Author: eternalwaitofglory

Faith and Footballs

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The doorbell rang.  A package!  A big package arrived at our doorstep.  An unexpected package!  I called my husband at work, “Come home! We got a package!”  The kids and I mused about the contents.  Something amazing for sure!

We waited in anticipation as the box opened revealing…a full-sized football complete with a stand.  We love football but we sighed and laughed at ourselves in disappointment.  It wasn’t as cool as our imagination imagined it to be.  You see, it is a full-sized football with a stand but it is a wooden full-sized football with a stand.

The thought of a hail Mary thrown by a 6-year-old inside our living room sent the wooden football to my husband’s desk at his office.  It sits on his desk bringing smiles to the Americans that come through from time to time.   Something pretty to look at but completely useless…laughable.

My “faith” is not unsimilar at times, a pretty wooden football for looking at but completely hurtful when I try to use it, as though faith can be used.  Strong, solid, and hard.  Unforgiving.

Real faith is made of my skin ready to be shed for others as He shed it for me.  Am I putting my skin into relationships?  It’s painful but I’m trusting it’s the pain that leads to life.

Smells

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I made the mistake of parking next to our trash dump. I’d pulled in late and all my regular spaces were taken. The dump spaces stood vacant and for a very good reason. Years of half-rotted trash juice fermented into fully rotted trash juice. The stench fills nose, inches its way to the tear ducts before it reaches down the throat and grasps the gag reflex. Merely squeezing your nose does no good. The brief walk from the car stuck to my shoes. They smelled for days.

Smell holds the strongest memories. We learned this at our last debrief. Be aware that you might be brought to emotional tears during transition based purely on a familiar smell they told us. I don’t really like to be brought to tears without some preparation so this bit of information lodged in my brain. My heart whispered, “this is true.” Each child I’ve associated with the smell of the particular lotion I used around the time of their birth. My second child is pink grapefruit. Every time I smell pink grapefruit I’m transported to a small house with a blue swivel chair and late night feedings. Every time.

It really irks me that when I put on perfume my brain blocks it from my senses within five minutes. Everyone else smells it but me, and I really like my perfume! Sometimes I wonder what my personal odor is to others. And, before you make a funny, I’m talking about those fragrance verses in the Bible! Did that joke I thought so funny poke a tender spot? Does that expression on my face, the one I must wear a lot because a deep groove between my eyebrows says so, what does that say about me? About my worries, cares, concerns? What did my, ahem, loud voice tell my children the other day?

I guess my question is this, am I living out Christ’s love such that I’m turning hearts to notice His fragrance or my not so great one? Ironically, whether I’m reflecting Him or not, I’ll still smell like death to someone. My desire to please people doesn’t like this truth. I don’t want to smell like death…ever! But the death that leads to life is worth the turned heads and the comments…and maybe the jokes.

Clay Cannons

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I read an article about an old man who took to throwing bricks at cars that sped through a cross walk.   After the brick hit their cars, the drivers slowed but then sped on without stopping.  The police arrested the old man and then released him without charging him.  The people rejoiced.  The old man served justice in the form of a clay cannon.

I followed the story and remember that the man tried to take legal measures to bring safety to his neighborhood and failed.  He took justice into his own hands.  Confucian respect for old age and the government’s fear of a mob shrouded the old man in a strong layer of protection.  So, breaking the law achieved justice and everyone knew it.

Living in a country where breaking the law is a way to justice blows my mind.  The absurdity of it all!  Growing up in a country where the symbol of the court is a blindfolded woman holding a scale means that I am ill-equipped to deal with how unfair life is in Asia.  I desire almost daily to take justice into my own hands because it’s just not happening like it should.

And, it’s not.  I still don’t know what to do with all the injustice I see every day.  I get angry, I grieve, I feel powerless.  I have it good.  I really don’t experience my fair share of it.  I’m usually treated with kid gloves being a respected foreigner.

I long for that day, though, I long for that day when justice will prevail.  I long for that day when old men need not launch clay cannons at cars to keep their grandkids safe.

The Inevitable Fall

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I hate falling.  All of the sudden I’m looking at the world from the sidewalk in pain and embarrassment.  I hurt!  Everything I held I rediscover in new and unexpected locations.  I snatch my pride from the pavement along with my possessions.  Did anyone see?  I sure hope not!

Thankfully I don’t fall that much anymore but each fall I do take is more painful.  My kids fall all the time.  The degree of their surprise increases with their age.  Now they even blame their nearest sibling to cover the slip as if they can’t believe their coordination could fail them so miserably!  It can’t be me so it must be you!

It’s not like falling down is a moral failure or a reflection of intelligence so why is it so stinkin’ embarrassing!?  I guess if someone falls because they’re drunk it does say a whole lot of something.  But most of the time its a misjudged distance or wet polished granite in high traffic areas, which I could write a lengthy blog about.

Why do I still get so supremely shocked when I fall and knock my soul against the pavement of life?  It’s not like God doesn’t tell us it’ll happen.  He does!  Why when I find myself looking up at the world from a different perspective do I rush to gather my wits and my pride and look around to see if someone noticed?  Why am I surprised?  He is not surprised.

The promises in Psalms comfort me.  I have a hand to hold.  I will not be hurled headlong.  The wise will rise up over and over and over.  I know I hold the hand.  I hope I’m wise!

If childishness is blaming the nearest sibling for my fall, maybe becoming childlike means falling and getting up without such surprise and embarrassment?  I really don’t want to practice this principle but it seems falling is inevitable.

Raising a Captive

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Sometimes I think strange “what if” thoughts.   Ideas like if my daughter got captured by an invading army and hauled away to a distant country as an orphan…how would she deal with that?  Sounds like the start of a great Christian historical fiction novel that ends with the boy getting a girl and a ride off into the sunset on a camel.

Who’s to say captivity might not be in the future for my sons either?  The last time we read the story of Joseph an eerie quiet descended on their bedroom as they paid close attention.  I strongly suspect that one, maybe both, of my sons identify way too much with a desire to sell their brother to a band of traders on their way to Africa.

But seriously, what would a girl have to know to be an Esther or what does a boy need to know to be a Joseph?  Or a Daniel?  Or a Nehemiah?  What did their mothers teach them?  What can I pass on to my kids that would give them what they needed to thrive in captivity…real captivity?

So, lately, I’m thinking more and more about whether I know enough of God.  Do I know the true God…the God who allows captivity and works in captivity?  What do I need to know about Him to thrive even in captivity myself?

The things that come to mind comprise the following:  It’s never all lost.  God is always working.  God is not limited to only work in leaders that profess the same faith I do.  God is surprising.  God allows captivity but doesn’t expect me to obey the laws of my captors when they are against His law.  God makes a way when I go before the ones in power with a request close to His heart.  God isn’t bound to spare my life yet He loves me still.  God expects me to serve Him wholeheartedly in my work even if its the lowest of the low.

Right now the lowest of the low is really not that low.  For that I am thankful but there’s still a lot of room to live my life wholeheartedly for Him alone.

The Jump

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A thrillingly daring jump from a swing resulted in one of my more embarrassing childhood moments.  The jump culminated in triumph yet my shorts did not accompany me in my victory.  I looked up and saw them hanging from the swing!  Nothing shocks the mind quite like realizing one’s exposed their undergarments.  I clutched my torn shorts around my waist for the mile walk home.

Exposure evokes two responses.  Well, probably not only two but today I’m reminded of just two.  Fear and hope.  Either I know I’m doing wrong and I hide from and fear exposure.  Or, I practice truth and I seek, actually seek, exposure.  “Why, oh why would I want to be exposed?” my soul screams out as visions of annual check ups complete with fluorescent lighting flash through my mind.

But something resonates with John’s words.  For meaning.  I love the word my Bible uses…wrought.   Something beautiful created with skill and diligence and forethought in the depth of a skilled craftsman’s workshop.  Wrought in God.  To see my life’s work emerge from the mist of the everyday as having been wrought in God.

Ok!  Now I actually want to be exposed!  I want the sharp light of God and I want to see how He’s creating something beautiful and with purpose because it sure is hard for me to see sometimes.  Meaning!  My life wrought in Him?  Sounds like something I need to know on those days that feel more like a wet lump of clay spinning on an untended potter’s wheel.

It feels good to be inspired to come before God like this.  To be exposed in my misdeeds feels a little more frightening.  But, a close read makes me think John is talking about God exposing my misdeeds and my deeds–the whole package–when He shines the light on my life.  Somehow, He takes it all and wroughts something with purpose.  I don’t know how but I’m willing to come.

Giving, Receiving, Sharing

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My daughter cried calling me to her bedside.  Pain.  I needed to do something and NOW!  She fully expected me to take it away immediately.  I could not and we both cuddled our broken hearts together.

So many times I hear heartbreaking stories of betrayal, abuse, disappointment and sadness over a cup of coffee and I struggle.  I want to take it—take the pain away—but I can’t.  They can’t give it either.  It’s their pain.

The community of The Giver  has one “Receiver of Memory”.   (see Eliminating Pain, my previous post on The Giver)  The community names the new Receiver of Memory and he goes to his mentor and asks what to call him.  “The Giver,” he answers.  So transpires days of Giving and Receiving memory.  The Giver gives memories and, once he gives them, he loses them.  The Receiver accepts the memories which become increasingly unbearable to hold alone.  Telling of emotion becomes actually feeling emotion.  True relationship between the Giver and the Receiver reveals all others as sorry manufactured counterfeits.  The status quo becomes unsustainable.

I want a Receiver of Memory!  Being free of painful memories would be so nice!  To share that deep pain and…poof… it’s gone!   But pain leads to wisdom.  So wisdom goes with the pain.  Do I want that cost?  To become increasingly foolish as I’m increasingly pain-free?

My daughter’s heart cry that I take her pain is impossible but can I share it?  Bear the weight of it together?  What about the friend in deep pain.  I can’t take it.  Can I share it?  For so long I felt discouraged at my helplessness in the face of deep pain.  I’m beginning to experience the freedom of sharing.

I love the ending of the Giver.  Spoiler Alert!  The Receiver escapes and in the final moments approaches a family by a fireplace.  Music is heard in the distance,the evidence that his old mentor is blasting the status quo and sharing his pain and also his most beloved memory, music.

Descending to Realism

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Idealistic.  13 years ago I puzzled over what our premarital counselor revealed to us.  We idealized marriage and each other.  I vaguely connected that idealism and marriage didn’t mix.  That idealism would be some kind of obstacle to be hurdled in our marriage.  Idealism sounded good though.  The way our counselor approached it started 13 years of occasional yet persistent head scratching.

Pessimistic.  The opposite of idealistic?  Who would get married?  Why would anyone get married if they sincerely had such low hope of success?  I’ve never seriously thought our marriage would end in divorce even on the lowest days.  Is that pride?  To think we’ll escape?  Or is it idealism?

Realistic.  Living in what is.  Recognizing what is true–the true state of myself and my husband.  It’s quite the comedown from idealism but not nearly so depressing as pessimism.  Realism is the path I’m on now.  Who am I…really?  Who is he…really?  Who is God in all of this reality?

Releasing idealism feels like a denial of what God desired in marriage.  But, even that seems to be imprisoned in idealism.  What did God really say about marriage?  Not nearly as much as I’d like Him to say, that’s for sure!  Respect, love, sacrifice, honor, submit, multiply, cherish, nurture, unify.

My most recent ponderings on marriage come from a 30-something single guy, Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  Marriage is a “yes” to God’s earth.  A “yes” to living in the present world God created and the present world that is fallen.  In marriage we worship God in His humanity and His deity.  In marriage we need not hide anything from God.  We steal nothing from “behind His back”.  He is spiritual and physical.

There’s much I’d like to cover.  There’s much my husband would like to cover.  The path for us is choosing to trust God by laying everything before Him together.  It doesn’t always happen.  Reality.

Watching the10K

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Watching the 10,000 meter Olympic race becomes a teachable moment when watched with your mom.  My kids learned this Saturday morning.  After 2 laps they all stirred having decided the Japanese team would win for sure.  Then transpired a long conversation, 20 laps long, of race strategy.   “Don’t be too sure”, I urged.  I threw out definitions of pacing.  The kids stuck around just to prove me wrong.  The Japanese would win.

The Japanese women finished near the back with looks of agony and streaming sweat.  The first place finisher blazed across the finish line with a huge smile having cruised to a strong lead in the last 5 laps.  A 10,000 meter race elicited shouts and exclamations from the kids.

Sticking around gave me 20 laps to verbally ruminate on the spiritual analogies of racing, cheating, finishing, pacing.  That’s what mom’s do, beat a lesson to death, and so I did that because that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Towards the end of the beating I realized I needed to see the 10k for myself.  For my walk with my Lord.  My race.  The reminder to give it my all and plan for a whole lot of laps.  I needed to feed my desire to finish strong and blaze across the line.

Clouds and Sunbeams

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Worship slides seem to attract background pictures of clouds, sunsets, rain, and nature.  It seems these images lead God’s people into worship.  But sometimes they seem so otherworldly!  So warm and fuzzy!

Sometime I want to shake it up and sing “Amazing Grace” to a background of a slave ship with its cargo shackeled to the dark and putrid galley.  That is the slavery sin the author received grace to atone.  That is how lost he was, how lost I am.  My sin receives the same grace.  Do I know it’s amazing?

What about “It is Well with My Soul” with a background of sinking ship and children being lost in the ocean.  That is the author’s experience.  His children–all of them–lost in the ocean.  His wife attempted to throw herself in the sea when she realized they all, every single one of her 4 daughters, died.  She waited days for her husband in England to come and comfort her.  He wrote the lines as he passed the place where they drowned.  “It is Well with My Soul” takes on some bite it doesn’t have when I gaze at a sunset while I sing.  Is it well with my soul?  Do I know God like that?

I need to worship to lift my gaze to the Lord.  I just wonder if lifting my eyes doesn’t really mean looking at white clouds and sunsets but at where God’s grace and sovereignty intersect with my messy life.

What pictures would you put in the background of your favorite lyrics?  Why?