I've been informed that my blog postings are usually depressing. And just to convince you I'm not a generally depressed person (although I do often write when I'm down in the dumps), here's a reason to smile:
I asked for a demotion from my job yesterday. Yep, that's right. I'm still wondering if I may be crazy, but I'm rather giddy about the whole situation. I told my manager it was just too much, these nights and weekends, and I didn't feel like I was taking full advantage of spending time with friends and family. I told her I believed relationships were more important than my job, and it was time to set my priorities straight.
I wonder if people will believe that. I wonder if anyone will congratulate me on my demotion (ha ha!) or if they think I'm just not ready to accept responsibility. But you know what? It doesn't really matter what they think. They don't know the conviction the Lord has laid on my heart to be a more dedicated wife and friend.
So here I am, heading into my last week on the management team, excited to be a housewife, excited to spend more time writing, excited to be able to spend time with the people I love, and especially excited to spend more time with God. This is the life!
3/8/05
3/7/05
to maggi tasha jake tami joe tony ash luke kristen lindsay bethany chris kenton tifani tommie brooke jason jeff mathew dixie and brandon
Inadequate. That's what I am. I take you to a place to see poverty, to help poverty, and I choke up. I guess I expect you do the work because I sure can't find the words. I just stare. I just listen. I think, "Boy, I hope they make the most of this opportunity to touch lives because we may never get to do this again." But I don't make the most of it. I choke up, inadequate.
Inadequate. That's what I am. I watch you take in James's words and I hope you're getting something out of it. That's what we planned it for, after all. For edification. But I don't get much out of it. I think about other things. Like myself. Like my life with Kyle. What are we doing here? What are we gonna do when our church runs out of fumes? I choke up, inadequate.
Inadequate. That's what I am. I hear you sing, excited to be together, excited to be praising your Father. I think, "Boy, I hope they make the most of this time because this is when we felt the Holy Spirit come down last year." It sounds beautiful. I wish I could sing like this more often. But instead of praising God, instead of thanking Him for here and now, I just hope for more opportunities in the future. I choke up, inadequate.
Inadequate. That's what I am. Inadequate to make anything of our time together. Inadequate to praise God. Inadequate to share His Word, His Love. Inadequate to serve you. Inadequate.
I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe because I realize my need for accountability, and you're the people close to me, with whom I'd love to be vulnerable. Maybe because I want you to know that under whatever facade I may put on, I want you to know that I'm broken, hurting, in desperate need to know more of God. And inadequate. Inadequate to thank you for coming and blessing my life more than words can say.
Inadequate. That's what I am. I watch you take in James's words and I hope you're getting something out of it. That's what we planned it for, after all. For edification. But I don't get much out of it. I think about other things. Like myself. Like my life with Kyle. What are we doing here? What are we gonna do when our church runs out of fumes? I choke up, inadequate.
Inadequate. That's what I am. I hear you sing, excited to be together, excited to be praising your Father. I think, "Boy, I hope they make the most of this time because this is when we felt the Holy Spirit come down last year." It sounds beautiful. I wish I could sing like this more often. But instead of praising God, instead of thanking Him for here and now, I just hope for more opportunities in the future. I choke up, inadequate.
Inadequate. That's what I am. Inadequate to make anything of our time together. Inadequate to praise God. Inadequate to share His Word, His Love. Inadequate to serve you. Inadequate.
I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe because I realize my need for accountability, and you're the people close to me, with whom I'd love to be vulnerable. Maybe because I want you to know that under whatever facade I may put on, I want you to know that I'm broken, hurting, in desperate need to know more of God. And inadequate. Inadequate to thank you for coming and blessing my life more than words can say.
to john
John--is that even your name? I have a hard time remembering.
Where do you get your passion, John? Where do you get your questions? You were elated to have us pray with you. You were so excited you took over and praised God Almighty with your own lips. Then you asked us, "What do you know about God?" and "What do you know about God?" and "What do you know about God?"
What do I know? I said I knew that God is always there for us.
Would I know that if I lived where you live? Would I be as excited as you were to pray with strangers, strangers dressed in good clothes, strangers whose faces glow with health and life, strangers driving nice vehicles, strangers who have plenty to give away and only offer one bag full of food we'd never eat ourselves, full of food we didn't pay for?
Dear John, where do you get your passion?
Where do you get your passion, John? Where do you get your questions? You were elated to have us pray with you. You were so excited you took over and praised God Almighty with your own lips. Then you asked us, "What do you know about God?" and "What do you know about God?" and "What do you know about God?"
What do I know? I said I knew that God is always there for us.
Would I know that if I lived where you live? Would I be as excited as you were to pray with strangers, strangers dressed in good clothes, strangers whose faces glow with health and life, strangers driving nice vehicles, strangers who have plenty to give away and only offer one bag full of food we'd never eat ourselves, full of food we didn't pay for?
Dear John, where do you get your passion?
to charles
Charles, I know I did most of the listening. I had things I wanted to say, but I didn't have the words to say them. Sorry.
You said you hate it under that bridge so you sleep in your truck. I wanted to tell you how God cares so much more for you than those birds hopping around on the ground beside us. I wanted to tell you how my God says if we have food and clothes, we're supposed to be content with that. But then I wondered how much food you get. And I realized how much stuff I have, and how uncontented I am with it. So I figured I shouldn't be the one preaching.
You said you took an entire year out of your life and read the Bible. Now, you don't read it, but it's in your heart. You showed me pictures of your ex-wife and kids. You showed me a picture of the woman you just left. I didn't see the pictures of the other two. I wonder what your parents taught you about that. I wonder what you thought when you read the story about the woman at the well. You showed me a picture of your boy in prison garb. He's out now; hopefully he doesn't have a gun.
You shared your life. You shared your thoughts. You said faith is most important, and faith without works is dead. You talked and I listened. You shared, even though we were the ones who barged in on your life.
I'd never think of doing the things you've done.
But you taught me something. You reminded me of the place in the Bible that says, "to whom much is given, much will be required." And I wonder... for all that I've been given, am I a better servant than you? My life has been saturated with opportunities to read, and sing, and be taught by my family. And you? You find joy in "Amazing Grace." You know that faith without works is dead. For the scrap of exposure to Christ that you've been given, I can't help but realize... you are. You're a better servant than I am.
You said you hate it under that bridge so you sleep in your truck. I wanted to tell you how God cares so much more for you than those birds hopping around on the ground beside us. I wanted to tell you how my God says if we have food and clothes, we're supposed to be content with that. But then I wondered how much food you get. And I realized how much stuff I have, and how uncontented I am with it. So I figured I shouldn't be the one preaching.
You said you took an entire year out of your life and read the Bible. Now, you don't read it, but it's in your heart. You showed me pictures of your ex-wife and kids. You showed me a picture of the woman you just left. I didn't see the pictures of the other two. I wonder what your parents taught you about that. I wonder what you thought when you read the story about the woman at the well. You showed me a picture of your boy in prison garb. He's out now; hopefully he doesn't have a gun.
You shared your life. You shared your thoughts. You said faith is most important, and faith without works is dead. You talked and I listened. You shared, even though we were the ones who barged in on your life.
I'd never think of doing the things you've done.
But you taught me something. You reminded me of the place in the Bible that says, "to whom much is given, much will be required." And I wonder... for all that I've been given, am I a better servant than you? My life has been saturated with opportunities to read, and sing, and be taught by my family. And you? You find joy in "Amazing Grace." You know that faith without works is dead. For the scrap of exposure to Christ that you've been given, I can't help but realize... you are. You're a better servant than I am.
to gina
Gina, you've lived there for seven years. Seven, while I've graduated high school, college, gotten married, and built a place of my own. What dreams fill your life? What empassions you? Your only prayer is for safety; mine is for job stability, fellowship, comfort, children, and a feeling of settledness. What a wretch I am. I couldn't feel the squeeze of your hands while we prayed with you. I couldn't feel your body tremble with the tears that filled your eyes. But as you turned away with your bag, your meager food provisions, and your prayer, I knew I wanted to see you again. I wanted to cry with you and hug you. I wanted to talk to you about Jesus. I wanted to be your friend. Can I come over again some other time?
2/2/05
the sloth
written on 06.june.2003:
He catches you, then binds you up with harsh, prickly rope, pulling so tightly that your blood pauses in its circulation. You sweat beneath the bonds. That furry sloth calls himself your blanket. “I’m keeping you warm!” he insists. “You’re cold, overworked, and you deserve me!” You believe him, for a few minutes, until he swallows you up in murmurings of deceit. Oh, that cold deceit!
He takes your mind, wrapping it up in fluffy webs, wisps of dreams. They come in, clouding, fogging, until your mentality is crushed, powdered, diluted, utterly gone. Your will, your energy – that little scrap left – like the food of a beggar has been snatched away. And you are so weak you hardly notice. Was that a small gust of wind just rushing over your fingertips that held onto that last scrap of bread, that last slice of liveliness? Oh, yes. A small gust of wind. Small and sinister and black and cruel and scorching and monstrously ugly. But you don’t notice. You sit down, and the breeze blowing across appeases your hunger for life. You’re sitting there, oh-so-comfortable, though the crick in your neck will only get worse and worse because the pillow your head is resting on is filled with gravel in the shape of feathers.
The consciousness is gone! The tired eyes -- gone! You sink into the stupidity of nothingness. You didn’t have a choice, though, really. It snuck up on you. You had plans – other plans – plans of life and hope and a future. But there was that little furry sloth that talked so smoothly to you, bound your feet in fetters when you weren’t paying attention. But you didn’t have a choice! He wanted to visit with you, after all. And you couldn’t be rude, of course. Even a sloth deserves a little sympathy. Just one more day of sympathy. Just one more visit with the poor little guy. Yes, he steals your bread. Yes, he takes up your time. Yes, he lies. But tomorrow you’ll warn him. Tomorrow you’ll tell him that you have things you must be about doing. But today, today he just wouldn’t understand. Tomorrow he would. After all, he’s a sensible guy. You can tell it, deep down, that he’s sensible, even though you’ve never seen it when you look into his eyes. But his voice! He TELLS you he’s sensible! And to not believe him… that would just be utterly unfair.
You like to be fair. You like to have compassion. And that sloth, he’s that perfect candidate, poor guy. Not always. You have a life to live. Tomorrow you’ll tell him no. Maybe he won’t be around tomorrow. Maybe he’ll find someone else to chat with. Maybe he’ll find another hand from which to beg his bread. You hope.
But if he comes, if he knocks at your door, if he begs your hand, only to pull you into his death clutches, you’ll submit, won’t you? Because you know the wonderful result of having compassion on him. They’re restfulness, and joy, and an I-feel-good-because-I-helped-out-a-poor-little-… no? Those aren’t the results? But I thought you said…
You say there are different results? You say you feel physically drained? You say the future gets cloudy? You say that the sloth doesn’t appreciate your kindness? He keeps begging? Begging more? But that’s not even fair! You’ve been so compassionate! So kind! And he STILL wants more of your time? More of your bread? Without paying you any favors? What… he said he was going to pay you in gold? He said he was going to pay you in joy? In restfulness? And he filled your pockets full of rocks? What a scoundrel! How could he be so cruel? Well, you surely won’t listen to his lies tomorrow. I know you. You’re bright. You won’t fall for his tricks again.
Will you?
He catches you, then binds you up with harsh, prickly rope, pulling so tightly that your blood pauses in its circulation. You sweat beneath the bonds. That furry sloth calls himself your blanket. “I’m keeping you warm!” he insists. “You’re cold, overworked, and you deserve me!” You believe him, for a few minutes, until he swallows you up in murmurings of deceit. Oh, that cold deceit!
He takes your mind, wrapping it up in fluffy webs, wisps of dreams. They come in, clouding, fogging, until your mentality is crushed, powdered, diluted, utterly gone. Your will, your energy – that little scrap left – like the food of a beggar has been snatched away. And you are so weak you hardly notice. Was that a small gust of wind just rushing over your fingertips that held onto that last scrap of bread, that last slice of liveliness? Oh, yes. A small gust of wind. Small and sinister and black and cruel and scorching and monstrously ugly. But you don’t notice. You sit down, and the breeze blowing across appeases your hunger for life. You’re sitting there, oh-so-comfortable, though the crick in your neck will only get worse and worse because the pillow your head is resting on is filled with gravel in the shape of feathers.
The consciousness is gone! The tired eyes -- gone! You sink into the stupidity of nothingness. You didn’t have a choice, though, really. It snuck up on you. You had plans – other plans – plans of life and hope and a future. But there was that little furry sloth that talked so smoothly to you, bound your feet in fetters when you weren’t paying attention. But you didn’t have a choice! He wanted to visit with you, after all. And you couldn’t be rude, of course. Even a sloth deserves a little sympathy. Just one more day of sympathy. Just one more visit with the poor little guy. Yes, he steals your bread. Yes, he takes up your time. Yes, he lies. But tomorrow you’ll warn him. Tomorrow you’ll tell him that you have things you must be about doing. But today, today he just wouldn’t understand. Tomorrow he would. After all, he’s a sensible guy. You can tell it, deep down, that he’s sensible, even though you’ve never seen it when you look into his eyes. But his voice! He TELLS you he’s sensible! And to not believe him… that would just be utterly unfair.
You like to be fair. You like to have compassion. And that sloth, he’s that perfect candidate, poor guy. Not always. You have a life to live. Tomorrow you’ll tell him no. Maybe he won’t be around tomorrow. Maybe he’ll find someone else to chat with. Maybe he’ll find another hand from which to beg his bread. You hope.
But if he comes, if he knocks at your door, if he begs your hand, only to pull you into his death clutches, you’ll submit, won’t you? Because you know the wonderful result of having compassion on him. They’re restfulness, and joy, and an I-feel-good-because-I-helped-out-a-poor-little-… no? Those aren’t the results? But I thought you said…
You say there are different results? You say you feel physically drained? You say the future gets cloudy? You say that the sloth doesn’t appreciate your kindness? He keeps begging? Begging more? But that’s not even fair! You’ve been so compassionate! So kind! And he STILL wants more of your time? More of your bread? Without paying you any favors? What… he said he was going to pay you in gold? He said he was going to pay you in joy? In restfulness? And he filled your pockets full of rocks? What a scoundrel! How could he be so cruel? Well, you surely won’t listen to his lies tomorrow. I know you. You’re bright. You won’t fall for his tricks again.
Will you?
2/1/05
lonely
Do you know what it's like to be lonely? Do you feel the detachment of it?
Or, at the same time, have you ever wanted to break free, but you have to cling to the only warm bodies you have around you? If you don't, you might freeze. Or starve. Or fall.
I know a man who knew loneliness. Oh, he did. And I never saw him cling to friendships, though he had a few. He clung to his daddy. Oh, people thought he wasn't a man for it. They called him a blasphemer and a fraud. They said he should stand up and do what everybody else was doing -- look like them, say things a certain way, do this and that. But he really just wanted to be free. So, in spite of the ridicule, he did. He broke free. They killed him.
Oh, I wonder what they'd say. Do you suppose they'd kill me too?
Or, at the same time, have you ever wanted to break free, but you have to cling to the only warm bodies you have around you? If you don't, you might freeze. Or starve. Or fall.
I know a man who knew loneliness. Oh, he did. And I never saw him cling to friendships, though he had a few. He clung to his daddy. Oh, people thought he wasn't a man for it. They called him a blasphemer and a fraud. They said he should stand up and do what everybody else was doing -- look like them, say things a certain way, do this and that. But he really just wanted to be free. So, in spite of the ridicule, he did. He broke free. They killed him.
Oh, I wonder what they'd say. Do you suppose they'd kill me too?
insignificant?
When people ask if I've been writing much lately, I always tell them about my blog. My writing career... all condensed into little paragraph-sized blurbs.
Does this count as writing? Sometimes I wonder, especially when so many people have a blog. It makes me feel fairly insignificant. Have you ever pressed the "Next Blog>>" button on the top of my page? That's when you start to get a sense of how many are out there. Why are you on my page right now anyway? You must think I have something to say.
Doesn't it matter that I have hundreds of pages of fiction sitting idly in my computer(s)? Doesn't that say something about my qualifications?
Why, no, of course no one's reading it, but it's still there. Doesn't that count for anything? You know, maybe it'll be like Emily Dickinson's stuff, not worth anything till I'm dead. And then some family member will pull it out and say, "Oh, my, look at all she had to say."
Not much.
She had lots of ideas but none of them came out clearly enough for anyone to understand. Too bad. It all has to be thrown away.
Wasted her time, poor girl.
Unless... I can get it out there now. Then I can waste yours.
Does this count as writing? Sometimes I wonder, especially when so many people have a blog. It makes me feel fairly insignificant. Have you ever pressed the "Next Blog>>" button on the top of my page? That's when you start to get a sense of how many are out there. Why are you on my page right now anyway? You must think I have something to say.
Doesn't it matter that I have hundreds of pages of fiction sitting idly in my computer(s)? Doesn't that say something about my qualifications?
Why, no, of course no one's reading it, but it's still there. Doesn't that count for anything? You know, maybe it'll be like Emily Dickinson's stuff, not worth anything till I'm dead. And then some family member will pull it out and say, "Oh, my, look at all she had to say."
Not much.
She had lots of ideas but none of them came out clearly enough for anyone to understand. Too bad. It all has to be thrown away.
Wasted her time, poor girl.
Unless... I can get it out there now. Then I can waste yours.
1/25/05
best books I read last year
I keep an exhaustive list of all the books I read. Although I'm almost a month late, here are my top picks for 2004:
The Marriage of Meggotta by Edith Pargeter-
I read this beautifully written novel for a History of England course. It was amazing -- one of the best romance stories I've ever read (and I'd recommend it to men or women!). It's completely historically based, and says much about life and marriage in the medieval English aristocracy. Some of the purely political passages lost me a bit, if I remember right, but the main story line more than makes up for it.
The Modern Library Writer's Workshop by Stephen Koch-
This is an exposition on how to write fiction. It reads more like a story than a how-to manual. It made me want to sit down and write!
Mrs. Mike by Benedict and Nancy Freedman-
My sister recommended this book to me, and I'll pass that recommendation on to you. This novel is, like Pargeter's book, based on a true story. It features a 16-year-old Boston girl who marries a Canadian mounted policeman and moves with him to the Canadian wilderness. After extreme hardship, she must choose whether she wants to return to her "civilized" home in Boston or remain with the pain, and love, she's found in barren Canada.
Desiring God by John Piper-
Okay, wow. Even though it took me months to chug through this book, I'm so thankful I never stopped reading it. Piper argues that the purpose of man is to glorify God by enjoying him forever. He's got me convinced. A must-read.
Scribbling in the Sand by Michael Card-
This book would be just an average Christian inspirational book on art and creativity, if it weren't for the letters Card asks his theological friends to write in the latter part of the book. They were meaty, 2-3 page letters, and they convinced me to add the book to this list.
A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle-
Although some of L'Engle's claims about God and Christianity sometimes make me raise my eyebrows, I thoroughly enjoyed this autobiographical traipse through bits and pieces of L'Engle's life. Written much like a journal, A Circle of Quiet convinced me that I really can make something of, say, this blog.
The Marriage of Meggotta by Edith Pargeter-
I read this beautifully written novel for a History of England course. It was amazing -- one of the best romance stories I've ever read (and I'd recommend it to men or women!). It's completely historically based, and says much about life and marriage in the medieval English aristocracy. Some of the purely political passages lost me a bit, if I remember right, but the main story line more than makes up for it.
The Modern Library Writer's Workshop by Stephen Koch-
This is an exposition on how to write fiction. It reads more like a story than a how-to manual. It made me want to sit down and write!
Mrs. Mike by Benedict and Nancy Freedman-
My sister recommended this book to me, and I'll pass that recommendation on to you. This novel is, like Pargeter's book, based on a true story. It features a 16-year-old Boston girl who marries a Canadian mounted policeman and moves with him to the Canadian wilderness. After extreme hardship, she must choose whether she wants to return to her "civilized" home in Boston or remain with the pain, and love, she's found in barren Canada.
Desiring God by John Piper-
Okay, wow. Even though it took me months to chug through this book, I'm so thankful I never stopped reading it. Piper argues that the purpose of man is to glorify God by enjoying him forever. He's got me convinced. A must-read.
Scribbling in the Sand by Michael Card-
This book would be just an average Christian inspirational book on art and creativity, if it weren't for the letters Card asks his theological friends to write in the latter part of the book. They were meaty, 2-3 page letters, and they convinced me to add the book to this list.
A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle-
Although some of L'Engle's claims about God and Christianity sometimes make me raise my eyebrows, I thoroughly enjoyed this autobiographical traipse through bits and pieces of L'Engle's life. Written much like a journal, A Circle of Quiet convinced me that I really can make something of, say, this blog.
1/10/05
dear God,
You're trying so hard to get in me. How long have You been trying to do this, and I've just been content with being a shimmery piece of glitter, looking so good -- so good! -- on the outside, but too scared to get vulnerable and let Your love shine THROUGH me, fill every part of my being.
I'm SICK of being a hypocrite! I just want everything to be real. You said, "let love be without dissimulation." Without hypocrisy. Let it be real. Genuine. I've wanted to help others, but it's been all about me looking good, doing the right thing.
What if I disappeared?
Then it would be just YOU, getting the glory!
Oh, I want that!
-------------
http://www.biblicalpreaching.info/sermons.php?preacher_search=2&customquery=search
Scroll down to and click on "Let Love be Genuine." Listen in Quicktime format.
I'm SICK of being a hypocrite! I just want everything to be real. You said, "let love be without dissimulation." Without hypocrisy. Let it be real. Genuine. I've wanted to help others, but it's been all about me looking good, doing the right thing.
What if I disappeared?
Then it would be just YOU, getting the glory!
Oh, I want that!
-------------
http://www.biblicalpreaching.info/sermons.php?preacher_search=2&customquery=search
Scroll down to and click on "Let Love be Genuine." Listen in Quicktime format.
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