Would God leave me wondering in the anguish of my last blog without bringing forward the beginnings of His answer?
Apparently not-- although that answer does not follow the same fashion currently popular: the terse text message. His "ways" produce an answer that is a blend of the natural and the fantastic, the practcial and the poetically scriptural.
When we returned home from camping, I found one of my squash plants utterly wilted. I began immediately to research the problem. There were some signs that bugs were beginning to infest the plant, but the primary diagnosis was mildew. The plants had grown so prolifically (and I had failed to prune them, I must remember that lesson) that air did not circulate well under those broad leaves and the rains that finally came turned the plant's ground level to mildew. So I followed the advice of my plant-doctor text: spray it with a mix of baking soda (essentially salt: the purifier) and water and watch to see what happens. After pulling out the worst of the wilted and mildewed stalks, I waited to see if blooms would reappear. This morning, it looks as though they might.
That's the natural event that melted into a gardening vision I had last night. In that almost-dream state, right before sleep when I do my last prayers of the day, I "saw" something that looked like a grasshopper, only it had a green human head with a tiny crown on it. It was feeding on what my heart told me was my "inheritance" from God. As I looked at it, it looked up from feeding on the shambles of my crop like it felt a change in the wind. That prompted a more figurative direction to my prayer. The last thing I prayed before sleeping was to turn to that part of God's nature that causes Him to be described as Wind. I asked that He blow these heartless feeders to another "field." Still, I slept fitfully, as I can hardly avoid the stresses of knowing my "field" will not sustain me with what's left in it. Something supernatural must indeed happen or we will "lose the field."
This morning, when I got up and got my coffee, I peeked out the window and saw--there in the early morning light--the first few brave yellow blossoms reappearing on the squash plant. OK, I thought. I'll give the plant another day before yanking it. I'll keep watching. Then I sat down to my morning Bible reading. This was the passage I found where my Bible fell open, followed by another passage: the Psalm that happened to be the one in my reading progression for today.
Lord, You do have a way of making Your point! Thanks for the petitioning prayers of Solomon--his legacy prayer that reached pointedly even to my own need so many generations later than when he prayed it; and thanks for the faithful and confident, hopeful and appreciative prayers of his father David. Thanks, for when I can not find the words for myself, I can borrow theirs!
28 “When famine or plague comes to the land, or blight or mildew, locusts or grasshoppers, or when enemies besiege them in any of their cities, whatever disaster or disease may come, 29 and when a prayer or plea is made by any of your people Israel—each one aware of his afflictions and pains, and spreading out his hands toward this temple— 30 then hear from heaven, your dwelling place. Forgive, and deal with each man according to all he does, since you know his heart (for you alone know the hearts of men), 31 so that they will fear you and walk in your ways all the time they live in the land you gave our fathers. 2Chronicles 6
5 O Lord, You are the portion of my inheritance and my cup;
You maintain my lot.
6 The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
7 I will bless the Lord who has given me counsel;
My heart also instructs me in the night seasons.
8 I have set the Lord always before me;
Because He is at my right hand I shall not be moved.
9 Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices;
My flesh also will rest in hope.
10 For You will not leave my soul in Sheol,
Nor will You allow Your Holy One to see corruption.
11 You will show me the path of life;
In Your presence is fullness of joy;
At Your right hand are pleasures forevermore. Psalm 16
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
What Constitutes a Geriatric Daydream?
A random question? Right now for me, it isn't. It's everything. The question that seems ready to blow like a geyser of the mind: am I too old to think dreams come true (even short-term ones) for me? Too old to anticipate good things, too old to activate that remnant of childlike wonder and excitement that was once so vital to my heart? Will the disappointment be too profound when real life fails to measure up? Here is my meaning: As a child, I joyfully anticipated holidays. I'd lay under the newly trimmed tree, looking up through her branches, expectant of the glories coming on Christmas morning. I'd thrill at what was soon to come: the smell of the cookies baking, the gifts appearing, the music playing. And Christmas would come through in all its glory.
But now, if I look forward to the traditional cooking of the Thanksgiving dinner, stomach flu hits my faithful diners. If I look forward to family time spent making cookies or sharing things like gift-wrapping, carolling, hot chocolate and candles, well there is either no money to buy even the most meager supplies or if there is money, then time is lacking. Strangely, if I don't allow myself to anticipate anything festive, festive things might very well happen; but only by random luck, and not as the climax of days spent in wonder and expectation. So, have I locked too many wonderful things from days past all up into one bloated dream? Is that my problem?
Quite recently my family had one of these "flops" in a category not reminiscent of childhood for me, and thus not glutted with happy nostalgia. Camping is a cultural phenomenon that I've only recently joined, so it would make a good litmus test of my tendency to overblow as I don't have enough background with camping to have false-memory expectations. And we as a family all enjoy the activity. So this summer, we planned a camping trip. My kids looked forward to it, I looked forward to it--for weeks we couldn't wait for the day to come when we would load up the van and take off for the woods. We daydreamed from our sparsely scattered former trips: nights making s'mores around a camp fire; days spent lazily on a beach, me reading a book in the warm sunshine, listening to the waves lap at a lake shore where the kids built sand castles and paddled in the water. Lovely walks along the wooded shores in the evening. Photo ops as the children pick wildflowers.
But because we expected these...
We found that even though this whole summer has been plagued with drought in our territory-- touted to be the worst drought in 40 years; nevertheless, the only three days of nearly continuous rain fell during our camping trip. Our campsite was swampy at best, a mud pit more typically.
The fire: a choking pit of damp-smelling smoke.
Wildflower-picking while traipsing the woods: this year is the worst yet for poison ivy, so keep the kids out of the brush, say authorities.
Time at the beach: on a good outing we'd glean 45 minutes of lightening-free swim time. The water chilly, the sand heavy and dark. As for the "grassy" parts near the shower house, these were scrub grass littered heavily with goose poop. Briefly I waded into the waters with the children, but lake water just doesn't feel the same when you approach it from a physical state of uncomfortable dampness; no, not as lovely as say a cooling drench applied to hot, sun-baked skin. Still, I made that effort to cavort with the children, but ended up hollering at them because they were whining and fighting. Gone were the last of my idyllic pictures of nurturing good humor in the family despite the hardships of this trip. I gave up and--while walking back toward my towel--heard some stray child mutter, "I'm glad she's not my mom." (I almost turned and snapped at him, "I'll just bet you are!" But I restrained myself.)
I spread my damp towel on the hard ground and sat down. I tried escapism--reading my book I figured was a safe past time. But then looking up, I saw flocks of water fowl swooping over me. Another nearby child pointed just above my head, "Look that one has a fish in its mouth!" Naturally, I had visions of fish guts spilling out all over me. I'd learned to expect such things, to fit the flavor of the trip. Thankfully no fish guts fell. Still, even as I was breathing a sigh of relief over that respite from bad luck, the same child said, "Here seagull, seagull, seagull, have some chips..." and he threw a handful of soggy potato chips right at me, causing the squawking birds to flock all around.
I sighed, it just wasn't like this when we camped here before, I reminisced mournfully. It was then that I began to find my question about unrealistic dreams beginning to take shape even as I shuffled the boys back to the tent (just in time to duck under cover as the next deluge hit.) I dozed on a soggy sleeping bag while they fought over which one was cheating the most at a game of checkers.
The worst trouble, however, hit the night that it didn't rain; for that was the night the raccoons and foxes decided to invade our camp. First, I heard what I swore was a cougar growling on my very picnic table, this at about 2:30 in the morning. Shining a flashlight out the tent flap, I caught a glimpse of glowing eyes, then a red hide and tail swooped off the table and disappeared in the dark. Maybe a fox after all. Strangely, a few days prior, I'd had a dream of animal eyes gleaming in the dark. I'd very picturesquely (at that time) attributed the "vision" to being a reassurance sent down from above, a sign that all was well, as I continued to grow into a spiritual being so closely aligned to my Lord of Light that I'd become all but invisible to the creatures of the dark...another thing I'd once dreamed. Foolish romantic, me! What was I thinking--staging my dream so figuratively complimentary. Ha! I should have recognized that premonition as one of those I'm given sometimes for a warning before a time of personal horror. (Granted, this too is a sign of compassion from a higher power, but no one really looks forward to that type of compassion because of where it points.) Yes, it was hard to appreciate that dream for its true benefits, because a second attack hit our camp that night, finally prompting me to give up on sleep. I climbed out of the tent, rebuilt the fire, collected a pile of stones, made some campfire coffee and sat there in my chair defending my small swatch of turf. After all, my children had to eat over the next two days, and those raccoons had learned to open our cooler! How strange and surreal it was, those hours from 3 - 6 am, feeding the fire, smelling--even when I couldn't see them--the raccoons whenever they grew bold in their approach, shining my flashlight into their troops of eyes--often 8-10 creatures came at a time--chucking rocks at them and yelling to drive them away again. Finally, I threw my last rock as the morning light made that last critter visible, a shadowy figure running across the dimness of the edge of my campsite. Later, while buying more wood at the bait shop, (replacing what I burned in the all-night vigil) I stood swaying, bleary-eyed while the shopkeeper talked on about how the raccoon population has exploded this year and how the dept. of natural resources was even setting traps to catch them. I grunted, heading wearily back to the campsite, where it was once was more beginning to rain. At that point I was too tired to do any more of the reflecting I'd done in the adrenalin-rushed wakefulness of the long hours in the dark, when I looked at the firelight flicker on the trees and listened to the animals rustling the perimeter brush.
There in the dark, I'd longed for my husband, but he couldn't take the time off work to spend those camping nights with us, (nor could his back have endured a night of camping followed by a day of work. But he joined us for the weekend.)
There in the dark, I'd considered life. I'd wondered at the strange balance: if it rains all night, and turns the low end of the tent into a small interior pond and the picnic canopy into the "waters of the firmament above" that once were dumped on Noah, if these are our circumstance, then the animals leave us alone. But come a decent clearing coupled with a relatively empty campground, and our holdings were at the mercy of nocturnal scavengers. The next night, however, was the start of the weekend, and so the campground was glutted well before dusk, going from a state of two distantly-placed tents to a small kingdom where every slip was filled with classic fishing-community campers. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a landscape formed where men still put out strong-smelling cigars on the bottoms of their boots, where women "fixed their hair" not for beauty's sake, but simply so they didn't go up in flames as they cooked over the fires, and where old-fashioned sweat pants and huarache sandals made a styling combination everywhere. That night, people left food out all over the place, but not an animal came in sight, well except maybe a few all-too-human ones.
Recently, I read an article about de-stressing life, and it recommended "developing the art of selective perfectionism." Only require 20% perfection of yourself, and realize that 80% of life's tasks can get by with a "just good enough" attitude. But does the 20/80% rule apply to the expectations surrounding current and/or future circumstances? 80% of the time, learn to settle for "just good enough?" And sadly, lately, even that percentage is running high as even the weather seems to mock our joie de vivre--and even in that 20% guaranteed window. Ha!
So what did I do? I held it together. But when we returned home, I cried like a baby while I lay in a hot bath, nursing bites from mosquitoes who had found their way to places only my husband is allowed to visit. Shameless creatures. Why, God? I had to ask. Was it true--that spiritual premonition of the scavenger eyes--was the dream indeed given as a spiritual sign, but one that said that I need to take adversity with a grain of salt, realizing that adversity might be the very source of protection I needed from something even more unpleasant: predators. Was I not recognizing the gift adverse circumstances offer, for these hard times just might hold at bay things and creatures whose own love of personal comfort shielded my life from their thievery. What's more, was this trip a sign that I need to guard against isolating myself too much, even though in some ways I feel myself growing more and more like the people I once called strange? I slept well when the creatures of the night felt outnumbered. Much less work for me. What am I to do with that knowledge?
Aside from these nuggets of wisdom gleaned from this most-unpleasant-camping-trip-of-my-life--I refuse to write it off as a total loss, since everything at its barest minimum is a learning experience, right?--still, I find that deep aching question remains unanswered, and as I consider what comes next in my life, as my physical and mental capacities change, as I consider what to do as my livelihood transitions, as my calling seems to press toward things impossible, as dreams cry out to die peacefully: dare I look forward yet again, to believe change can be potentially positive? Dare I dream of things beautiful and peaceful and restful ever happening (for me) in the future? Times past, I always answered that nagging question with: "Give it time--" But what about when time doesn't bring the promised change of season? What does that mean? Years roll by and nothing improves, in fact it gets worse. What does that mean? Who is the failure? Anyone? And, dare I hope even yet, to find that place, that sweet spot where I long to be, before I die? Even more precariously, dare I cling to the expectation that death itself can even offer its promised relief? Some say it is easier for someone who has nothing to believe in after-life bounty; but my experience has been that times of earthly bounty actually make it easier to believe in well-stocked heavenly barns. Such is the norm of this life, why not believe in the expansion of the same in the next? No, it is the extended lean times that make one think: if ever empty now, then what assurance of fullness anyplace?
And so I find the gleaming eyes of the attacker of my soul--it is this that is the dark-night predator I face, the one who is after my un-touchable stores even now, here safe again at home. Despite these many signs of crisis, so many that even my prayer partners shake their heads and ask what we need to pray about this week, to my embarrassment--nevertheless, I must decide what I will believe. Do I believe I have that heavenly mansion even as I saw it in another dream: something like a white house nestled on a hill in front of a larger, evergreen-swathed hill. A place where a gazebo with a swing waited for me; where a book, a picture hat and a pair of soft moccasins waited for me. Where a beautiful view of a valley gleaming in the deepening sunlight, waited for me. Now--do I believe the dream is my portion when I leave this place I call life and go to that place that really is life?
But now, if I look forward to the traditional cooking of the Thanksgiving dinner, stomach flu hits my faithful diners. If I look forward to family time spent making cookies or sharing things like gift-wrapping, carolling, hot chocolate and candles, well there is either no money to buy even the most meager supplies or if there is money, then time is lacking. Strangely, if I don't allow myself to anticipate anything festive, festive things might very well happen; but only by random luck, and not as the climax of days spent in wonder and expectation. So, have I locked too many wonderful things from days past all up into one bloated dream? Is that my problem?
Quite recently my family had one of these "flops" in a category not reminiscent of childhood for me, and thus not glutted with happy nostalgia. Camping is a cultural phenomenon that I've only recently joined, so it would make a good litmus test of my tendency to overblow as I don't have enough background with camping to have false-memory expectations. And we as a family all enjoy the activity. So this summer, we planned a camping trip. My kids looked forward to it, I looked forward to it--for weeks we couldn't wait for the day to come when we would load up the van and take off for the woods. We daydreamed from our sparsely scattered former trips: nights making s'mores around a camp fire; days spent lazily on a beach, me reading a book in the warm sunshine, listening to the waves lap at a lake shore where the kids built sand castles and paddled in the water. Lovely walks along the wooded shores in the evening. Photo ops as the children pick wildflowers.
But because we expected these...
We found that even though this whole summer has been plagued with drought in our territory-- touted to be the worst drought in 40 years; nevertheless, the only three days of nearly continuous rain fell during our camping trip. Our campsite was swampy at best, a mud pit more typically.
The fire: a choking pit of damp-smelling smoke.
Wildflower-picking while traipsing the woods: this year is the worst yet for poison ivy, so keep the kids out of the brush, say authorities.
Time at the beach: on a good outing we'd glean 45 minutes of lightening-free swim time. The water chilly, the sand heavy and dark. As for the "grassy" parts near the shower house, these were scrub grass littered heavily with goose poop. Briefly I waded into the waters with the children, but lake water just doesn't feel the same when you approach it from a physical state of uncomfortable dampness; no, not as lovely as say a cooling drench applied to hot, sun-baked skin. Still, I made that effort to cavort with the children, but ended up hollering at them because they were whining and fighting. Gone were the last of my idyllic pictures of nurturing good humor in the family despite the hardships of this trip. I gave up and--while walking back toward my towel--heard some stray child mutter, "I'm glad she's not my mom." (I almost turned and snapped at him, "I'll just bet you are!" But I restrained myself.)
I spread my damp towel on the hard ground and sat down. I tried escapism--reading my book I figured was a safe past time. But then looking up, I saw flocks of water fowl swooping over me. Another nearby child pointed just above my head, "Look that one has a fish in its mouth!" Naturally, I had visions of fish guts spilling out all over me. I'd learned to expect such things, to fit the flavor of the trip. Thankfully no fish guts fell. Still, even as I was breathing a sigh of relief over that respite from bad luck, the same child said, "Here seagull, seagull, seagull, have some chips..." and he threw a handful of soggy potato chips right at me, causing the squawking birds to flock all around.
I sighed, it just wasn't like this when we camped here before, I reminisced mournfully. It was then that I began to find my question about unrealistic dreams beginning to take shape even as I shuffled the boys back to the tent (just in time to duck under cover as the next deluge hit.) I dozed on a soggy sleeping bag while they fought over which one was cheating the most at a game of checkers.
The worst trouble, however, hit the night that it didn't rain; for that was the night the raccoons and foxes decided to invade our camp. First, I heard what I swore was a cougar growling on my very picnic table, this at about 2:30 in the morning. Shining a flashlight out the tent flap, I caught a glimpse of glowing eyes, then a red hide and tail swooped off the table and disappeared in the dark. Maybe a fox after all. Strangely, a few days prior, I'd had a dream of animal eyes gleaming in the dark. I'd very picturesquely (at that time) attributed the "vision" to being a reassurance sent down from above, a sign that all was well, as I continued to grow into a spiritual being so closely aligned to my Lord of Light that I'd become all but invisible to the creatures of the dark...another thing I'd once dreamed. Foolish romantic, me! What was I thinking--staging my dream so figuratively complimentary. Ha! I should have recognized that premonition as one of those I'm given sometimes for a warning before a time of personal horror. (Granted, this too is a sign of compassion from a higher power, but no one really looks forward to that type of compassion because of where it points.) Yes, it was hard to appreciate that dream for its true benefits, because a second attack hit our camp that night, finally prompting me to give up on sleep. I climbed out of the tent, rebuilt the fire, collected a pile of stones, made some campfire coffee and sat there in my chair defending my small swatch of turf. After all, my children had to eat over the next two days, and those raccoons had learned to open our cooler! How strange and surreal it was, those hours from 3 - 6 am, feeding the fire, smelling--even when I couldn't see them--the raccoons whenever they grew bold in their approach, shining my flashlight into their troops of eyes--often 8-10 creatures came at a time--chucking rocks at them and yelling to drive them away again. Finally, I threw my last rock as the morning light made that last critter visible, a shadowy figure running across the dimness of the edge of my campsite. Later, while buying more wood at the bait shop, (replacing what I burned in the all-night vigil) I stood swaying, bleary-eyed while the shopkeeper talked on about how the raccoon population has exploded this year and how the dept. of natural resources was even setting traps to catch them. I grunted, heading wearily back to the campsite, where it was once was more beginning to rain. At that point I was too tired to do any more of the reflecting I'd done in the adrenalin-rushed wakefulness of the long hours in the dark, when I looked at the firelight flicker on the trees and listened to the animals rustling the perimeter brush.
There in the dark, I'd longed for my husband, but he couldn't take the time off work to spend those camping nights with us, (nor could his back have endured a night of camping followed by a day of work. But he joined us for the weekend.)
There in the dark, I'd considered life. I'd wondered at the strange balance: if it rains all night, and turns the low end of the tent into a small interior pond and the picnic canopy into the "waters of the firmament above" that once were dumped on Noah, if these are our circumstance, then the animals leave us alone. But come a decent clearing coupled with a relatively empty campground, and our holdings were at the mercy of nocturnal scavengers. The next night, however, was the start of the weekend, and so the campground was glutted well before dusk, going from a state of two distantly-placed tents to a small kingdom where every slip was filled with classic fishing-community campers. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a landscape formed where men still put out strong-smelling cigars on the bottoms of their boots, where women "fixed their hair" not for beauty's sake, but simply so they didn't go up in flames as they cooked over the fires, and where old-fashioned sweat pants and huarache sandals made a styling combination everywhere. That night, people left food out all over the place, but not an animal came in sight, well except maybe a few all-too-human ones.
Recently, I read an article about de-stressing life, and it recommended "developing the art of selective perfectionism." Only require 20% perfection of yourself, and realize that 80% of life's tasks can get by with a "just good enough" attitude. But does the 20/80% rule apply to the expectations surrounding current and/or future circumstances? 80% of the time, learn to settle for "just good enough?" And sadly, lately, even that percentage is running high as even the weather seems to mock our joie de vivre--and even in that 20% guaranteed window. Ha!
So what did I do? I held it together. But when we returned home, I cried like a baby while I lay in a hot bath, nursing bites from mosquitoes who had found their way to places only my husband is allowed to visit. Shameless creatures. Why, God? I had to ask. Was it true--that spiritual premonition of the scavenger eyes--was the dream indeed given as a spiritual sign, but one that said that I need to take adversity with a grain of salt, realizing that adversity might be the very source of protection I needed from something even more unpleasant: predators. Was I not recognizing the gift adverse circumstances offer, for these hard times just might hold at bay things and creatures whose own love of personal comfort shielded my life from their thievery. What's more, was this trip a sign that I need to guard against isolating myself too much, even though in some ways I feel myself growing more and more like the people I once called strange? I slept well when the creatures of the night felt outnumbered. Much less work for me. What am I to do with that knowledge?
Aside from these nuggets of wisdom gleaned from this most-unpleasant-camping-trip-of-my-life--I refuse to write it off as a total loss, since everything at its barest minimum is a learning experience, right?--still, I find that deep aching question remains unanswered, and as I consider what comes next in my life, as my physical and mental capacities change, as I consider what to do as my livelihood transitions, as my calling seems to press toward things impossible, as dreams cry out to die peacefully: dare I look forward yet again, to believe change can be potentially positive? Dare I dream of things beautiful and peaceful and restful ever happening (for me) in the future? Times past, I always answered that nagging question with: "Give it time--" But what about when time doesn't bring the promised change of season? What does that mean? Years roll by and nothing improves, in fact it gets worse. What does that mean? Who is the failure? Anyone? And, dare I hope even yet, to find that place, that sweet spot where I long to be, before I die? Even more precariously, dare I cling to the expectation that death itself can even offer its promised relief? Some say it is easier for someone who has nothing to believe in after-life bounty; but my experience has been that times of earthly bounty actually make it easier to believe in well-stocked heavenly barns. Such is the norm of this life, why not believe in the expansion of the same in the next? No, it is the extended lean times that make one think: if ever empty now, then what assurance of fullness anyplace?
And so I find the gleaming eyes of the attacker of my soul--it is this that is the dark-night predator I face, the one who is after my un-touchable stores even now, here safe again at home. Despite these many signs of crisis, so many that even my prayer partners shake their heads and ask what we need to pray about this week, to my embarrassment--nevertheless, I must decide what I will believe. Do I believe I have that heavenly mansion even as I saw it in another dream: something like a white house nestled on a hill in front of a larger, evergreen-swathed hill. A place where a gazebo with a swing waited for me; where a book, a picture hat and a pair of soft moccasins waited for me. Where a beautiful view of a valley gleaming in the deepening sunlight, waited for me. Now--do I believe the dream is my portion when I leave this place I call life and go to that place that really is life?
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Mantle (part 3)
So the cape became my world; and it sang to me a patchwork melody.
First, the patch of origin sang in solo.
I was the first;
before me
no one needed such a covering.
I looked upon Adam in his glory;
I ran alongside him crost garden vistas,
legs lost in those mists that rose from the earth.
I was the deer that pants beside still waters
in the days before he knew Eve,
in the days before they knew shame.
When the Master Designer took my life to cover that shame,
Adam ran his hands over my silky hide, even as it hung
from his own shoulders,
smoothed my hide and ceased to wonder
what this thing--death--must mean.
He felt no quiver of life, only supple sacrifice.
And he knew.
So though covered, he dredged the depths of this newer shame,
but shame with a purpose and a hope...
and the cape was begun.
A second patch sang out, a harmony of color...and of blood,
the swatch of a larger coat, fashioned to favor
one named Joseph,
(or "Jehovah has added"
ah, but added what?)
a swatch-song given to hide a hatred,
for this one was hated by his father's other sons.
"What is our future as long as you are around?" they reasoned.
"Surely with your light extinguished,
our father will cease to be dazzled
will see us again.
Bless us, too, Father!" they cry,
without considering the brackish waters
of their own baptisms.
Yes, a second patch sang out, a harmony of color...and of blood.
For years, the father ran his hand over the colors matted,
stiff with dried blood.
For years he thought the blood his son's.
But in truth, the blood of a kid, a drenching to hide the pride of the usurper.
But the lie does not prevail, nor the strength of the wicked.
The life that wore the cloak--not lost, but growing stronger,
arranging opportunity for redemptions to be offered,
and able to sustain in the day of need.
Then a third patch sang a strain of variation,
a phrase of diverse colors,
and ambition.
A greedy mother
of an evil warrior,
sitting at her window
pondering her son's exploits.
"Have they even now divided spoils?"
(She thinks surely yes.)
"Does he even now
bear the cloak of his prey,
diverse colors,
the envy of any would-be conqueror?"
She sits at home, at peace
and gleeful
there among her handmaidens.
Was that cloak-dream sufficient solace, Mother?
For your son fell in battle
as your counterpart, Deborah,
(a mother in Israel)
stood tall on Tel Megiddo,
singing her victory songs alongside the warriors.
One patch stitched for foolish self-will,
two more for pride and jealousy.
Though supple and beautiful,
how much they chafe the heart of flesh.
Sadly, one more in this cluster of color,
even here no rainbow-promise rides the colors.
No, they adorn an enemy lusting
and impatient for his gain.
Tamar, young and beautiful,
draped in the diverse colors
of the virgin daughter
of a favored king.
Why does she cook her brother meat?
A gift of service, a moment of trust, a voice of reason.
But in his heart, the dark glow of false need,
so a contrived arrangement
steals her chastity, throws her away.
She rent the cloak and dusted it with ash,
(love and compassion burned to hopelessness
make for a filmy cover.)
Such is her swatch's song.
Patches of pride stitched to patches of sacrifice.
What will be next?
A child's lullaby, this small patch sings hauntingly.
A woman longs for a son, many years.
A woman longs for a son, in the presence of so many
gloating mothers.
At last, her hope is realized.
But she has made a promise.
A covenant with God that will not be broken.
Young Samuel, her son, will live
and grow to manhood in the Lord's house,
not her own.
A cloak is carefully made, and made.
Hannah's own hands doing the artful work
As she sews, she prays,
(so many ways of constructing his covering.)
One small joy:
Every year she sees him, once.
Every year a new coat given,
and ever bigger is the labor of weaving, sewing--
more fabric needed,
more prayer, too,
prayer to fight that bitter clutch in her breast,
as his childhood flows away,
as her decision to give becomes more fossilized.
Sacrifice and resignation;
things done that can't be undone,
things good, but painful;
things misunderstood...
She lays awake at night, and wonders about his dreams,
(wishing she could comfort him in the dark)
She wonders if he will ever really understand
this strange covenant she made with God;
trusting God's wisdom, but
wishing it could have been different
anyway.
I drew a ragged breath at the song of that fuzzy little patch.
"No more for now," I cried out. "Little wonder this part is the lining. Who can bear to see, hear so much of it at one time!"
Then voices hushed, so that only one remained
--the voice of the Giver--
Who whispered through the opening, "Do not fear.
"But rest a while, and know
some patches sing songs glorious.
And you will hear them in the land of the living."
First, the patch of origin sang in solo.
I was the first;
before me
no one needed such a covering.
I looked upon Adam in his glory;
I ran alongside him crost garden vistas,
legs lost in those mists that rose from the earth.
I was the deer that pants beside still waters
in the days before he knew Eve,
in the days before they knew shame.
When the Master Designer took my life to cover that shame,
Adam ran his hands over my silky hide, even as it hung
from his own shoulders,
smoothed my hide and ceased to wonder
what this thing--death--must mean.
He felt no quiver of life, only supple sacrifice.
And he knew.
So though covered, he dredged the depths of this newer shame,
but shame with a purpose and a hope...
and the cape was begun.
A second patch sang out, a harmony of color...and of blood,
the swatch of a larger coat, fashioned to favor
one named Joseph,
(or "Jehovah has added"
ah, but added what?)
a swatch-song given to hide a hatred,
for this one was hated by his father's other sons.
"What is our future as long as you are around?" they reasoned.
"Surely with your light extinguished,
our father will cease to be dazzled
will see us again.
Bless us, too, Father!" they cry,
without considering the brackish waters
of their own baptisms.
Yes, a second patch sang out, a harmony of color...and of blood.
For years, the father ran his hand over the colors matted,
stiff with dried blood.
For years he thought the blood his son's.
But in truth, the blood of a kid, a drenching to hide the pride of the usurper.
But the lie does not prevail, nor the strength of the wicked.
The life that wore the cloak--not lost, but growing stronger,
arranging opportunity for redemptions to be offered,
and able to sustain in the day of need.
Then a third patch sang a strain of variation,
a phrase of diverse colors,
and ambition.
A greedy mother
of an evil warrior,
sitting at her window
pondering her son's exploits.
"Have they even now divided spoils?"
(She thinks surely yes.)
"Does he even now
bear the cloak of his prey,
diverse colors,
the envy of any would-be conqueror?"
She sits at home, at peace
and gleeful
there among her handmaidens.
Was that cloak-dream sufficient solace, Mother?
For your son fell in battle
as your counterpart, Deborah,
(a mother in Israel)
stood tall on Tel Megiddo,
singing her victory songs alongside the warriors.
One patch stitched for foolish self-will,
two more for pride and jealousy.
Though supple and beautiful,
how much they chafe the heart of flesh.
Sadly, one more in this cluster of color,
even here no rainbow-promise rides the colors.
No, they adorn an enemy lusting
and impatient for his gain.
Tamar, young and beautiful,
draped in the diverse colors
of the virgin daughter
of a favored king.
Why does she cook her brother meat?
A gift of service, a moment of trust, a voice of reason.
But in his heart, the dark glow of false need,
so a contrived arrangement
steals her chastity, throws her away.
She rent the cloak and dusted it with ash,
(love and compassion burned to hopelessness
make for a filmy cover.)
Such is her swatch's song.
Patches of pride stitched to patches of sacrifice.
What will be next?
A child's lullaby, this small patch sings hauntingly.
A woman longs for a son, many years.
A woman longs for a son, in the presence of so many
gloating mothers.
At last, her hope is realized.
But she has made a promise.
A covenant with God that will not be broken.
Young Samuel, her son, will live
and grow to manhood in the Lord's house,
not her own.
A cloak is carefully made, and made.
Hannah's own hands doing the artful work
As she sews, she prays,
(so many ways of constructing his covering.)
One small joy:
Every year she sees him, once.
Every year a new coat given,
and ever bigger is the labor of weaving, sewing--
more fabric needed,
more prayer, too,
prayer to fight that bitter clutch in her breast,
as his childhood flows away,
as her decision to give becomes more fossilized.
Sacrifice and resignation;
things done that can't be undone,
things good, but painful;
things misunderstood...
She lays awake at night, and wonders about his dreams,
(wishing she could comfort him in the dark)
She wonders if he will ever really understand
this strange covenant she made with God;
trusting God's wisdom, but
wishing it could have been different
anyway.
I drew a ragged breath at the song of that fuzzy little patch.
"No more for now," I cried out. "Little wonder this part is the lining. Who can bear to see, hear so much of it at one time!"
Then voices hushed, so that only one remained
--the voice of the Giver--
Who whispered through the opening, "Do not fear.
"But rest a while, and know
some patches sing songs glorious.
And you will hear them in the land of the living."
Covenant
Isaiah saw, in one of his visions, a very strange covenant. Incomprehensible--until you meet this woman described by Dr. Kingsley Fletcher in his book, The Power of Covenant. But years before Kingsley's encounter with a prostitute, Isaiah saw visions of days of collapsing economies and political unrest, of power imbalances and enfeebled compassion. In those days, Isaiah said, comes this prostitute, singing and dancing:
Isa 23:15
And it shall come to pass in that day, that Tyre shall be forgotten seventy years, according to the days of one king: after the end of seventy years shall Tyre sing as an harlot.
Isa 23:16
Take an harp, go about the city, thou harlot that hast been forgotten; make sweet melody, sing many songs, that thou mayest be remembered.
Isa 23:17
And it shall come to pass after the end of seventy years, that the LORD will visit Tyre, and she shall turn to her hire, and shall commit fornication with all the kingdoms of the world upon the face of the earth.
Isa 23:18
And her merchandise and her hire shall be holiness to the LORD: it shall not be treasured nor laid up; for her merchandise shall be for them that dwell before the LORD, to eat sufficiently, and for durable clothing.
Today I read of one woman who walked on this vision's thread of truth, making its inscrutability scrutable. What's more, that foreseen wine of life divinely poured into her crucible for the blessing of many peoples, her merchandise for the Lord, was also distributed--even after her death.
Isa 23:15
And it shall come to pass in that day, that Tyre shall be forgotten seventy years, according to the days of one king: after the end of seventy years shall Tyre sing as an harlot.
Isa 23:16
Take an harp, go about the city, thou harlot that hast been forgotten; make sweet melody, sing many songs, that thou mayest be remembered.
Isa 23:17
And it shall come to pass after the end of seventy years, that the LORD will visit Tyre, and she shall turn to her hire, and shall commit fornication with all the kingdoms of the world upon the face of the earth.
Isa 23:18
And her merchandise and her hire shall be holiness to the LORD: it shall not be treasured nor laid up; for her merchandise shall be for them that dwell before the LORD, to eat sufficiently, and for durable clothing.
Today I read of one woman who walked on this vision's thread of truth, making its inscrutability scrutable. What's more, that foreseen wine of life divinely poured into her crucible for the blessing of many peoples, her merchandise for the Lord, was also distributed--even after her death.
Thank You, God, that from antiquity even to this day there walk men whose hearts are larger than their fears of the inscrutable and whose lips and hands do not hesitate to act according to Your unction even in these matters."When I was about 20 years old, I left my homeland of Ghana to preach the
gospel in Abidjan...During one of my evangelistic meetings in this former French
colony, I met a young lady from Ghana who had come to Abidjan to earn money
through prostitution.
She heard me tell the story of God's love and how His Son gave his life on
the cross to save us from our sins and restore us to His covenant family.
The moment this woman received the message of God's love, an eternal transaction
took place. God.s love instantly filled her heart and life, despite the
fact that her body was nearly wasted away in the final stages of AIDS by that
time...
This woman knew she couldn't go back to Ghana because prostitution was
frowned upon in that culture. She had used much of the proceeds from
selling her body in precious years to send her children and her brothers and
sisters through high school, and to secure the living of her parents.
Her family thought she had a good job in the city, unaware that they would never
see her again. Her activities as a prostitute caused her to contract a
disease she couldn't even name and now she knew instinctively that death was at
her door.
Without much thought or regard for herself, she decided to do something
that most religious people would consider repulsive. She just knew she was
supposed to give the remaining money she had earned from prostitution, so I
could buy an airline ticket to go abroad and preach the Word of the Lord...She
supernaturally entered into covenant with the One who saved her. He had
given all He had for her; now she told me she wanted to invest all that she had
in His work...
I could have refused her gift if I had listened to the religious thoughts
in my mind: After all, that money is tainted. It was earned
through prostitution--it isn't worthy of being used in the Lord's
work. The the Lord spoke to my heart, saying, "It is Me. I am
working through this precious woman."
As the woman requested I used the money she gave me to fly from the Ivory
Coast to France where I ministered both to the Portuguese community there and to
the prostitutes in that nation's largest cities. By God's grace, I was
able to share my sponsor's story and final request and led many prostitutes to
the Lord." pp. 10-12, The Power of Covenant.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Mantle (part 2)
How does one comprehend a story that emanates from fabric moving?
Every fabric has its timbre, so I was told.
And I determined to explore the voice of my new cape.
I rose up.
I ran, and I listened.
I danced, and I listened.
I tread softly through the dewy fields at dawning, and I listened.
I clung to a sheer rock face in a strong north wind,
cast my gaze across a landscape wherein even valleys prove rugged and inhospitable,
and I listened.
When I returned, He asked me,
"What did you discover?
Was the mantle not reticent in the peaceful places?
Was it not eloquent,
and pressing loquacious in the whirlwind on the mountain?
Tell Me, what did you find?"
"I noticed the finished edges are well-spoken," I said
even as I thoughtfully rubbed the stitching.
"These hemmed seams have voices prepared to expound,
and in any condition of weather.
But this end--the one I finally laid across my shoulders;
this end is different.
It is ragged.
Whenever I turned it out to the world, it flapped silently,
no matter what the condition of air."
He squinted, "So you noticed it said nothing to justify itself, then?"
"It did not," I agreed with a short nod. "Why is that?"
He reclined into the gnarled roots of the tree then, renewing
the place where He'd spent His days of waiting
for me.
I sat, too, and received a beguiling smile.
"The ripped part is indeed the place to best begin,
after all
it is the portal that reveals a prime significance
of this mantle.
But, the voice of the jagged part told its story only once;
for its story is not one of perpetual reaction to external conditions, no
its story was told in its ripping-moment.
And you must know the rip more intimately
if you are to learn that story."
Then, He rose and for a time, left me pondering.
How was I to do this? I wondered.
Eventually, I removed the cloak;
spread it out and
slid my body into the space between its parts:
that part which is ever on display,
and the part offering only the occasional glimpse of its essence;
the part designed for show (thus the cloak's public splendor)
but likewise subject to the just-force of weathering,
and
the part ever near, ever touching
yet rarely regarded in its
fleeting exposure.
Between these I crawled, and
in this strange cocoon,
in this strange womb,
where light and sound waned vestigial
and where peace descended,
there
I began to dream.
Every fabric has its timbre, so I was told.
And I determined to explore the voice of my new cape.
I rose up.
I ran, and I listened.
I danced, and I listened.
I tread softly through the dewy fields at dawning, and I listened.
I clung to a sheer rock face in a strong north wind,
cast my gaze across a landscape wherein even valleys prove rugged and inhospitable,
and I listened.
When I returned, He asked me,
"What did you discover?
Was the mantle not reticent in the peaceful places?
Was it not eloquent,
and pressing loquacious in the whirlwind on the mountain?
Tell Me, what did you find?"
"I noticed the finished edges are well-spoken," I said
even as I thoughtfully rubbed the stitching.
"These hemmed seams have voices prepared to expound,
and in any condition of weather.
But this end--the one I finally laid across my shoulders;
this end is different.
It is ragged.
Whenever I turned it out to the world, it flapped silently,
no matter what the condition of air."
He squinted, "So you noticed it said nothing to justify itself, then?"
"It did not," I agreed with a short nod. "Why is that?"
He reclined into the gnarled roots of the tree then, renewing
the place where He'd spent His days of waiting
for me.
I sat, too, and received a beguiling smile.
"The ripped part is indeed the place to best begin,
after all
it is the portal that reveals a prime significance
of this mantle.
But, the voice of the jagged part told its story only once;
for its story is not one of perpetual reaction to external conditions, no
its story was told in its ripping-moment.
And you must know the rip more intimately
if you are to learn that story."
Then, He rose and for a time, left me pondering.
How was I to do this? I wondered.
Eventually, I removed the cloak;
spread it out and
slid my body into the space between its parts:
that part which is ever on display,
and the part offering only the occasional glimpse of its essence;
the part designed for show (thus the cloak's public splendor)
but likewise subject to the just-force of weathering,
and
the part ever near, ever touching
yet rarely regarded in its
fleeting exposure.
Between these I crawled, and
in this strange cocoon,
in this strange womb,
where light and sound waned vestigial
and where peace descended,
there
I began to dream.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The Mantle (part 1)
(...on being in the garment industry, spiritually speaking. A patchwork of Scripture.)
What can I say of the One who reaches
and grasps the curtain of heaven to pull its light from the rod where it hangs
to wrap it about Him like a garment;
whose mantle of light flashes embroidery of honor and majesty
for its insignia?
What do I say when He comes, walking on the wind,
in His perfect knowledge, to balance the clouds
that they might swirl around me like a cloak
for warmth, and to quiet my part of the earth?
I am speechless.
So He speaks.
"Lift, the cloak," He says, "and regard its lining."
"Though light as silk, and white upon your shoulders,
though scented with the spice that is every kind of life
though rustling, quiet as a fountain sealed, when you move under it, still
it is woven of heavy thread, and silent grief, and ancient cost."
So, I lifted the hem from my breast.
So I regarded the lining, as He said.
And in wonder I noted,
that though the surface gleamed and glittered fresh like snow,
and shone like a pearl of fine quality, still
its lining was drab, like ditch water.
And I sought to know why my new cloak should so abhor me where it hugged my flesh.
He said, "If you have courage, I will show you. But it is a great mystery,
one of the greatest draped over that creation called mankind."
"Lift and look again," He said.
Chorus:
Job 38:12
Hast thou commanded the morning since thy days; [and] caused the dayspring to know his place;
Job 38:13
That it might take hold of the ends of the earth, that the wicked might be shaken out of it?
Job 38:14
It is turned as clay [to] the seal; and they stand as a garment.
Job 38:15
And from the wicked their light is withholden, and the high arm shall be broken.
What can I say of the One who reaches
and grasps the curtain of heaven to pull its light from the rod where it hangs
to wrap it about Him like a garment;
whose mantle of light flashes embroidery of honor and majesty
for its insignia?
What do I say when He comes, walking on the wind,
in His perfect knowledge, to balance the clouds
that they might swirl around me like a cloak
for warmth, and to quiet my part of the earth?
I am speechless.
So He speaks.
"Lift, the cloak," He says, "and regard its lining."
"Though light as silk, and white upon your shoulders,
though scented with the spice that is every kind of life
though rustling, quiet as a fountain sealed, when you move under it, still
it is woven of heavy thread, and silent grief, and ancient cost."
So, I lifted the hem from my breast.
So I regarded the lining, as He said.
And in wonder I noted,
that though the surface gleamed and glittered fresh like snow,
and shone like a pearl of fine quality, still
its lining was drab, like ditch water.
And I sought to know why my new cloak should so abhor me where it hugged my flesh.
He said, "If you have courage, I will show you. But it is a great mystery,
one of the greatest draped over that creation called mankind."
"Lift and look again," He said.
Chorus:
Job 38:12
Hast thou commanded the morning since thy days; [and] caused the dayspring to know his place;
Job 38:13
That it might take hold of the ends of the earth, that the wicked might be shaken out of it?
Job 38:14
It is turned as clay [to] the seal; and they stand as a garment.
Job 38:15
And from the wicked their light is withholden, and the high arm shall be broken.
Christ in a Stranger's Guise
I met a stranger yest'rene--
I put food in the eating place
Drink in the drinking place
Music in the listening place--
And in the name of the Triune
He blessed myself and my house,
My cattle and my loved ones.
And the lark sang in his song--
Often, often, often goes
The Christ in the stranger's guise.
(Alfred Burt Carol)
Several times following His resurrection, Christ appears to His disciples. Sometimes they recognize Him; sometimes they don't. Sometimes they think Him a ghost. His answer when they don't recognize Him is to break bread in their presence. His answer when they think Him a disembodied spirit is to eat broiled fish and honeycomb in their presence.
How do we do the work of God, ask the people in the days before He dies. The work of God, Jesus says, is to believe.
I think I may be coming to a place where I can understand how you see a fathomless good in what you feel called to believe, my husband. I understand more about the differences (and finally, the similarities) between this and what I feel called to believe. May God continue to help my unbelief.
I was told to look for Christ. You were told to look for that stranger's guise. Now we must believe for these to be somehow merged in our call to put "food and drink and music" in the place they belong before a stranger who bears a blessing. (smile)
I put food in the eating place
Drink in the drinking place
Music in the listening place--
And in the name of the Triune
He blessed myself and my house,
My cattle and my loved ones.
And the lark sang in his song--
Often, often, often goes
The Christ in the stranger's guise.
(Alfred Burt Carol)
Several times following His resurrection, Christ appears to His disciples. Sometimes they recognize Him; sometimes they don't. Sometimes they think Him a ghost. His answer when they don't recognize Him is to break bread in their presence. His answer when they think Him a disembodied spirit is to eat broiled fish and honeycomb in their presence.
How do we do the work of God, ask the people in the days before He dies. The work of God, Jesus says, is to believe.
I think I may be coming to a place where I can understand how you see a fathomless good in what you feel called to believe, my husband. I understand more about the differences (and finally, the similarities) between this and what I feel called to believe. May God continue to help my unbelief.
I was told to look for Christ. You were told to look for that stranger's guise. Now we must believe for these to be somehow merged in our call to put "food and drink and music" in the place they belong before a stranger who bears a blessing. (smile)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
On Being a Measuring Rod, and the Aftermath
...as hopelessness still strives to stake its claim.
My Lord, You prayed this for me, and I do believe it. " 'Father, I desire that they also whom You gave Me may be with Me where I am, that they may behold My glory which You have given Me; for You loved Me before the foundation of the world...
...And I have declared to them Your name, and will declare it, that the love with which You loved Me may be in them, and I in them.' " John 17:24-26.
Funny, how easily these words of Your prayer roll off the reciter's tongue, that is until they are crushed and mixed under the pestle of Your sermon on the Mount--and its requirements for selflessness--in the realities of daily of life. Your particular glory brings pain in its revelation, and the love of Your Father is a love of pain and sacrifice. If this oneness You ask for us to have is not seen through a veil of pain, I question whether it has really been perceived at all.
And what more might we know of this One who loves from before the foundations of the earth--what is His nature beyond its love for us? Can we survive reaching out to touch that expanse? For He asks this of man:
"Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Tell Me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements?...
...Who laid its cornerstone,
When the morning stars sang together,
And all the sons of God shouted for joy?
"Or who shut in the sea with doors, (you dreamed of being assigned this job, my husband)
When it burst forth and issued from the womb;
When I made the clouds its garment,
And thick darkness its swaddling band; (and I have dreamed both of these.)
When I fixed My limit for it,
And set bars and doors;
When I said,
This far you may come, but no farther,
And here your proud waves must stop!"
Have you commanded the morning since your days began,
And caused the dawn to know its place,
That it might take hold of the ends of the earth,
And the wicked be shaken out of it?" Job 38:4, 7-1
What have I to say about being used to fix a limit? To be the tool by which You cause the dawn to know its place? Do I have the strength for such a call? This is the sifting of my soul.
"Why?" Few people dispute the power of this word to stand alone, even though it always requires a triggering event, and a recipient. Still we put it out there alone. We think that if we have the answer, we can endure. But I submit that knowing the answer can sometimes be even more devastating. It is said that when Christ was in His Gethsemane, an angel came to minister to Him. But after these ministrations, He was in even deeper anguish. I believe He got His why answered.
And this text from Job is partial answer for me too, I know, God. I understand.
Man is a precious tool in Your hand, a tool for refining, a tool for exposing the dross that is wickedness. Man is a precious tool in Your hand for sorting and measuring the length and breadth of the things that claim allegiance to You, but that must have their love's sincerity proven. How far will they go for me? How much will they sacrifice? And iron sharpens iron in the answering of it. For now, the proud see no benefit in allowing God to use them this way. Such a state of events feels degrading. It feels like an act of profound disrespect from God even as He demands respect from us. At such a time, it is easy to ask ourselves, how can God have so little care for me that He would seemingly arrange for my ill-will toward Him as He uses me ruthlessly to measure the self-sacrifice hopefully latent in another, and in so doing destroy my comfortable self-deception that I matter to this pressed-down brother that I love; that He would then tell me to forgive that one who hurts me, because He forgave me; forgive even now, while the hurt is still raw. How do I find the courage to seek out and then thank Him for the benefits of this moment, even as I recognize His ill-using of me in this breaking of my heart? Is this the cross I carry to follow my Jesus? It is too hard, God! Who could be so gracious? Maybe I could be so strong in a moment of crisis, as in feeling the call to step out and take a bullet for someone. But to "die daily" and maintain it like a chronic condition of life in a "vast array" of circumstances? I say again, who can be so gracious?
Yesterday and the day before, my eldest son and I took a road trip. The purpose of the trip in part was to present to the appropriate legal bodies and offices the evidence needed to reveal a clerical error on his driving record that resulted in a wrongfully suspended license. Five hours of driving we spent on a wild goose chase to take said record to a government office that proved to be the wrong office, all because we believed, once again, that a government official knew what she was talking about, knew what she was doing, as she attempted to interpret what we should do with the judge's ruling to vacate the ticket that suspended his license, what we should do in order to cleanse his record of wrongful points. Wasn't it a scribe, a clerk, a record-keeper for the government that caused our problem in the first place? Why should we expect competency now, oh foolish hopeful ones that we are. Now, it turns out we needed to go to another office, in Indianapolis, IN. We got back in the car. So, after driving the hours required to get to Springfield, IL, we turned around and headed back the way we came. (We rejected the recommendation of that clerk in the IL Sec. of State's office to "make the trip worthwhile" by making a visit the Lincoln Museum while we were in town anyway. It almost felt like a slap in the face, although she didn't mean it that way.)
I looked at the sky as we drove through those flat, unending cornfields while my son slept beside me. That sky was hung with clouds that looked unfinished. In fact, if that sky were a painted back-drop on some movie studio set, an observer would say, "What was the point of starting to paint those clouds if you weren't going to finish them? You can't use them like that. They just look slopped on there!" But there they were. Real clouds in a real sky. Why? Why is truth so often stranger than fiction? Why do our efforts to hang a measure of substance above our heads often seem futile, like visions unreal and yet pervasive?
And I am not the only one feeling the pointlessness of striving, striving to make things right, striving to be honorable under the sun. My husband endures this hardship, too. God, now I'm not just talking about you, I am praying to You. Give us the strength to persevere. Give us the heart to love unconditionally, immeasurably, no matter what hangs over us. If ones around us are being tested and falter and can not love us Your way, then gird us to love enough for all. And, we acknowledge that only You can enable us to fulfill Your command to love those who would make themselves our enemies--in this case, those who would under-realize and therefore under-prioritize their power over our lives. You know, God, that in three days time we will most likely lose our car and thus our credit rating and therefore our last hope of turning this option to buy into a real mortgage so that we can really own this home we felt like You called us to buy. How are we to make sense of this situation? Did You put us in this house only so that You could measure the world around us as it responds to our attempts to occupy and keep it? How are we to feel about the fact that You have left us with no safety net, and all so that You can assess whether our desperation will be recognized by others, hopefully eliciting a response from those You are measuring? How do we feel about them and You, as we watch while You put before them choices that empower them to make or break our lives on this plane, that this is a power You have granted them over us, and we can do nothing but pray and love and believe. And if that "enemy" is not a stranger but someone more like a brother, then the anguish felt as these higher spiritual realities play themselves out, well it is all the deeper. How easy to look at this sky You have hung so wide and unavoidably over us and call out to it, "Your substance looks fake! Why are you up there?!?"
Choices under such a sky are at a premium. The sky of course has its own reasons for being the way it is, reasons that we can't know deeply, ourselves being earth bound. The only real choice that can be made in such circumstances--and I mentioned this the other day--is the choice of how to pray. And indeed this prayer has been made: that no matter what the personal cost to us, may the skies all around us thrive and become beautiful again, and this not just because of their place over us, but even in the lofty parts unseen. In fact, the answer to that prayer was given even before it was prayed, even before the return to home was an accomplished fact--the home that even yet may prove so temporary. For as my son and I drove home last night, and when we were almost home, the most brilliant and beautiful sunset shone down upon us. It was so beautiful that my son called his girlfriend to recommend she go outside and take pictures of the ripples of gold and peach and maroon swelling across its blue dunes.
Still that answer in the sunset--is it not just something fanciful for the moment? Who (but me) claims that all will be well based on such a "sign" as this? And is it not a sign for the sky itself? What is that to me, for our own plight doesn't change. We still need the answer to the question: where do we turn to beg for help as justice proves itself over and over to be locked down tight? Where do we turn? To You, God? But were You not the one who arranged for these various measures to be taken in the first place, measures that exposed us to so many possible harms, measures that set us up for potential ruin on almost every front? Dare we trust that we matter more to You than we do to this cloud that surrounds us? Dare we believe You will help us to be content to let go of even more of what is temporal, eating the invisible food, sleeping in the invisible bowers?
You give and take away. So it is said. But again, why? If You only give in order to take away, what does that say about the meaning of higher love? And if a heart is mature enough to cooperate with such a love, even clinging to hope and faith when the love is driven sacrificially to the point of love-blindness, will You even then make a perceptible picture of the puzzle pieces You've scattered? For this, I pray, O God, my Redeemer.
My Lord, You prayed this for me, and I do believe it. " 'Father, I desire that they also whom You gave Me may be with Me where I am, that they may behold My glory which You have given Me; for You loved Me before the foundation of the world...
...And I have declared to them Your name, and will declare it, that the love with which You loved Me may be in them, and I in them.' " John 17:24-26.
Funny, how easily these words of Your prayer roll off the reciter's tongue, that is until they are crushed and mixed under the pestle of Your sermon on the Mount--and its requirements for selflessness--in the realities of daily of life. Your particular glory brings pain in its revelation, and the love of Your Father is a love of pain and sacrifice. If this oneness You ask for us to have is not seen through a veil of pain, I question whether it has really been perceived at all.
And what more might we know of this One who loves from before the foundations of the earth--what is His nature beyond its love for us? Can we survive reaching out to touch that expanse? For He asks this of man:
"Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Tell Me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements?...
...Who laid its cornerstone,
When the morning stars sang together,
And all the sons of God shouted for joy?
"Or who shut in the sea with doors, (you dreamed of being assigned this job, my husband)
When it burst forth and issued from the womb;
When I made the clouds its garment,
And thick darkness its swaddling band; (and I have dreamed both of these.)
When I fixed My limit for it,
And set bars and doors;
When I said,
This far you may come, but no farther,
And here your proud waves must stop!"
Have you commanded the morning since your days began,
And caused the dawn to know its place,
That it might take hold of the ends of the earth,
And the wicked be shaken out of it?" Job 38:4, 7-1
What have I to say about being used to fix a limit? To be the tool by which You cause the dawn to know its place? Do I have the strength for such a call? This is the sifting of my soul.
"Why?" Few people dispute the power of this word to stand alone, even though it always requires a triggering event, and a recipient. Still we put it out there alone. We think that if we have the answer, we can endure. But I submit that knowing the answer can sometimes be even more devastating. It is said that when Christ was in His Gethsemane, an angel came to minister to Him. But after these ministrations, He was in even deeper anguish. I believe He got His why answered.
And this text from Job is partial answer for me too, I know, God. I understand.
Man is a precious tool in Your hand, a tool for refining, a tool for exposing the dross that is wickedness. Man is a precious tool in Your hand for sorting and measuring the length and breadth of the things that claim allegiance to You, but that must have their love's sincerity proven. How far will they go for me? How much will they sacrifice? And iron sharpens iron in the answering of it. For now, the proud see no benefit in allowing God to use them this way. Such a state of events feels degrading. It feels like an act of profound disrespect from God even as He demands respect from us. At such a time, it is easy to ask ourselves, how can God have so little care for me that He would seemingly arrange for my ill-will toward Him as He uses me ruthlessly to measure the self-sacrifice hopefully latent in another, and in so doing destroy my comfortable self-deception that I matter to this pressed-down brother that I love; that He would then tell me to forgive that one who hurts me, because He forgave me; forgive even now, while the hurt is still raw. How do I find the courage to seek out and then thank Him for the benefits of this moment, even as I recognize His ill-using of me in this breaking of my heart? Is this the cross I carry to follow my Jesus? It is too hard, God! Who could be so gracious? Maybe I could be so strong in a moment of crisis, as in feeling the call to step out and take a bullet for someone. But to "die daily" and maintain it like a chronic condition of life in a "vast array" of circumstances? I say again, who can be so gracious?
Yesterday and the day before, my eldest son and I took a road trip. The purpose of the trip in part was to present to the appropriate legal bodies and offices the evidence needed to reveal a clerical error on his driving record that resulted in a wrongfully suspended license. Five hours of driving we spent on a wild goose chase to take said record to a government office that proved to be the wrong office, all because we believed, once again, that a government official knew what she was talking about, knew what she was doing, as she attempted to interpret what we should do with the judge's ruling to vacate the ticket that suspended his license, what we should do in order to cleanse his record of wrongful points. Wasn't it a scribe, a clerk, a record-keeper for the government that caused our problem in the first place? Why should we expect competency now, oh foolish hopeful ones that we are. Now, it turns out we needed to go to another office, in Indianapolis, IN. We got back in the car. So, after driving the hours required to get to Springfield, IL, we turned around and headed back the way we came. (We rejected the recommendation of that clerk in the IL Sec. of State's office to "make the trip worthwhile" by making a visit the Lincoln Museum while we were in town anyway. It almost felt like a slap in the face, although she didn't mean it that way.)
I looked at the sky as we drove through those flat, unending cornfields while my son slept beside me. That sky was hung with clouds that looked unfinished. In fact, if that sky were a painted back-drop on some movie studio set, an observer would say, "What was the point of starting to paint those clouds if you weren't going to finish them? You can't use them like that. They just look slopped on there!" But there they were. Real clouds in a real sky. Why? Why is truth so often stranger than fiction? Why do our efforts to hang a measure of substance above our heads often seem futile, like visions unreal and yet pervasive?
And I am not the only one feeling the pointlessness of striving, striving to make things right, striving to be honorable under the sun. My husband endures this hardship, too. God, now I'm not just talking about you, I am praying to You. Give us the strength to persevere. Give us the heart to love unconditionally, immeasurably, no matter what hangs over us. If ones around us are being tested and falter and can not love us Your way, then gird us to love enough for all. And, we acknowledge that only You can enable us to fulfill Your command to love those who would make themselves our enemies--in this case, those who would under-realize and therefore under-prioritize their power over our lives. You know, God, that in three days time we will most likely lose our car and thus our credit rating and therefore our last hope of turning this option to buy into a real mortgage so that we can really own this home we felt like You called us to buy. How are we to make sense of this situation? Did You put us in this house only so that You could measure the world around us as it responds to our attempts to occupy and keep it? How are we to feel about the fact that You have left us with no safety net, and all so that You can assess whether our desperation will be recognized by others, hopefully eliciting a response from those You are measuring? How do we feel about them and You, as we watch while You put before them choices that empower them to make or break our lives on this plane, that this is a power You have granted them over us, and we can do nothing but pray and love and believe. And if that "enemy" is not a stranger but someone more like a brother, then the anguish felt as these higher spiritual realities play themselves out, well it is all the deeper. How easy to look at this sky You have hung so wide and unavoidably over us and call out to it, "Your substance looks fake! Why are you up there?!?"
Choices under such a sky are at a premium. The sky of course has its own reasons for being the way it is, reasons that we can't know deeply, ourselves being earth bound. The only real choice that can be made in such circumstances--and I mentioned this the other day--is the choice of how to pray. And indeed this prayer has been made: that no matter what the personal cost to us, may the skies all around us thrive and become beautiful again, and this not just because of their place over us, but even in the lofty parts unseen. In fact, the answer to that prayer was given even before it was prayed, even before the return to home was an accomplished fact--the home that even yet may prove so temporary. For as my son and I drove home last night, and when we were almost home, the most brilliant and beautiful sunset shone down upon us. It was so beautiful that my son called his girlfriend to recommend she go outside and take pictures of the ripples of gold and peach and maroon swelling across its blue dunes.
Still that answer in the sunset--is it not just something fanciful for the moment? Who (but me) claims that all will be well based on such a "sign" as this? And is it not a sign for the sky itself? What is that to me, for our own plight doesn't change. We still need the answer to the question: where do we turn to beg for help as justice proves itself over and over to be locked down tight? Where do we turn? To You, God? But were You not the one who arranged for these various measures to be taken in the first place, measures that exposed us to so many possible harms, measures that set us up for potential ruin on almost every front? Dare we trust that we matter more to You than we do to this cloud that surrounds us? Dare we believe You will help us to be content to let go of even more of what is temporal, eating the invisible food, sleeping in the invisible bowers?
You give and take away. So it is said. But again, why? If You only give in order to take away, what does that say about the meaning of higher love? And if a heart is mature enough to cooperate with such a love, even clinging to hope and faith when the love is driven sacrificially to the point of love-blindness, will You even then make a perceptible picture of the puzzle pieces You've scattered? For this, I pray, O God, my Redeemer.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Prayer and Prophetic Dreaming, Installment #?
Today in church, the speaker brought our attention to a verse that made one of my dreams crackle with portent. I've mentioned it here upon several occasions, the one about the spotted horse trying to break through the chicken-wire styled fencing surrounding its designated corral. In the dream, I was given a tool to repair the fence, twisting new little pieces of wire into the mesh to make it strong enough to keep the spotted horse/dog/bull creature penned in its rightful place. Somehow, the animal seemed foolish to me, like it meant no particular ill, but had no clue where it was supposed to be, and could do harm if it left it's rightful place. The fact that it was not an evil animal but nonetheless a potentially destructive one seemed important. That dream fell in a series of events, dreams, Bible studies, etc. that made prominent the topic of God-given inheritance, and I've written enough about my reflections on all that. Today's sermon brought another layer of meaning, however, to that same dream. It also brought to my mind one of your dreams, my husband, the one in which you were given the task of supervising a pool filled with people, of having the job of standing at a gate literally made of water. An endless line of people wanted time in the pool, but it was given to you to determine when and who would be allowed through that gate. This scripture seems to tie both these dreams strangely together.
Jesus the True Shepherd
John 10: "Most assuredly, I say to you, he who does not enter the sheepfold by the door, but climbs up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber. 2 But he who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. 3 To him the doorkeeper opens, and the sheep hear his voice; and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. 4 And when he brings out his own sheep, he goes before them; and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice. 5 Yet they will by no means follow a stranger, but will flee from him, for they do not know the voice of strangers." 6 Jesus used this illustration, but they did not understand the things which He spoke to them.
Jesus the Good Shepherd
7 Then Jesus said to them again, "Most assuredly, I say to you, I am the door of the sheep. 8 All who ever came [fn1] before Me are thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not hear them. 9 I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. 10 The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly."
I think, my husband, that I finally see light breaking through the clouds that have for so long now shrouded our sense of divine calling. It is just a glimmer, but still this seems a reasonable deduction to make: you are indeed assigned the job of gatekeeper/doorkeeper/porter depending on the translation you read. It is you who will open the door when the Shepherd says He wants to enter and bring in His sheep. Conversely, I have the task of keeping out the ones who are trying to enter in wrongful methods; ones who--even though they are not malicious--could potentially prove injurious. It is I who will recognize them and keep them from polluting the fold. In this, we must believe we are called and equipped to work together, even during those days when we feel like our individual callings run in absolutely contrary motion to each other.
I know all this is not really putting any definable shape to the actual playing out of our uniquely preceived and mysteriously defined callings in this temporal world, but at least it begins to show a common swatch of cloth where we could weave together, despite the wildly contrary thread-colors. Maybe even yet we'll find that commonality necessary for us to weave ourselves into the background of this vast tapestry of His eternal plan!
Jesus the True Shepherd
John 10: "Most assuredly, I say to you, he who does not enter the sheepfold by the door, but climbs up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber. 2 But he who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. 3 To him the doorkeeper opens, and the sheep hear his voice; and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. 4 And when he brings out his own sheep, he goes before them; and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice. 5 Yet they will by no means follow a stranger, but will flee from him, for they do not know the voice of strangers." 6 Jesus used this illustration, but they did not understand the things which He spoke to them.
Jesus the Good Shepherd
7 Then Jesus said to them again, "Most assuredly, I say to you, I am the door of the sheep. 8 All who ever came [fn1] before Me are thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not hear them. 9 I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. 10 The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly."
I think, my husband, that I finally see light breaking through the clouds that have for so long now shrouded our sense of divine calling. It is just a glimmer, but still this seems a reasonable deduction to make: you are indeed assigned the job of gatekeeper/doorkeeper/porter depending on the translation you read. It is you who will open the door when the Shepherd says He wants to enter and bring in His sheep. Conversely, I have the task of keeping out the ones who are trying to enter in wrongful methods; ones who--even though they are not malicious--could potentially prove injurious. It is I who will recognize them and keep them from polluting the fold. In this, we must believe we are called and equipped to work together, even during those days when we feel like our individual callings run in absolutely contrary motion to each other.
I know all this is not really putting any definable shape to the actual playing out of our uniquely preceived and mysteriously defined callings in this temporal world, but at least it begins to show a common swatch of cloth where we could weave together, despite the wildly contrary thread-colors. Maybe even yet we'll find that commonality necessary for us to weave ourselves into the background of this vast tapestry of His eternal plan!
Friday, July 06, 2007
The Power of Prayer
...and a reminder on the saying: "be careful what you wish for..."
Yesterday, I met with two women who are friends of mine. We met for the purpose of corporate prayer. This and nothing else. Both of them are older than me, and I was honored to be invited into their circle. Really honored. When our hour ended, I felt warm and good inside, the same type of feeling that could be stirred by say eating a warm fresh slice of homemade bread. But I know such a different landscape for prayer, too. It is much like the difference between seeing the beauty of a formal garden years cultivated and the beauty of wild mountain country untouched--almost unseen--by human life. These are very appropriate analogies for the feel of these two prayerscapes I've known.
And today as I met with God in my own time and way, I sensed a message given to me regarding this broad and manifold prayer life He has given me. I read the story of Daniel in the lions' den. I read Paul's list of the outrages he endured for the sake of the ministry God put upon him, for endured such things as multiple beatings and nights spent as a piece of flotsam while shipwrecked, all this with the quiet confidence that the mission his God laid upon him was worth the cost.
Just last night I began reading a fascinating book called Arctic Homestead, the story of the last couple who received Alaskan land under the Homestead Act established back in the 1800's and ended in the 1970's. They endured incredible trials--from near death as their truck careened off the side of a mountain to near death due to (on separate occasions) both accidental and intentional shot gun firings. The woman homesteader, Norma, dreamed like we do. She dreamed many nights a recurring dream of living in a wilderness and growing vegetables and being blissfully happy. But their trek to Alaska to find her "dreamland" took literal years and much hardship to come to its fruition. Of this, she said, "God...had been directing us here all along, testing us en route to make sure we possessed the pioneer mettle to withstand the hardship before He put us in charge of one of His most delightful creations on the crust of the earth."
I feel like our own prayerscape over the past couple of years has had a similar flavor of testing en route. For example, I look back at the blog a year ago and see:
how you had premonitions of death, and cried out to God for more time;
how you had that strange night when you woke two times and thought the clock had gone backward upon your second waking, a thing so strange to you that you commented on it to me;
how a few days later, I found this story about King Hezekiah in which God heard his plea for an extension of his own life and how God answered by giving him an extra 15 years; and
how a sign was arranged to serve as confirmation of the gift of added life--the sundial would moved backward;
how I told you I thought God was using the sign of that story from long ago to address your own similar concerns in this day;
how we forgot all about that, until a few days ago, when I realized you nearly died in that car wreck--if you still doubt that it was the hand of God directing you to look up and see danger that day, you should remember the foretelling and give Him credit. (smile)
Most of all, I am reminded of God's call on our lives and the strange incomprehensibility of it. I hardly know how to pray for what He tells us He sees in our future: my own dreamland, my own Alaskan frontier.
But a quote I read even today reassured me: "God never gives a command to His children unless He makes provision for them to obey." So in my heart, I wait for Him to make provision.
And yet with the reassurance came a warning: Paul in the last parts of 2 Corinthians speaks of "the authority the Lord has given me for edification and not destruction." In fact, this idea came before me twice lately. (Below I quote Paul's first statement of this idea of authority.) Now frankly, my thoughts on this prompted me almost immediately to a derisive laugh--what authority do I have such that I would make a such a lofty statement with regards to exercising it? So I meditated on that thought. Listened for You to teach me where such bold words might be mine.
I reckoned, upon taking account, that the only authority I really have is in my prayer life. I always have choices in my prayer life. Then it hit me that this is exactly where You were taking me with this train of thought, for I have recently changed the timbre of my prayers. I read in Nehemiah how that prophet, administrator and kingdom re-builder prayed that God would remember him for good even as God remembered his enemies for their works. Lately, I've been tempted to follow in Nehemiah's footsteps, and felt an empowering and freedom in prayer-authority that was rich, but I see now a bit premature. For example, I have indeed asked that God remember the works of a few "enemies" but I think I maybe spoke the wrong ones for enemies. I could ask You remember a few nameless faceless enemies behind the legal bureaucracies that have much complicated our lives--that they be remembered for their works. But maybe You are telling me to pray more like my Lord--forgive them, for they know not what they do. Does the man in the BMV office know that his clerical error in documenting my son's proof of insurance and the ensuing stream of paper and people like weeds grown up between that little clerk and our efforts to expose his mistake--does he know it all could end in my son's loss of license, or even in his being jailed, if the law (when once it ignores and/or hides for its reputation's sake the injustice of the original clerk's mistake) is served? What would that distant clerk do differently if he only knew the power he wielded over another life in that one mis-filing? Is it right that I pray he be remembered for that work? And so many other things of the same nature, God. So many people, Lord, over whom I could--with circumstantial justification--have the authority to pray they be remembered for their works of harm toward us, but are they really actively working against You when they interrupt Your work in our lives, as were the enemies of God who drew Nehemiah's condemnatory prayer? No. These are people no more or less faulty than I am. They are blind people operating in a fallen world, where laws simply can not attain perfection, where philosophies rarely acheive even a degree of consistently acceptable justice for the poor and downtrodden of this world. If I am to pray like my Lord, then I will pray for my enemies when they are such as these. Paradoxically, I thereby distinguish myself from them, distinguish myself as His Bride. So said He in His Sermon on the Mount. So I will take greater care in how I organize my prayers over what to put before the eyes of my God, who to forgive, who to condemn. I will listen before I pray.
I met a mighty angel--an angel who bore the majestic demeanor of twin mountain peaks snowy and brilliant, aglitter as if graced by an eternal sunrise. I thanked that angel for his efforts, his diligence, his honor of God's love for humankind such as me. I apologized that more of us don't see and praise him for his gifts of service. And as I spoke to him, telling him to ready himself for even more strenuous battle, reassuring him that it would not go unnoticed, I saw myself giving him glowing golden sword for the task. And my son not long ago dreamed the family fought enemy creatures before boarding something on the order of a space ship, but it was shaped like a sword, and we as a family sat at the tip of it. We flew through space and on our journey, saw an amazing eclipse of the sun by a fast moving planet. A few days later, we went to church and the preacher spoke on the analogy of being the tip of God's sword, a metaphor he illustrated with a film clip from the movie, Pearl Harbor. I suppose if we are able to receive dreams like these, we should take care in how we pray. If I can address this angel, if I can offer him that sword, then I should realize that my authority is indeed great, for when Paul spoke of authority like this--
2Cr 10:8
For though I should boast somewhat more of our authority, which the Lord hath given us for edification, and not for your destruction...
--he did so in conclusion to a preface of this:
2Cr 10:3
For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh:
2Cr 10:4
(For the weapons of our warfare [are] not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds;)
2Cr 10:5
Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ;
And even though I pray quietly, demurely in circles of Christian friends, still in my private time with You, Lord, You call me to other frontiers indeed! And if my earthly authority seems like a candle flickering out; still, if I am to believe these words as much as any others in Scripture, then my authority is great after all! Greater than I ever imagined.
2Cr 4:16
For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward [man] is renewed day by day.
2Cr 4:17
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding [and] eternal weight of glory;
2Cr 4:18
While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen [are] temporal; but the things which are not seen [are] eternal.
Yesterday, I met with two women who are friends of mine. We met for the purpose of corporate prayer. This and nothing else. Both of them are older than me, and I was honored to be invited into their circle. Really honored. When our hour ended, I felt warm and good inside, the same type of feeling that could be stirred by say eating a warm fresh slice of homemade bread. But I know such a different landscape for prayer, too. It is much like the difference between seeing the beauty of a formal garden years cultivated and the beauty of wild mountain country untouched--almost unseen--by human life. These are very appropriate analogies for the feel of these two prayerscapes I've known.
And today as I met with God in my own time and way, I sensed a message given to me regarding this broad and manifold prayer life He has given me. I read the story of Daniel in the lions' den. I read Paul's list of the outrages he endured for the sake of the ministry God put upon him, for endured such things as multiple beatings and nights spent as a piece of flotsam while shipwrecked, all this with the quiet confidence that the mission his God laid upon him was worth the cost.
Just last night I began reading a fascinating book called Arctic Homestead, the story of the last couple who received Alaskan land under the Homestead Act established back in the 1800's and ended in the 1970's. They endured incredible trials--from near death as their truck careened off the side of a mountain to near death due to (on separate occasions) both accidental and intentional shot gun firings. The woman homesteader, Norma, dreamed like we do. She dreamed many nights a recurring dream of living in a wilderness and growing vegetables and being blissfully happy. But their trek to Alaska to find her "dreamland" took literal years and much hardship to come to its fruition. Of this, she said, "God...had been directing us here all along, testing us en route to make sure we possessed the pioneer mettle to withstand the hardship before He put us in charge of one of His most delightful creations on the crust of the earth."
I feel like our own prayerscape over the past couple of years has had a similar flavor of testing en route. For example, I look back at the blog a year ago and see:
how you had premonitions of death, and cried out to God for more time;
how you had that strange night when you woke two times and thought the clock had gone backward upon your second waking, a thing so strange to you that you commented on it to me;
how a few days later, I found this story about King Hezekiah in which God heard his plea for an extension of his own life and how God answered by giving him an extra 15 years; and
how a sign was arranged to serve as confirmation of the gift of added life--the sundial would moved backward;
how I told you I thought God was using the sign of that story from long ago to address your own similar concerns in this day;
how we forgot all about that, until a few days ago, when I realized you nearly died in that car wreck--if you still doubt that it was the hand of God directing you to look up and see danger that day, you should remember the foretelling and give Him credit. (smile)
Most of all, I am reminded of God's call on our lives and the strange incomprehensibility of it. I hardly know how to pray for what He tells us He sees in our future: my own dreamland, my own Alaskan frontier.
But a quote I read even today reassured me: "God never gives a command to His children unless He makes provision for them to obey." So in my heart, I wait for Him to make provision.
And yet with the reassurance came a warning: Paul in the last parts of 2 Corinthians speaks of "the authority the Lord has given me for edification and not destruction." In fact, this idea came before me twice lately. (Below I quote Paul's first statement of this idea of authority.) Now frankly, my thoughts on this prompted me almost immediately to a derisive laugh--what authority do I have such that I would make a such a lofty statement with regards to exercising it? So I meditated on that thought. Listened for You to teach me where such bold words might be mine.
I reckoned, upon taking account, that the only authority I really have is in my prayer life. I always have choices in my prayer life. Then it hit me that this is exactly where You were taking me with this train of thought, for I have recently changed the timbre of my prayers. I read in Nehemiah how that prophet, administrator and kingdom re-builder prayed that God would remember him for good even as God remembered his enemies for their works. Lately, I've been tempted to follow in Nehemiah's footsteps, and felt an empowering and freedom in prayer-authority that was rich, but I see now a bit premature. For example, I have indeed asked that God remember the works of a few "enemies" but I think I maybe spoke the wrong ones for enemies. I could ask You remember a few nameless faceless enemies behind the legal bureaucracies that have much complicated our lives--that they be remembered for their works. But maybe You are telling me to pray more like my Lord--forgive them, for they know not what they do. Does the man in the BMV office know that his clerical error in documenting my son's proof of insurance and the ensuing stream of paper and people like weeds grown up between that little clerk and our efforts to expose his mistake--does he know it all could end in my son's loss of license, or even in his being jailed, if the law (when once it ignores and/or hides for its reputation's sake the injustice of the original clerk's mistake) is served? What would that distant clerk do differently if he only knew the power he wielded over another life in that one mis-filing? Is it right that I pray he be remembered for that work? And so many other things of the same nature, God. So many people, Lord, over whom I could--with circumstantial justification--have the authority to pray they be remembered for their works of harm toward us, but are they really actively working against You when they interrupt Your work in our lives, as were the enemies of God who drew Nehemiah's condemnatory prayer? No. These are people no more or less faulty than I am. They are blind people operating in a fallen world, where laws simply can not attain perfection, where philosophies rarely acheive even a degree of consistently acceptable justice for the poor and downtrodden of this world. If I am to pray like my Lord, then I will pray for my enemies when they are such as these. Paradoxically, I thereby distinguish myself from them, distinguish myself as His Bride. So said He in His Sermon on the Mount. So I will take greater care in how I organize my prayers over what to put before the eyes of my God, who to forgive, who to condemn. I will listen before I pray.
I met a mighty angel--an angel who bore the majestic demeanor of twin mountain peaks snowy and brilliant, aglitter as if graced by an eternal sunrise. I thanked that angel for his efforts, his diligence, his honor of God's love for humankind such as me. I apologized that more of us don't see and praise him for his gifts of service. And as I spoke to him, telling him to ready himself for even more strenuous battle, reassuring him that it would not go unnoticed, I saw myself giving him glowing golden sword for the task. And my son not long ago dreamed the family fought enemy creatures before boarding something on the order of a space ship, but it was shaped like a sword, and we as a family sat at the tip of it. We flew through space and on our journey, saw an amazing eclipse of the sun by a fast moving planet. A few days later, we went to church and the preacher spoke on the analogy of being the tip of God's sword, a metaphor he illustrated with a film clip from the movie, Pearl Harbor. I suppose if we are able to receive dreams like these, we should take care in how we pray. If I can address this angel, if I can offer him that sword, then I should realize that my authority is indeed great, for when Paul spoke of authority like this--
2Cr 10:8
For though I should boast somewhat more of our authority, which the Lord hath given us for edification, and not for your destruction...
--he did so in conclusion to a preface of this:
2Cr 10:3
For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh:
2Cr 10:4
(For the weapons of our warfare [are] not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds;)
2Cr 10:5
Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ;
And even though I pray quietly, demurely in circles of Christian friends, still in my private time with You, Lord, You call me to other frontiers indeed! And if my earthly authority seems like a candle flickering out; still, if I am to believe these words as much as any others in Scripture, then my authority is great after all! Greater than I ever imagined.
2Cr 4:16
For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward [man] is renewed day by day.
2Cr 4:17
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding [and] eternal weight of glory;
2Cr 4:18
While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen [are] temporal; but the things which are not seen [are] eternal.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
The Secret Garden
"Now may He who supplies seed to the sower, and bread for food, supply and multiply the seed you have sown and increase the fruits of your righteousness..." 2 Corinthians 9:10
Thank goodness for the garden I have this summer, and for its abundance. I remember I did indeed sow in tears--and almost not at all as my husband's accident decommissioned him from tiller work. But I am also reaping in joy, even this early in the season, and not just reaping in the form of garden produce (although my first batch of zucchini relish tastes exceptionally good if I do say so myself.) It has been a hard year financially, harder still this summer as my teaching job does not pay year round, but only during the months when I'm working; and crises robbed the stores we meant to put back during those work months. Summer is lean.
So what to do when the panic strikes, when thought-voices bombard with the reminder that the nebulous web of our financial lives could collapse under one good wind? Do I, like Scarlett O'Hara, say "I'll think about that tomorrow?" No. I'm more tempered to sit and stew during those long hours of the day when I'm least capable of positively changing my circumstances. In fact, that is exactly what I did the other night. So I sat on the sofa, trying to read a book--in other words, trying to do the Scarlett O'Hara thing. But as I read, I noticed I was unconsciously pressing myself deep into the throw that is across the back of the couch, and I realized it was the odor of that blanket that drew me to it.
Now, normally, this smell repels me. In fact, I've considered packing this particular throw away because of its smell. Some olfactory terms carry positive connotations. Words like fragrant, aromatic, perfumed...but none of these would be the words to give this smell this woolen fabric carried. More likely acrid, musty, foul, nearly rancid. It didn't reek exactly, but close proximity made its scent obvious, if not overpowering. In fact, the only way that it could be worse would be to glaze the scent of damp mothballs over the surface smell of it.
But this particular night, I felt a strange comfort in that blanket's scent. Now why would that be? I pondered on this thought as I set my book aside. Then it struck me just what this scent meant to me. It meant endurance. It meant the power to withstand rugged weathering.
I grinned, remembering times when my family has deemed me needful of a spa-day and so has given one as some holiday gift. I thought of my own aroma after those days: I smell like something heady and luxurious. Pampered, powdery, floral and citrus aromas pulsate off my dewy skin--for about six hours. But this blanket's smell is entirely different--it says "I saw the generation that came before you and even now I see the one that comes after you. My scent can be neither gained--nor lost--in a day."
And that thought brought me to discover the deepest appeal of that old quilt. As I recognized its secret bounty, I gave myself completely to that musty old blanket. I pulled it around me with as much a sense of luxury as if it had been mink, and I went out the back door to sit on the steps, for the scent on the breeze wafting through the window had served the perfect accompaniment to the smell of my drape. A long dry spell had left my garden virtually odorless, but the day's rain had raised it aromatic again--spicy, pungent. A bitter mingling of the scents of squash and tomato leaves blew across the potted basil and thyme and dill to meet me where I sat. So I breathed it all deeply, but most of all...I remembered.
I remembered these smells as ones of my childhood, when my first association with them had been at the house of a great-grandmother. I barely remember the woman herself--she died when I was about 3. But I remember when my mother took me to visit her house, when I would sit on her porch or on her living room floor, it carried these same smells--both the musty age and the new garden life. I remember that when I was so very young, dread was not a thing that could hold me long. And with the intensity of childhood I revisited that hopefulness, that anticipation of life wherein the child, in its own state of prehistory, still believes circumstances can not be so dire as to destroy the sanctity of future-life. And this knowing is the essence of innocence, a gift far too profound to occupy conscious thought in the child, but a pervasive state of being, nonetheless. It's primacy is most apparent when some providential trigger causes its memory to swell up again in the forgetful and care-laden adult.
Great-grandma endured two World Wars, the Great Depression, and her husband's bout with TB, among other lesser stresses. No doubt she, too, had nights of sitting in the dark, wrapped in a woolen blanket as a cool summer breeze blew the moist scent of growing things across the porch where she rocked. No doubt she fought the urge to give in to panic over things more pressing than any problems of mine. No doubt she endured until the morning.
And so did I.
Thank goodness for the garden I have this summer, and for its abundance. I remember I did indeed sow in tears--and almost not at all as my husband's accident decommissioned him from tiller work. But I am also reaping in joy, even this early in the season, and not just reaping in the form of garden produce (although my first batch of zucchini relish tastes exceptionally good if I do say so myself.) It has been a hard year financially, harder still this summer as my teaching job does not pay year round, but only during the months when I'm working; and crises robbed the stores we meant to put back during those work months. Summer is lean.
So what to do when the panic strikes, when thought-voices bombard with the reminder that the nebulous web of our financial lives could collapse under one good wind? Do I, like Scarlett O'Hara, say "I'll think about that tomorrow?" No. I'm more tempered to sit and stew during those long hours of the day when I'm least capable of positively changing my circumstances. In fact, that is exactly what I did the other night. So I sat on the sofa, trying to read a book--in other words, trying to do the Scarlett O'Hara thing. But as I read, I noticed I was unconsciously pressing myself deep into the throw that is across the back of the couch, and I realized it was the odor of that blanket that drew me to it.
Now, normally, this smell repels me. In fact, I've considered packing this particular throw away because of its smell. Some olfactory terms carry positive connotations. Words like fragrant, aromatic, perfumed...but none of these would be the words to give this smell this woolen fabric carried. More likely acrid, musty, foul, nearly rancid. It didn't reek exactly, but close proximity made its scent obvious, if not overpowering. In fact, the only way that it could be worse would be to glaze the scent of damp mothballs over the surface smell of it.
But this particular night, I felt a strange comfort in that blanket's scent. Now why would that be? I pondered on this thought as I set my book aside. Then it struck me just what this scent meant to me. It meant endurance. It meant the power to withstand rugged weathering.
I grinned, remembering times when my family has deemed me needful of a spa-day and so has given one as some holiday gift. I thought of my own aroma after those days: I smell like something heady and luxurious. Pampered, powdery, floral and citrus aromas pulsate off my dewy skin--for about six hours. But this blanket's smell is entirely different--it says "I saw the generation that came before you and even now I see the one that comes after you. My scent can be neither gained--nor lost--in a day."
And that thought brought me to discover the deepest appeal of that old quilt. As I recognized its secret bounty, I gave myself completely to that musty old blanket. I pulled it around me with as much a sense of luxury as if it had been mink, and I went out the back door to sit on the steps, for the scent on the breeze wafting through the window had served the perfect accompaniment to the smell of my drape. A long dry spell had left my garden virtually odorless, but the day's rain had raised it aromatic again--spicy, pungent. A bitter mingling of the scents of squash and tomato leaves blew across the potted basil and thyme and dill to meet me where I sat. So I breathed it all deeply, but most of all...I remembered.
I remembered these smells as ones of my childhood, when my first association with them had been at the house of a great-grandmother. I barely remember the woman herself--she died when I was about 3. But I remember when my mother took me to visit her house, when I would sit on her porch or on her living room floor, it carried these same smells--both the musty age and the new garden life. I remember that when I was so very young, dread was not a thing that could hold me long. And with the intensity of childhood I revisited that hopefulness, that anticipation of life wherein the child, in its own state of prehistory, still believes circumstances can not be so dire as to destroy the sanctity of future-life. And this knowing is the essence of innocence, a gift far too profound to occupy conscious thought in the child, but a pervasive state of being, nonetheless. It's primacy is most apparent when some providential trigger causes its memory to swell up again in the forgetful and care-laden adult.
Great-grandma endured two World Wars, the Great Depression, and her husband's bout with TB, among other lesser stresses. No doubt she, too, had nights of sitting in the dark, wrapped in a woolen blanket as a cool summer breeze blew the moist scent of growing things across the porch where she rocked. No doubt she fought the urge to give in to panic over things more pressing than any problems of mine. No doubt she endured until the morning.
And so did I.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
The Template for Church
Today we had our annual outdoor service complete with pitch-in picnic.
And the pastor spoke of our template for church.
Aren't there a lot of them, now?
But for me, today was a template fit for my favorites list.
Sitting, singing to an open sky,
Where no ceiling threw my words back down at me.
Praying in the golden sunlight,
While a sweaty little boy played with blades of grass beside me.
And the pastor spoke of our template for church.
Aren't there a lot of them, now?
But for me, today was a template fit for my favorites list.
Sitting, singing to an open sky,
Where no ceiling threw my words back down at me.
Praying in the golden sunlight,
While a sweaty little boy played with blades of grass beside me.
Psychic Soil
Last week while traveling,
I stopped where a bronze historic plaque
announced to me that I
was on the very site
of the westernmost naval battle of the revolution.
So, I looked around me, and then I looked at the earth.
I wondered:
What if in those days people were as hot for psychics as they are now?
What if they wouldn't act without a go ahead from one who sees ahead?
What if you,
O Soil that still remains,
would have answered those questions
flung to the future?
What would you say to that soldier-boy
when he lifted a handful of you, sifting, and asked,
"Is this patch of ground worth the shedding of my blood?
Worth the ending of my life?
What will my descendants do with the gift of it?"
Would you tell them, O Soil, what I see?
Would you say,
"Well, someday, there will be a small truck stop here.
People will traffic along the way,
--because US 41 is a decent 4-lane highway--
But as for this spot,
well, I see it someday house
a small truck stop,
a lone diner,
and a 10-room motel.
The truck stop will offer things like showers and maps,
hot dogs will roll forever to nowhere under their warmer lights,
and big shriveled pickles sealed in juicy plastic bags will sit
under the shopkeeper's counter.
People will laze around here, looking vacant, waiting,
but not for anything in particular.
They'll sit with their tennis shoes propped on the arm rests
of the open doors
of rusty pickups,
all the while looking blankly at the window ads for liquors and lotteries
ice cream and cigarettes.
O Soil, is your silence merciful?
Or would the soldier-boy see even these
as his kinsmen?
Sadly, too much modern spin has gone on soldier-boy's motives
for me to find that answer
through my own investigations--
and the soil?
It is silent
both directions.
I stopped where a bronze historic plaque
announced to me that I
was on the very site
of the westernmost naval battle of the revolution.
So, I looked around me, and then I looked at the earth.
I wondered:
What if in those days people were as hot for psychics as they are now?
What if they wouldn't act without a go ahead from one who sees ahead?
What if you,
O Soil that still remains,
would have answered those questions
flung to the future?
What would you say to that soldier-boy
when he lifted a handful of you, sifting, and asked,
"Is this patch of ground worth the shedding of my blood?
Worth the ending of my life?
What will my descendants do with the gift of it?"
Would you tell them, O Soil, what I see?
Would you say,
"Well, someday, there will be a small truck stop here.
People will traffic along the way,
--because US 41 is a decent 4-lane highway--
But as for this spot,
well, I see it someday house
a small truck stop,
a lone diner,
and a 10-room motel.
The truck stop will offer things like showers and maps,
hot dogs will roll forever to nowhere under their warmer lights,
and big shriveled pickles sealed in juicy plastic bags will sit
under the shopkeeper's counter.
People will laze around here, looking vacant, waiting,
but not for anything in particular.
They'll sit with their tennis shoes propped on the arm rests
of the open doors
of rusty pickups,
all the while looking blankly at the window ads for liquors and lotteries
ice cream and cigarettes.
O Soil, is your silence merciful?
Or would the soldier-boy see even these
as his kinsmen?
Sadly, too much modern spin has gone on soldier-boy's motives
for me to find that answer
through my own investigations--
and the soil?
It is silent
both directions.
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