remarks into something sexual.”

“Why do you insult yourself all the time?”

“Why would you assume that you’re bothering me? I invited you to come, didn’t I?”

Slowly, slowly, realization dawned. I examined my robe: heavy chains of gold stitches; thick rope braiding; crushing velvet, cut on the bias; congested ruffles; gilt shards of lace. For the first time I really took note of the restrictive sleeves and plunging neckline, the glittering stones manacled to my neck and wrists, the yards of needless material that answered all movement with endless falls and humiliation.

Trembling, I whispered a desperate question: “Do you mean this isn’t normal?”

Absolutely Not! came the unanimous reply from my new friends.

No, my darling, murmured my Lord in and over the human voices.

Amazement mingled with trepidation in my mind. Trying to understand, yet afraid of what understanding would bring, I found myself asking: “Isn’t it common for fathers to hold a dismissive attitude toward their children’s interests and activities, yet demand enthusiastic participation in the fathers’ own hobbies? Most fathers don’t earn an “A” on a daughter’s bottle rocket project in physics class? Not all fathers refuse to help with a science fair project unless their idea is used?”

Absolutely Not! No, beloved.

Somewhat stunned, I tried again: “But isn’t it normal for girls to glibly make jokes involving explicit innuendo in elementary school? Do you mean that not all fathers discuss one daughter’s breasts with the other daughter, or make admiring remarks about the second daughter’s buttocks to the first? Most husbands don’t fondle their wives and issue solicitations at the dinner table? Don’t most fathers encourage their daughters to make jokes and sexual references at their mother’s expense?”

Absolutely Not! No, my darling.

My spirit began to tremble: “Do you mean that most fathers don’t require outside instruction to hold their daughters? Don’t all mothers have to coax fathers to take their daughters along for bonding time? Is it not common for children to hide favorite snacks to ensure they will get to eat some before it’s all gone? Don’t most fathers ask very vague questions and expect very specific answers? And aren’t most children yelled at and belittled when they cannot find that one correct answer? Isn’t all of this normal?”

Absolutely Not! Will you hear the Truth, baby?

No! I don’t want to hear it! was what I longed to shout. But looking down at my robe—heavy—stifling—so different from those I now saw around me, the question was so obvious that I could not ignore it…even if the answer shattered my world. In fascinated dread I whispered: “If it isn’t normal, then what is it?”

What is it? You even need to ask? It’s abuse, my dear one.

[to be continued in Part B]

Hearing From Adonai; Hearing From You

How are you doing, dear reader? What is the Lord talking to you about right now?

He's certainly been addressing some very difficult and, in some cases, painful subjects with me these past few weeks. But I'm so glad that we serve a Lord who doesn't pull any punches...even though the direct hits really smart!

Longing

Can I miss something I've never known? Sure. I've experienced that many times.

But can I miss something that no one has ever known? Apparently so...

It doesn't necessarily make sense--perhaps you'll think I'm more strange than usual--but today I sat by the lake praying, and once again found myself overwhelmed with a longing for Jesus. A longing in the sense of "I miss You, my Lord."

But, really, it's not possible for me to miss the unbroken union that I have yet to experience. I'm truly grateful that He allows us to taste the barest flavor of what that relationship was once like--what it will be like again someday. We catch the vaguest trace of his fragrance.

And yet the Holy Spirit within me sighs with longing for a return to full union. "I miss You, my Lord."

I Miss You--www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBh7Muv0yac

Vanilli Twilight--www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JE0HovpAzw

Processing [like my ancient desktop]

Hello, friend! First of all, thank you for bearing with me during these long intervals between posts.

Work has been a bit rough. (I'm really looking forward to tomorrow--my day off after seven 8-12hour work days! The Lord continues to be generous: both by providing me with income, and also by giving me incentive to be deliberate with my free time.)

But work really hasn't been the main issue. This subject-matter is intensely personal...writing each of these posts involves revisiting and reexamining. I cannot express how grateful I am that my Lord is calling me to embark on this internal-external journey. And I am truly humbled that you, dear reader, choose to include my journey in the course of your own. Thank you, my friend. And thank You, my Lord!

The next post will really begin exploring my relationship with my father, and the impact of that very broken relationship. This is very difficult for me to write about. I do not want to bash another fallen human being; yet I have only my biased perspective from which to draw. Another complication results from the ongoing rift between my father and myself. Unlike my relationships with my mom and younger sister, there has been no reconciliation with my father. So I am fully aware that whatever the Lord leads me to share with you will be material that my father has not sanctioned me to share. Moreover, he would probably consider virtually all of this information to be preposterous, perhaps even take my words as a direct attack. I have no desire to hurt my father...but I am called first and foremost to be obedient to my Father and Lord. So I will be sharing some things with you soon. Thank you again for bearing with me as I pray and diligently seek a righteous balance.

I am continuing to pray for you, my reader and friend. And I am very grateful for your prayers, as well!

Joy and Wonder

The most spectacular moments in my life are often the quietest: when I find myself drawn to a Presence who shouts in whispers and destroys with a gentle touch; when I behold and discover I am held. This is the true miracle.


(By Your Side) www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3BGYttwfGI

(Hallelujah) www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3PC43TZt_s

(Beloved) www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XtL6ZxHbUQ


Thank you, my Lord!

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~A Long Road to The Beginning~
I have a confession to make: as a young girl I decided that I was too boring. More specifically, I decided that my testimony was too boring. All the people with interesting testimonies—it seemed to me—had lived very ungodly lives. But I was a “good girl” from a “good Christian family” (keep in mind that this was my perception at the time). If I ever wanted to have a worthwhile story about being saved by the Lord, I concluded I would have to change my lifestyle. So, I announced to the Most High God that I was going to go lead a horrible life for the next few years, and catch up with him later on.

Please, feel free to laugh! I chuckle at myself every time I remember that decision. It certainly seemed like a logical conclusion to my frightened, angry, self-centered eleven-year-old mind… In reality, I wanted an excuse to vent my bottled-up frustration by acting out. So I justified it with the comforting rationale of a grand scene of repentance sometime in the future—a moving story that focused on myself, at a time of my choosing.

Well, that happy little plan of mine didn’t turn out quite as I’d hoped. Less than two years later, my sweet and generous Lord “jerked a knot in my tail.” Against my will, my parents once again registered me for church camp. Some clerical error caused me, a thirteen-year-old, to be registered for the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old camp. There were no openings in the correct camps for my age division by the time this “mistake” was discovered. I fought the Lord tooth-and-nail during that week of camp. I was not going to give up control! But in the space of five, my Savior and King brought me to my knees. These blind eyes caught a glimpse of who He is, and who I am not. That was the first and only year I ever appreciated church camp. And the blessings and relationship I received from Holy Spirit during that special week have been my ongoing comfort and strength. Oh, my dear reader, what a holy, loving God we serve! What a wonderful Lord our Jesus is!

~ ~ ~

My repentance and new-found relationship with Jesus Christ did not instantly fix my personal and familial struggles, though. The process continued to be just that—a process. In fact, I seemed to grow very little during the next five years. Then again, I could not bring myself to acknowledge many of the areas in which change needed to occur. Denial was my closest friend. Adonai Nissi generously created another “knot-jerking” opportunity. This second time, however, He chose to do it in a longer time frame.

When it came time to fill out college applications in the spring of my junior year and autumn of my senior year, I was utterly lost. For all intents and purposes, my mother was the only family member gainfully employed during the majority of my high school career. My PSAT and SAT scores were good enough that brochures inundated our mailbox; it was like receiving Christmas cards every day. (My little sister heavily promoted whichever colleges seemed to be geographically farthest away.) But there was absolutely no money. I had no funds of my own; and my mother’s earnings could not simultaneously pay the bills and college tuition. I do not recall my father voicing any opinion on the dilemma. My mom strongly suggested that I take a year off and earn some money toward college. I’m not the most perceptive critter on the face of this planet, but I understood my own patterns of behavior well enough to reject Mom’s suggestion. I was certain that I could not take a break without losing all momentum. I feared that one year off would quickly turn into five, and then twelve, and then… But did I really have an alternative?

I distinctly remember lying awake in bed one night in mid-September, frustrated, uncertain, and scared. Should I try to attend college? Where should I go? When should I go? How could I afford to get there? The questions and the darkness pressed in around my bed like a stalking panther, breathing slowly and biding its time. I muffled my sobs in a pillow to avoid disturbing the little sister sleeping nearby. But finally the weight stalking me grew overwhelming. I opened my mouth and declared to the Lord, “You have to show me. You have to tell me. I can’t decide; and I don’t know what to do. Show me!”

I felt the darkness recede. The room’s interior remained dark, except for a dim night-light; but the weight retreated, leaving…space. And into that newly-created space around my bed flooded an overwhelming peace. Assurance. I could only lie there, tear trails drying on my cheeks as I marveled at the buoyancy of this peace. And then I heard the silhouette of a voice. I’m not sure how I can better describe it. I heard-saw-felt words that were audible, yet entirely silent. For a moment, I knew beyond the tiniest doubt that I am absolutely known. In the silhouette of a voice, my Lord told me very clearly: “You are going to ______ University. And you are going next year.” That was more than enough answer for me!

I was vaguely aware of the private university to which the Lord said he would be sending me. Considering the field of study I planned to pursue, it had not been one of my top choices. But I submitted a grand total of two college applications, dear reader: one to the school I had been told, and a second to another private university where I hoped to complete graduate studies.

By Thanksgiving, I had been accepted into both colleges. Meanwhile, I endured a healthy dose of criticism for my apparent lack of initiative. My mother was rather skeptical of what I said the Lord had spoken to me. My father was downright dismissive. Even after my acceptance letters arrived, he continued insisting that I should wise up and apply to at least a couple of state schools. I continued to stand my ground. I knew what I had heard that night. I knew Who spoke to me. There were hours and days when continued faith was difficult in the face of such doubt. But the Lord gave me the strength necessary to stand firm.

Like anyone else preparing for college, I applied for any and all scholarships. The majority of my senior year seemed like one endless line of applications…and subsequent rejection letters. No financial aid was forthcoming. To make matters worse, my father herniated a disc in his neck in mid-November. He had spinal fusion surgery on Christmas Eve. Whatever small financial assistance I could have hoped to receive from my parents disappeared in medical bills. I had been accepted into the expensive university of my choice. But unless God intended to disguise me as a piece of someone’s dorm room furniture, I had no idea how he planned to get me there.

One afternoon in March, my father answered the telephone and then brought the phone to me in the kitchen. He didn’t know who the caller was. Nevertheless, any excuse to abandon homework is a good excuse. I took the receiver. The business-like woman on the other end of the line politely verified my identity. Then, she informed me that the foundation she represented had selected me as a recipient of their full-ride scholarship. After a very mature response of, “Are you serious?” (to which she replied that, yes, she was in fact serious) I uttered an equally mature statement of, “Oh, I love you! (to which she really had no reply at all). Once she gave me the few details I could handle at that point in time, we hung up. Many people can attest that I have a healthy set of lungs. But I doubt that even my younger sister, sitting in the living room at the moment, had ever heard me hit quite that decibel or hold it quite that long. God is so Good.

An eight semester full-ride scholarship, with a book stipend. God wasn’t going to disguise me as dorm room furniture. He was instead sending me as a student in my own right—a student who would graduate practically debt-free. Never forget, dear reader: the God we serve does not do half-baked jobs. When he says he will make an opening through a stone wall for you, rest assured that the opening will be perfect in shape and size. The manner in which he chooses to provide for us may differ, but it is always complete, always perfect.

My Lord is often very humorous in his manner of bestowing gifts. I did not spend years battling alcohol and drug addictions. I never joined a cult or participated in gang activity. I haven’t slept around. I cannot truthfully say that I became a believer due to the Lord miraculously healing my broken body after a nearly-fatal plunge down Niagara Falls. (That would be quite a story, though, wouldn’t it?) And yet, in spite of my lack of “exciting” history, he has fulfilled the desire of my rebellious eleven-year-old heart: the Most High God has created a powerful testimony in my life. One that is uniquely mine and His. Such a beautiful gift from the One who loves me best and protects me always!

~ ~ ~

As we move forward, please join me in worshiping our wonderful Lord, Savior and Friend. Let’s keep pressing in toward Him as we continue our joint exploration. And thank you so very much for walking with me. This is where it all begins!

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~More Memories...Receding Thunder, Gathering Perspective~

While my mother’s anger was not as dangerous as my father’s, her temper displayed itself more regularly. This was partially the result of personality, partially a by-product of her career as a stay-at-home mom. (We had more opportunities to witness her anger; and, in all fairness, any stay-at-home parent endures a great deal of frustration.) Often, in the face of her rising aggravation toward my younger sister and myself, I remember deliberately choosing to provoke my mother’s anger. Looking back now, I’m sure there was an element of attention-seeking in my ploy. Yet on many occasions I made a very conscious choice to draw my mother’s anger toward myself, and away from my sister. If I provoked her enough, our mother would storm into her bedroom, slam the door, and remain there for a while. And that was usually the end of it.

But over the years, my attempts to divert negative attention from my younger sister lessened substantially. Even during the period of time I sought to protect her from others, I tormented her myself. Before she was even out of diapers I did many unkind—sometimes downright cruel—things to my little sister.

I recently gave my sister a letter that included the following excerpt:

“At the age of three, I deliberately cracked a windshield with my forehead, simply because I didn’t want to leave Grandma’s house; you weren’t even born then. For years, everything angered me. But you know that better than most: nothing fueled my rage as well as you did. You still bear scars from where I’ve clawed at you, dug into you [both physically and emotionally]. I learned at a young age that it was unacceptable to spit on you, and the consequences of slapping and punching you were not generally worth the momentary satisfaction. But I could yell at you. Oh, how I could yell at you… I know you dreaded being left alone with me.

‘Don’t you ever lock me out of a room again! You can’t begin to imagine how bad I’ll hurt you the next time. I’ll kill you!’

I screamed down onto your face for fully ten minutes on that occasion, savoring every moment. I remember the cold doorknob I had dismantled to reach you, now clenched in my hand with heavy power; I probably brandished the screwdriver like a dagger at your belly. I can’t recall all the words I spewed at you—nothing inventive, I’m sure. But I didn’t need creative threats; I just needed to bear down on you with my malice. I lusted for the sight of fear crawling white across your eight-year-old face, watching your nose and lips grow thickly flush as tears built flimsy shields across your eyes. I craved the thrill, the rushing roar a predator feels in the fresh victim’s dying throbs. Vampires do exist: I have been one.”

My sister had not provoked me. With both of our parents gone that particular afternoon, she hoped for a little space, a little freedom…from me. So after school she took her pink backpack into our parents’ bedroom (the only room with locking doorknobs) to do her homework in peace. My rage was not justified. Yet I pounded on the door, screaming at her to unlock it, wrapped in a fury that convinced me her quiet actions were a challenge or a threat, and finally dismantled a doorknob to give vent to my rage and secure my authority. Once certain that my little sister would never consider such a ploy again, I calmly reassembled the doorknob and returned to my own homework. I had slaked my thirst. So I left the freshly mauled carcass bleeding in the corner of our parents’ bedroom.

In many ways, I was not my own. Whether I was born heir to the sins of my parents (generational sin), or had made my own pact, I don’t know. But I participated willingly in this hellish partnership from a very young age. The sin curse of anger that rode me demanded life; my younger sister’s life was easy and sweet. I paid what seemed to be the necessary price to receive the power of escape, of freedom. But I gained only bondage. And I inflicted great pain. Tremendous pain.

~ ~ ~

I need you to have a balanced picture of my character as we move forward, dear reader. I am no saint; I am a fallen human being. If you find anything Good in me, remember that it is entirely the work of my Savior and Lord. My merits are not my own. My righteousness is entirely His grace. We serve such a beautiful God!

~ ~ ~

My mother repented of her anger. She hated the way she found herself behaving. I still remember her opening her bedroom door time and time again with sad eyes, and often with tears still streaming down her face. She apologized each time. She fervently sought the Lord’s healing. And she has changed. My mother is a beautiful example of the redemptive power of Jesus Christ. I am honored and privileged to learn from her, to grow with her.

I have repented of my own anger. This does not mean I don’t find myself struggling with this emotion at times. The Holy Spirit has been walking me through my Lord’s “Anger-holics Anonymous program” ever since I first surrendered to him in 1997. It’s been a long journey—often slow and seemingly unfruitful. But those who have walked with me can see the enormous transformation God has done in this area of my life. I’m honored that his name can be glorified through my weakness, my choices. He is healing me! And he is healing my sister.

I have asked my younger sister’s forgiveness; she has forgiven me. But the road to building a healthy relationship is still long and painful. She is just now beginning to believe that I truly won’t fly into a rage over the slightest things. After seeking change and healing in this relationship for several years, I am finally beginning to become a big sister—in the way I could not be for such a very long time. (I look forward to sharing more about what I have learned from younger sisters later in our journey.) I cannot thank my Lord often enough for the precious gift of little sisters! I treasure those relationships more than I myself possibly could if I had never abused them so horribly.

~ ~ ~

• My dear reader, have you yourself struggled with this same unholy pact? There are many, many reasons for anger…but when we allow that anger to consume us, our thoughts, words, and actions are never justified. And they always cause such deep wounds. As the Lord prompts you, and grants you the strength to do so, you can and should ask forgiveness of your Redeemer who loves you, and of those you have hurt (if possible). And DO NOT allow self-condemnation to overtake you, my friend. This is a process—often a long, and seemingly unfruitful one. Don’t worry: those who love you will forgive you. In whatever capacity the Lord allows, they will walk beside you through this process. With a loving smile, I joyfully welcome you to “Anger-holics Anonymous.” Let’s keep pressing in, shall we?

• My dear reader, do you carry wounds inflicted by the unholy pact of another? If so, please allow me to apologize here and now—on behalf of the one who hurt you, and on behalf of myself. I truly hope those who may have hurt you have asked for your forgiveness. We all want to hear a sincere “I’m sorry.” It means so much to know that someone realizes the damage of his or her actions. But sometimes the damage is accidental. And in the case of people who struggle with rage, often those who cause damage are too damaged themselves to see or acknowledge their guilt. So if you have not heard the words you need to hear, dear reader, please accept them from me. With tears in my eyes, please believe me when I say, “I am truly sorry for the pain that has been caused in your heart. I’m so sorry. To my sisters: please forgive me for any deliberate or accidental pain I have caused you. To everyone: please accept this apology in lieu of an apology from the one who has hurt you, and please forgive him or her.”

It’s often easier to forgive and move forward once someone asks for our forgiveness. But what happens if the ones who have hurt us most deeply never acknowledge the wrong of their words and actions? What if the repentant petition for forgiveness never comes?

Well, that requires a new level of forgiveness, my dear reader. We’ll explore that together next.

~ ~ ~

As always, feel free to ask questions or discuss reactions. You are most welcome! I am continuing to pray for you.

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~A Memory~

In my parents' house, we’ve used the same set of Tupperware water glasses for as long as I can recall. Six tall plastic cups—each a different pastel color. None of us ever used the yellow cup or the peach cup; they resided in the cabinet, waiting for company. But the remaining four Tupperware glasses were permanently assigned: Dad used blue; Mom had pink; my younger sister Becky chose green; and I took white.

When I was twelve, I stopped drinking from the white glass.

~ ~ ~

I’ve always loved experimenting with food. (My poor Mom! She suffered through some very interesting concoctions in the early years. I understand there was even a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on garlic bread. Mom says that’s the only one of my bizarre creations she just couldn’t bring herself to eat.) One morning when I was twelve, I decided to make breakfast for everyone: Cream of Wheat, the breakfast of champions. I chose to use a saucepan rather than the microwave because Dad and Becky both liked their Cream of Wheat to be lumpy. (Lumps are more easily created in the slow cooking method.) But before dividing the hot cereal into four servings, I put a few drops of food coloring in the bottom of each empty bowl. Dad received blue; Mom got pink; Becky had green; and I used the remaining color, yellow, for myself. Then I gently spooned Cream of Wheat into each bowl, all the while being careful not to expose the color buried underneath. When each person stirred sugar into his or her breakfast, it changed colors!

I was delighted by the success of my “magic trick.” Becky giggled: her cereal now resembled Nickelodeon slime. Mom remarked that her pink Cream of Wheat looked as though it should taste like strawberry as she smiled and ate.

Dad exploded.

As soon as blue streaks appeared in his bowl, Dad’s bulky shoulders stiffened. “What is this!” he demanded. By the time all of his cereal acquired a tranquil blue tint, Dad’s mouth and brow were contorted in fury. His blue eyes darkened as they bored into me. “This is disgusting! Why would you do this to my food!” Heavy anger clenched his hands. After one final glare of outrage, Dad shoved back from the table, rose, roughly grabbed his bowl, and stalked across the room. Metal spoon scraped against ceramic: I watched my father force his bowl to regurgitate its pretty blue contents, lumps and all, into the trash can.

Turning to glare at me again, Dad sneered, “I’ll make my own breakfast.” He made a great display of finding a clean pan. He then cooked a single serving of untainted Cream of Wheat and returned to the table, pointedly ignoring me.

Reader, I had been so excited, so proud of my special breakfast idea. I sat there watching Dad devour his white, unsullied Cream-of-Wheat...and a small piece of my twelve-year-old heart quietly died. A larger piece screamed in defiance.

“Would you refill my glass?” Dad handed me his blue cup without raising his eyes from his breakfast.

I walked to the kitchen counter and poured my father a fresh glass of water without any complaint. But defiance still screamed within me. The nearby salt shaker seemed to offer a quiet invitation in response to my heart’s war cry. Without pausing to consider the possible consequences, I accepted the offer. Even as I grasped the glass shaker and watched the first battery of hard white crystals whfft! into the blue cup, I knew my actions were wrong. But I didn’t care. Two, three, four dashes of salt into the cold, thirsty water.

I returned Dad’s blue glass calmly to his waiting hand. Collecting empty bowls, I was back at the counter studiously organizing dirty pots and dishes by the time I heard the first spluttering gulp behind me. Dad’s cup slammed down on the table; the delayed sounds of water splashing out were lost in his roar.

“You put salt in my water?!” I turned to see his fleshy cheeks shaking and his mouth contorted. One large hand still clenched the pale blue cup, knuckles whitening at though they grasped my neck. His shortage of words was my clearest indicator of the depth of his rage. White overtook his face; blue eyes devoured me.

I said nothing. The fear in my mind narrowly outweighed the vengeance in my heart.

With a snarl on his lips, Dad jerked to his feet, snatched my white glass from its place on the table, and stalked out of the room.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I watched him return a few minutes later, striding directly toward me. He held out my white glass. Brassy-yellow liquid filled it to the brim. And then the warm tang of urine reached my nose.

My father moved in close. Using his bulky frame to force me back against the kitchen counter, he brandished my white glass—shoved a full glass of his own urine—in my face. His blue eyes hard as crystal, Dad stared at me and ordered, “Drink this. All of it. This is what it’s like when you mess with my food!”

~ ~ ~

I remember the hard edge of the countertop cutting into my lower back during the long minutes I tearfully refused the cup he sought to force on me. The rage in his eyes was almost gleeful. Malice filled his loud threats. “Drink it!” he continued to shout. “You like trying new things. Try this!”

I remember Mom rushing to my side. She tried to reason with him; he only grew more belligerent. I remember grasping the counter behind me and arching far away from the yellow warmth of his urine, as my white drinking glass continued to be pressed toward my lips. Mom’s repeated attempts to reason with him; his repeated insistence that I needed a lesson. I remember my hands shaking. I remember sobbing. I remember knowing with absolute certainty: “He is really going to make me drink it.”

After several minutes, Mom finally managed to placate him—talk him down. By then, Dad knew he’d won. That was enough to satisfy him.

Mom bleached my white glass. Multiple times. But I never could bring myself to drink from it again. I chose to use the yellow cup instead. The white drinking glass joined the peach glass in the cabinet. But any time company came over, it didn’t matter whether Mom, Becky, or I was the one pouring drinks: each of us used the white cup only as a last resort. And if we did have to give someone that glass, we were always secretly embarrassed about it. I myself never have touched the white cup to my lips since that memorable day. But the few times that incident subsequently came up in family conversation, Dad didn’t even remember it happening.

~ ~ ~

Now, we only have five Tupperware drinking glasses. The peach cup still sits in the cabinet, waiting for company. The blue one waits with it. As for the rest, Mom has pink; Becky chooses green; and I take the yellow.

Last August, I finally burned the white glass.

~ ~ ~

I'm going to enable the comment function on this post. Please keep in mind that sharing this event is not a cry for sympathy. There will be a related follow-up post coming soon. If you have questions or comments--if this causes you to think and you'd like to think "out loud" among friends--you are more than welcome to do so.

I am continuing to pray for you, dear reader. And thank you for your prayers as well!

Intermission

Hello, my friends! Please forgive me for the delay in posting further installments. Life has become rather hectic in recent weeks. It's nice that our Lord is gracious enough to always present us with new challenges, isn't it? ^_^
There is always at least one more area in which I need increased trust. He continually seeks to unify my heart--enabling me to love Him more, and serve Him better. We worship a truly generous God!

How are you doing right now, dear reader? I would love to continue praying for you. Please feel free to post prayer requests here for all to see; let's lift each other up! If you have private prayer requests, and know my personal contact information, you can also contact me that way.

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~ Hope Handed Down~
Here is a collection of songs--some new, some old--to encourage you during times of trial and painful growth. Many of them have been used by the Lord during my most challenging seasons. (The credit for this collection belongs entirely to Ninja-Hime-chan and Imouto-chan, with a shout-out to Michelle. Thank you, beautiful ladies! You bless my life. It’s an honor and a privilege.)

*DO*NOT*WATCH*THE*VIDEOS* (Many of them are distracting at best, and counter-productive at worst.)

Just close your eyes. Picture yourself torn, scratched, and weary... fallen to your knees at the farthest end of the Lord's throne room. And as you make your way through these songs, I hope you begin to picture him beckoning you closer. Accept His invitation, my dear reader. Crawl...walk...run toward Him. Climb into His lap and let the comfort of His embrace surround your weary being. You are Home, my friend. And you are Loved.

• Hold My Heart www.youtube.com/watch?v=sd6U5ci_uB8
  
• Whispers in the Dark www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOoZGYaxZZ8
• The Way I Feel www.youtube.com/watch?v=Okx2MgvDk80
• Beauty From Pain www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV9rH3UaDNQ
• Crawl www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLXyvzcmrL8
• You Cannot Lose My Love www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDfrRg0_9tc
• Porcelain Heart www.youtube.com/watch?v=50mBjRMz5cE
• Stand In the Rain www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQ2j0h6UAtU
• Never Alone www.youtube.com/watch?v=Do1RGCt1GDA
• You're Not Alone www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNW1hrZ4V8Y
• In My Arms www.youtube.com/watch?v=lklVOT6Uv2U
• More www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSaHkJGT-sc
• If That's What It Takes www.youtube.com/watch?v=13M1M5yyAio
• Jealous Kind www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQAIVC1yRC4
• What Do I Know of Holy www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8fSjtPLuBQ
• Grace www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FribXzqHVE
• No More Chains www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rlQnxGGTGM
• Say www.youtube.com/watch?v=X34UBG362ZQ
• River God www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihIkPXTpmjw
• Holy http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZp21ITMRBw
• Real Life Fairytale www.youtube.com/watch?v=-X5w-9OvyZs
  

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~ Part 1b—In A Red-Tinted Mirror~

Admitting we struggle, acknowledging we’re far from perfect—it’s tough. And once we have acknowledged something painful…then what? Where do we go from there? How do we move into Freedom?

~ ~ ~

My Lord is gracious enough to lead me forward. And Purity looks ahead with anticipation. But Withdrawal gazes backward in horror: as I walk away from myself, the increased distance affords a clearer view of my struggles. What have I done! Withdrawal sobs. Look at those I have hurt! Look at the sins I’ve committed! Look at how wretched I have been—how wretched I am even now!

It is not wrong to mourn my failings. A heart tender to the Lord will inevitably find reason to do so. But as Withdrawal begins to acknowledge the stark reality of my fallen state, heartbreak can bring her to a stand-still—making her an easy target for condemnation and fear: What right have I to hope for better things? I merit no favors or reward. How could I possibly change? This is my identity. All forward motion ceases. And as Withdrawal warps under attack, Purity warps as well: I am nothing but a burden and a stumbling block. Why bother trying? I am beyond all hope of healing. I deserve the full measure of punishment…and I will ensure that I receive it!

Has your heart ever cried out with such words, dear reader? Mine certainly has. Realization of my failings can so easily make me falter.

When Withdrawal and Purity are beset by condemnation and fear, I become my own judge. When confronted with my impurity, I cry out. “Woe to me! I [too] am doomed!” (Isaiah 6:5). But I proclaim it as a death sentence, with authority that is not mine to claim. I echo Job’s confession, that “I detest [myself] and repent in dust and ashes” (42:6) with a bitter tone of self-loathing that is not shared by my Creator and Savior. Even Paul’s declaration that I should “treat my body hard and make it my slave so that…I will not be disqualified” (1Cor. 9:27) can be twisted into a justification for self-abuse.

Has your mind ever responded in such a way? I forget that I lack the power and authority to be my own judge. Moreover, I forget that I am redeemed; I forget that I am part of the Bride. I forget that I am loved.

My dear reader, do you know that you are loved? Do you know it—not merely with your intellect, but with your soul?

You see, there is one fact that I deliberately failed to mention: Withdrawal and Purity are both blind. Blind? They are blind? Then how can they see what’s behind and ahead? How is this grief and anguish even possible?

Withdrawal and Purity each carry a mirror. Only in this reflective window can they behold anything. But the mirror’s surface is dimmed: each one bears a fresh, permanent layer of blood. Through this protective film, Withdrawal beholds a portion of what lies behind. Only a portion. Purity catches glimpses of what waits ahead. Only glimpses. And all the while, Withdrawal and Purity are being led along “a road they don’t know” by the One Who Loves Best, who turns “darkness to light before them, and straighten[s] their twisted paths” (Isaiah 42:16).

Sometimes, in the walk toward freedom, Withdrawal and Purity become so absorbed in the fractional sight given them that they forget the means by which their blindness is alleviated. And the One who gave them the mirrors allows them to forget…so that He can remind them.

The Most High God sent his Son to bear my guilt as a pure and willing sacrifice. Surely I have no right to doubt that the One who purchased my freedom already knows my guilt in its ugly entirety. And He loves me. With full knowledge of my shame, the Lord chooses to love me. He calls me to walk in freedom; he protects me from seeing all of my failures at once.

As I strive to move forward in Withdrawal and Purity, under the sacrificial blood of Jesus Christ, the One who holds all Authority has passed this judgment over me: “You are righteous! And you are mine!”

• I Am Loved. He calls me to walk toward himself; and within my blindness he gives limited vision of what he is calling me out of.

• I am Protected. Even as he permits me to see specific areas of weakness, I see them through the red-tinted mirror of grace.

Our Judge has declared us righteous. Who are we to say different? My dear reader: You Are Loved! Deeply. Totally. Unswervingly. By the One who is entitled to love you least yet chooses to love you best and guard you always! Cling to that unalterable Truth when you are tempted to pass judgment on yourself.

~ ~ ~

As we move beyond the introduction and begin exploring my testimony together, I am praying for you. I am praying difficult things: that the Holy Spirit would speak through these words; that your eyes would be opened; that your mind and heart would be challenged, changed, and healed; This will, of course, involve spiritual attack. I am praying that the Lord will protect you against any assaults seeking to overwhelm you; and I utter that request with an attitude of worship and praise, because I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that He has, is, and will continue protecting you! I pray that you will be encouraged. I wish I could be sitting beside you as you read this, and give you a hug. But again, I type those words with worship in my heart: the One we serve, the One we seek, holds you securely—closer than a friend and sister ever could. His embrace surrounds you during joy and despair. I pray that you will come to understand His love.