my last post came from a meditation on civil rights, the lack of those rights for people with cognitive disabilities and jesus, who like both of the other groups, bore the weight of the sins of others and was blameless.
just clarifying.
~z
it’s hard to accept the blame for what you did not do.
it’s hard to have your hopes, held high above your head, tipped off the fingers and watch, falling, smash on the ground.
it must be.
it must be hard to tell those you love what you mean, four times even, and still no one knows what the hell you’re talking about.
it must be hard to decide between yourself and someone you’ve never met. someone you don’t like.
it’s hard.
it must be really hard to be so upset that you yell at and hit a child.
it must be hard to lay on an operating table and be convinced you are doing the right thing.
it must be really hard.
life is hard. for everyone.
but it’s harder for some than others.
we tend to imagine that life is unfair. that what we have been given isn’t enough and what we’re asked to do is too much.
lord, i say you are good because you are god. lord, i am envious because you are generous. help me to defend the cause of the weak. still. now. always.
would i have known her breath, warm at my ear, if i hadn’t known yours? who knows what i would have done if i were at the wheel.
set me down, give me my agreed upon wage. brush back my hair from my brow and i’ll confess it again.
you are the only luck i’ve ever had. and you know it’s hard.
you know.
~z
i’ve been savoring the days.
days are long. sometimes there’s enough in one to send us over the edge. perspective is needed. with the dimming of the winter sun, i turn thoughts toward home. i think it’s the cold. it tucks us all in. retreating, i find i like closing the door and saying goodnight to the whole, cold world.
mornings can do us in quicker than bad news. thoughts of the previous days and worries of the ones to come fester in the brain upon consciousness. it is work. work. to imagine and then to believe that this day, again, is a gift.
years ago, librarian husband brought home a donated prayer book. it’s title, simple, ‘prayer of christians.’ when the spirit moves or i have no prayers myself, i read it at it’s appointed times on it’s appointed days. this morning the concluding prayers concluded with this one:
Help us to follow you wholeheartedly today, ~ and to seek you at all times.
it isn’t a requirement, but the gift of each day is free to be given back to the giver. the work. work. we will see what you have for us today, lord. help us catch a glimpse, and we will pour it out. again. because it’s the only joy we’ve ever known.
~z
yesterday, i got some good news and i got some bad news.
the good news is that god is still god. the bad news is that i’m still blind and deaf. i have no eyes to see, i have no ears to hear. i still grope my way in darkness, self reliant to the core.
unredeemed, our human nature goes it alone. when simon had the cross laid upon him as jesus was unable to carry it, how do you think jesus felt about that? was he upset? was he embarrassed? or did he breathe a sigh of relief that there was another who did what he couldn’t so that the final work would be done?
among the ways pride steals my life, is that i imagine i have to keep most of the balls in the air.
that is pride. that is not life.
the deeper we walk into the life jesus is living on earth right now, the balls one attempts to toss and catch are less like juggler’s bean bags and more like bowling balls. one wrong move and somebody might get hurt. it’s time to let them fall.
turning towards the one that is beside me tightrope walking on stilts, singing all the while, juggling knives, swallowing fire and wielding a wrecking ball that swings out from his heart to demolish the empire and religious establishments and any other thing that denies life and tells us there is only death.
he’s the juggler. he’s the one with the carnival heart.
not me. never has been. never will be.
so if someone else comes along, if someone else has a part to play, the ringmaster is able. and i can lay down all my weapons and see that he is god. he alone.
“come! behold the deeds of the lord,
the astounding things he has wrought on the earth;
he has stopped wars to the end of the earth;
the bow he breaks; he splinters the spears;
he burns the shields with fire.
desist! and confess that i am god,
exalted among the nations, exalted upon the earth.”
- psalm 46:8 - 10
which wars am i raging? at work, at home - wherever. can i desist and confess that he is god and stop proclaiming that i am?
help me lord,
z
Wedding Day
All the days you believe won’t come – They do.
I do.
Then they leave quick and abandon you entirely, never promising a damn thing.
You are left with the dishes and the baby and the same scratch of beard that you’ve known for years.
And God.
Picking up a sponge ain’t much to picking up and leaving. My heart thrives restless even as I grow old.
There is adventure here. Here. Here in these words. These.
Thank. You.
If you can force them from your throat, early in the morning – If you can lift your head and see eternity in the gait of small boy walking in whichever direction you point him.
I do.
Today is the day. The one you’ve counted down to and watch the seconds tell you would never come. Be ready for the Bridegroom because today is it. Today.
Yesterday.
Everyday.
The water flows from tap to cup and turns to wine.
When I met God, I was alone. I was near a church and church people, but I was alone on a dock, reading the Bible. The spirit of God, the Holy Spirit, came near, it came by me. I felt it and it registered in my soul that I was on holy ground now, a holy dock. I never walked down an aisle and I didn’t raise a hand when heads were bowed. I was 18 years old and everything changed.
The weeks and months that followed included me seeing the world through new eyes. Every song was different, every veil was lifted. I understood the hiddeness of truth wherever I looked, always there, but never perceived by me before this time. I was in love.
I looked for my love, too. If I found a kindred soul who sang about this God, this real one, then I listened to those songs alone. I sometimes tuned in to the radio stations that played the songs that were suppose to be about this same God I loved, and sometimes they were, but the advertising sent me queasy, so I went back to my searching. When I found a friend whose eyes bore the light of the spirit that led me, than I knew I’d found another, a comrade who was true. Another who knew the one I loved.
I began attending college shortly after my life headed this way and the timing was kind. Instead of drinking my four years away, I’d steal far from classes and head to the river banks of the campus and read about Jesus and how He did what the Law could not do and I’d cry. I’d sit in the sunlight and the Holy Spirit would come and I’d revel.
I’d search out waterfalls and convince friends to come with me and talk through the Proverbs as the rushing water spoke it’s piece, too. I was in love with the presence of the Holy One of Israel and I was amazed that I’d never known it before and that everyone wasn’t climbing up on rocks to read the words on the thin pages, too.
There were small times of doubting and choices that reflected who I’d been before the dock, but always the presence remained and lured me back. The stars in the night and the promise of peace kept at me until I found myself on the shores of the Detroit River being baptized with a group of people who included my future husband. I was in love.
After marrying, I lived in Chicago and I wanted a job. I’d never had a real job. Full time and benefits sort of thing, so I looked around at my options and found a place that would only employ you if you loved Jesus. They didn’t put it quite that way, but being who I was, that’s all I heard. I hoped and prayed and signed a paper that said I wouldn’t dance or drink at work and got a job in the Human Resources Department. So happy was I.
I learned the job and met lovely people and knew we were all living out a romance that was unique and beautiful. I remember walking to chapel with a group of folks one morning. Imagine! A job that paid me to go hear someone speak about the wonders of this God that I loved.
I was so happy that I did a little dance in the hall until someone stopped me and said, “Ah ah ah! You better knock that off.” They had a playful smile on their face.
“Oh right!’ I laughed. “No dancing at work.” I giggled with the best of them until I noticed that their smiles dropped and with a curious look they said with not a hint of a playful tone. “At work?”
“Yes..” I replied slowly, “we aren’t suppose to dance at work?” Now I was confused.
“You aren’t suppose to dance at all.”
I took a minute and processed this. And I didn’t like it. “What do you mean?”
“That paper you signed.”
“Yes.” I demanded.
“That’s not just for work. That’s all the time.”
If the floor would’ve opened up and swallowed me, I would’ve welcomed it. Somewhere in the back of my brain there was a little itch. Religion. Where people made you do stuff. No dancing, no smoking. Rules that…I don’t know. But rules were out there somewhere. And that somewhere was here and I’d signed on the dotted line! I was a victim of circumstance. I was a Baptist or something. I began to panic and think of all the things that piece of paper had said.
I’d read it in a rush when I’d applied. I thought it was silly to require employees to agree not to do these kinds of things at work, but whatever and I signed it. The drinking and dancing were there; yep. Then I’d also said I’d wear a skirt to work; was that all the time, too? Movies! It said I wouldn’t see R-rated movies! I looked up into the faces of my incredulous co-workers who no doubt had been signing things like this since preschool and smiled.
“Oh yeah. I knew that.”
Christianity is a strange beast. The Church is tempted to cut itself off from itself with claims that what that church over there is doing, well that’s not Christianity, no sir. Or even from the word Christianity. I’ll be a Jesus follower. There’s just too much that is unlike Jesus in the world of the Church. This includes pretty much anything that has to be precluded by the word Christian to denote it’s acceptable status.
But it’s deeper than that. It’s something separated in the fabric of society. The God question and where permission is granted and where it is denied. This is probably obvious by now, but I wasn’t raised going to Church. My father was a lapsed Catholic that didn’t exactly hold classes to instruct us about the stupidity of organized religion, but let’s say it was implied. My mother taught me the Lord’s Prayer and prayed it with me every night, didn’t let me say “Jesus Christ” in vain and that was about the extent of things.
So I was an irreverent kid with some idea that God was real, but had zero knowledge. I’ve always written. I remember finding a piece of yellow paper when I was a child, not yet ten years old. It was big and it had a transparent quality to it, nearly parchment. I loved it. Paper and pencil held an allure and a magic. I took it and climbed up on my parent’s bed. I wrote from my little eight year old soul about the nature of God as I understood Him. Paper so glorious was going to have words loftier than any I’d ever written. I incorporated garden images from the mother I watched plant seeds each season, loving father persona based on the strong arms and acceptance of my own. It was good.
I showed it to my mother, who loved it. I decided that I would take it to school and show it to my principle and ask them to publish it in the school newsletter. I’d won a writing contest earlier in the year with a bit of fiction about an escaped tiger who befriended a young girl. I would use my clout and now display my thoughts of God to my elementary buddies.
After unfurling my yellow script and reading through the poem, my principal looked down into my expectant face. “Zena. This is a lovely poem, but we can’t put this in the newsletter.”
When you are a kid, you don’t have any kind of place for this rejection, I bit back the tears. “Why?”
“Because this is a public school.”
I nodded and said something about understanding these types of situations, as best an eight year old can. Didn’t mean to rock the boat. Didn’t think about the established order of things.
Another friend had an experience of God drawing near in which he was alone. He cried and wept for the presence of the eyes of God on him. He made promises and fell exhausted to sleep only to wake up the next morning crying as he got himself ready for school. His ride picked him up and once at school he ran through the halls finding the friend that had taken him to church months earlier to figure out what was happening to him. Finding them, he explained what he’d experienced the night before. The friend stared with a mix of unbelief and trepidation.
“You’re a charismatic.” He answered. Then he warned not to tell anyone and asked if he’d prayed the prayer to ask Jesus into his heart.
We are at a loss at what to do with God. He is willing to come near, but as soon as he does we have a list a mile long to explain what we’ve seen. Answers we give that are no answers at all. Life we offer that is void of life. It’s a wonder that any of us have any love in our lives at all. The desire to control what we may is stronger than the grave. The nature of love and of God is out of our hands.
God and real life. There are many ways that it can play out as natural as a lake swim. But it doesn’t. The church isn’t and the state isn’t. Jesus talks about it all the time, but we still need to understand in our humanity how to box it in, how to figure it out, usually to our advantage. We want it less messy, more orderly. I’ve got ideas, but I doubt I’m going to reinvent the wheel at this point. I’m just telling my story. What it’s been like for me to know Jesus and how I’m trying to avoid checking the boxes, keeping a heart that feels love for God and for others.
~z
Weather at the window. There is no lock clicking into place so safe as this. Rain, wind, snow, it doesn’t matter. This pane stands clear and as divisible as the word. Family. I am inside. That storm, rage and all, is out. I lay quiet and warm while rain, cold with ice intentions, hits against this place. I am safe. Inside.
Family locks the door from the inside. No matter who is inside. Sometimes the safe is not. But the snow falls and the family moves about indoors, forgetting. That’s the privilege, the right and the code. That can make all things right. Even the wrong.
Straining out the days, I wonder which words and actions will harm? What are the times where I tread too far that mean loss of trust or lack of love for my children? Which days have been much safe from the storm but with danger woven into the hearth? Is there anything to be done?
Redemption songs are all I ever have. Jesus tells that the weeds grow up with the wheat. Bad and good grow together. At the right time there will be a harvest and a separation. We want the separation now. We are like the servants who ask, “Master, who has done this!” As if there are no weeds on the inside of our locked doors.
Even when whittled down to only me and only you, there’s still me and there’s still you. All of the sins out there find a warm nesting spot in my heart, in yours. Jesus, no. Let’s get out there and rip out the weeds, at least in this neighborhood, in this city, in this small town – at least within these four walls.
I’ve seen behind closed doors, weeds growing up among the wheat. I’ve felt them reach for me in the night while the rain beat down on the window, safe inside. There was no place more dangerous. It isn’t any good, Lord. There must be a better way then the end harvest. There is a separating that could keep them over there and us here. Safe and on the inside.
It takes a while, but I catch Him. He’s out to where His words find good soil. I thought He was still with me, but no, He’d been gone. When I see Him, I cry out and my Lord turns to me. His eye is clear and His hand is sure.
“Weeds with the wheat. Weeds with the wheat. Weeds with the wheat.”
So I kiss my son with lips fresh from prayers and say, “Goodbye.” He runs off to love those I’ll never even meet. I look beyond my friends, beyond my church, beyond the safe zones where I imagine no harm draws near. The dryer rumbles and the heat kicks on. I wipe the counter clean and I watch winter blow up to it’s boundary, this pane of glass installed by men. This lie is curious. The safety of family is true and it’s not true. I am on the inside. I am wheat. I am weeds. Only His heart is the impenetrable place where no weeds grow. His heart is for me. It’s for you.
it’s the little things.
my life is filled (like yours) with minutes and hours and people. i make decisions that change the outcomes of my day and the day of those i live among; each hour, for good…for not.
we got some of our list accomplished.
now it’s monday. and the house lies in ruins. we paid more attention to people than cleaning. i don’t think we spent much time vacuuming or dusting. so the pine needles are enlarging their borders on the living room rug and the kitchen table hasn’t changed much from this -
there are things to do. the to-do list grows as the child grows. today i have to pay attention to both. but before i serve the list, i’ll serve the child who is to be born next week as we celebrate it. i’ll serve him with thanks:
~ small girls who love ‘horsey’
~mother and sister in law who love well
~a snug house to clean
~librarian husband who lives out a fatherhood he did not see
~ abraham’s compassion
~ christmas shopping
~waiting
merry christmas and silver bells.
hello.
today i am listening to my dishwasher run through it’s second cycle. doesn’t always like to dry dishes…so we’ll light wash them this time and see what decision it arrives at. my house is a sanctuary today. today i’ve made space to remember that holy ground is all ground. even kitchen floors.
about a year ago i had a dream. the god of the universe sometimes will talk to me in dreams. what’s up with that? when we think god has better things to do than be concerned with the intimate details of our lives we reduce him to the human level. god is big enough to do any task, large or small. if god wants to sniff a frickin’ daisy for 1800 years…that’s fine.
so yeah, he gives me dreams. i’d recently decided to follow what i felt like the holy spirit was saying to me. if that confuses you, let me explain. i believe that the holy spirit is god. like god is god. like jesus is god. i also think the spirit is trying to lead us in this world where we walk out our days, where we eventually will come to the end of our days. but it’s not always appealing to following the leading of the spirit. it’s like, “wait - what? no. not that? yeah. i’m pretty sure i’m never going to do that.” and then i wonder why god doesn’t do more on the earth. but i digress…
i made a choice to do what i thought the spirit had been saying for *ahem* some time and then i had a dream. in the dream i was being driven in a car. the driver was determined and quite focused on where we were going. i felt pretty safe and cozy being driven around and a little curious about the fervor of the driver. so i look up and out the windshield and see that i am barreling down the highway, the wrong way, into oncoming traffic.
i try to talk to this person and tell them, but they know. they want very much to destroy me. i can see that and i’m not exactly thrilled about it. i get ready for impact and look at the face of the driver. i see how fed up with me this being is, their eyes ecstatic for the end of me.
but then, we swerve. at the last minute we don’t die mutilated and burning. we swerve. next scene we are in a room with god and this being and me and lots of other people/beings; i don’t know who they are. the driver of the car is basically begging god to harm me. they are pointing out all of my refusing to listen — all the ways i avoid god and what he asks me to do.
god is a person in this dream and is dismissive of the driver’s requests, though not without compassion. his patience. his patience. he is patient and sees me for what i will do. the driver can’t see that. the driver only sees me historically, what i have done. god has hope for me. the angel wants me dead.
and i do think it was a picture of my assigned angel. that kind of cracks me up. my angel does not like me. that’s funny. someone might think — “no! that’s the devil. it’s like job; the devil wants to make a case against you. not your angel!” but i don’t think that’s it. from the looks of things my angel really doesn’t like me and i’m guessing it’s up in the angel break room grumbling about god’s inability to see what an ass i am. but when their break is over, they go back to the work assigned to them. my angel has to watch over me and do whatever the hell god tells them, too.
sigh.
i’m glad angels aren’t god. i think precious moments has it all wrong. i think most of us have it all wrong. but my dishwasher, this time it got it right. dry dishes here we come.
~z
lately my children have made their way back to the front of my mind…
i can’t imagine why…
there is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end leads to death. my children have started to go to school, with everyone else. every day…all day. i was enjoying it, really i was.
then. then something started to happen. little twinges of conscience as they began to bring home stories and as our days quickly slipped away into nights of over tiredness with no real talking, no clear moments. this is fine, i told myself. this is what it’s like. this is how we all grow up.
i started working. two days a week, i’m in a school signing away for children who have special needs. it makes one reflect on their own child who has special needs. a lot.
it’s wrong to think your children are your crosses to bear. it’s wrong to be a martyr and imagine god takes away all your fun. it’s wrong to ignore the leading of the holy spirit. what to do…what to do.
i was praying about it all this afternoon. praying. that’s right. in the middle of the day. who’d a thunk it? it wasn’t terribly focused. it wasn’t a voice clear for me alone. but what did come was — do you think they won’t grow up? and i do. i do imagine that mazzy, abraham and eleanor will always be mine in this way, in this place.
it is not so.
our lives, i read somewhere recently, are what we choose to do. they are our habits. how i despised discipline, how my heart spurned correction! so says proverbs five. but what else is there if not this? this the real time daily life of raising up these three lives…or more!
there will still be pints with friends. there will still be the man i love. there will still be free afternoons to think and laugh and write. but most of all, there will be a day when these three go their own way. sooner than i can imagine, a life free of little ones, chosen or not, will be my everyday.
help me lord.
~z
