It has almost been like there was nothing left to say in this blog. Finally, the point was made. Finally we reached the point when I accepted I could no longer do this thing called life alone. In the process, I was swallowed (slightly) by the tide, just as the Bible promises a man will be when his eyes veer off from Jesus.
No, no you haven't heard from me as speedily or consistently as you did, for I am still finding my footing here. My steps certainly are ordered by the Lord, for when you try to lift your feet on your own, once you've experienced the (even sometimes painful) ease of walking with him, trying to do it on your own becomes quite heavy and hard to do. Then all of a sudden, you notice you are tired and you've done absolutely nothing, but looked like you were doing something. Ouch.
Honestly, I can say this small wink of time - these last two weeks I'd say -- the first dose of reality set in. By that I mean, a waywardness, a time of thirst. For the first time I noticed I was thirsty in a very different way. It reminds me of being in Geawh-giah (Georgia). It was so hot there. I remember when we stopped at a rinky dink Dairy Queen in the middle of nowhere for a pit stop being completely astounded at the fact I could feel so hot and thirsty --even the air looked parched -- yet the trees were green. Having just left Savannah three hours earlier, there was still sand all over me, and so in the terribly unkept and rather stinky restroom I attempted to shake out the sand from places I didn't know existed while simultaneously trying to touch as little as possible and fantasizing about dousing myself in Lysol to feel clean.
While I waited for James and Amelie to order their treats I foolishly went outside, disappointed to find a locked car closed tightly because it was packed to the brim with our valuables. Cool air. It's all I wanted. Not to feel icky, gross, tired or dirty. The blacktop pavement was so hot I felt it would melt the thin sole of my flimsy flip flops. But because I was always a good mom and never smoked in the car, I had to stand there, and endure the heat in order to load up on nicotine before we hit the road again. That was the summer Dolly Parton was our soundtrack, I discovered Applejack, and I broke down and wore tank tops, not giving a whit the sun would touch my skin and give me a tan -- it was hot and in that very moment I felt like a potato wrapped in layers foil, cooking in the hawt geaw-giah suuhun. Never before or since have I felt a heat like that.
Such great detail of this setting is so important, because a few days later, I met James' grandmother. That was a day I experienced a moment that will forever be burned in my brain. What she said that day has become quite a popular phrase,even among those who never even met the woman. She is a typical southern belle, with a heavy - I mean heavy southern drawl. She is an old woman, set in her ways. She had a small, yet quaint home, complete with the scent of settled dust. We came in the back, through the small kitchen, and I was led past her round breakfast table from the sixties with a vinyl tablecloth, while her husband sat there, talking about fishing with another fella in the family. James led me on a rather brief tour of her sitting room, perfected with a baby blue couch covered in plastic she never used and drapes to match and that probably hadn't been opened to shed light upon a room full of trinkets in at least thirty years. As any propah Southern Wohman should, she has a flay-ah for the dramatic.
James pointed out later she really mucked up her southern accent in honor of meeting me, apparently. Just as clear as if it was yesterday, I remember, just shortly after this picture was taken, she said these words to her husband (imagine in the most profound of southern accents, complete with extra syllables), "Dayh-ddy? Da-ahddy! Get me my wahdawh! Im dry! (pause) I'm so very, very dry!"
I would have never thought a reference to James' grandmother would ever enter the abysmal electronic record of the internet. But it is a simple memory, a very plain, and dramatic statement from an old southern woman that stuck with me -- and randomly identified the reason, several years later, why my focus was lacking and quite respectfully reminded me as I recalled her sitting room she doesn't sit in -- appearances don't count, it's the heart that matters.
A dear friend recently told me I was like a 'fart in a skillet.' What? Never hearing the phrase before, I nearly dropped the phone. I mean-- how? How prey tell --is a phrase like that even made up?!?! Only in Texas is all I can say. Although the phrase is loud and albeit highly descriptive (can you imagine?), it illuminates a discipline that just works, no matter your belief: Keep It Simple, Stupid. KISS. It was her way of calling me out, drawing my attention to the fact that at times, my attentions and desires are all over the map, dabbling in all, rather than maintaining consistency by developing well. I was making things more complicated. I was putting too many I's in my story. I, I, I, I, I, even as I went about my days, around my left wrist, sits a rubber band to remind me I am Second. Most importantly, I was not trusting God. In my routine, I began to lose sight of the point. And this friend noticed, she noticed I was being distracted, and because she loves me, in her charming Texan way, called me a fart in a skillet. How can you beat that? Here's the best part about that, you ready? The best iron skillets are well used, durable --seasoned. So valuable, in fact, included in the wills of many, passed from generation to generation. I'll take the skillet without the gas.
And I realized, she was right. For the first time I recognized I was out of step. A fart in a skillet, a fish out of water. My tail was just flippin, wiggling, my mouth open, gasping -- the water I'd been drinking was muddy, and only I knew it. I was thinking way too much of myself, going through the motions of loving the Lord, hence why nothing was coming out of me, and I felt dry! So very, very dry.
The water was there, I could see it -- going through the actions to get it, but it simply didn't taste the same. It's the living water, yes....that cool and refreshing living water I sang and sang about while the Lord patiently pursued my very soul --without my ever knowing it. Yes, that water is crisp, and much like the Lord's conviction -- it's clean.
You simply can't rely on what you've done -- or where your skillet's been or who it belonged to. Tradition. Routine. Not enough. When my daughter asks why my food always tastes so good, I have a simple answer. The secret ingredient is love (and lots of garlic). I love to cook. My heart's in it. It's that simple. And when I'm just trying to get a weeknight meal on the table in a hurry -- we can tell. It's not as good. Sometimes, it's bleh-- just like the last two weeks have been. Bleh.
And today, the tap was turned back on when I began my day, fully present, in the Word, seeing just how much he is at work, orchestrating future events at this very moment that will redeem my past, not because of me, but rather, to make much of him. When Jesus is on tap, the pour is always good.
It happens to be the first day in about two weeks I've actually finished my coffee.
So to write this post, I turned to the next segment of my journey, and that was my first time at the Village Church. Again, conviction. Oh boy. Plainly simple and purposefully clean.
My first visit to a church -- a mega church no less -- in a former grocery store -- opened with an announcement of a staff member who committed suicide that weekend.
If you haven't caught the term yet -- that is a Godwink, and I can't believe I just got it. No one thought I'd live to thirteen, and when I did, they wondered if I'd make it to sixteen. Talk of suicide --the struggle of being suicidal-- something I knew first hand is what this preacher opens with? That is the difference between the structured planning you do as a human and the loving orchestration of an all seeing God that knows infinitely more than you will ever know. That is the difference, and my friends, it doesn't stop there -- it gets even better.
It was the orchestration of events, lovingly and delicately woven together. That day happened as a child, just like Daddy falling over dead on January, 6 1986 happened... Yes it did. It set me on a path in direct opposition to everything my mother stood for. But in that moment, that very moment, the overpowering yet weight lifting redemptive power of God's grace, was just, Idon't know how to say it -- just washed over me. It let me forgive my mother. It began to loosen the archetypes that enslaved me, and enabled the removal of the muck in my the past to simply remind me --yet again--how much he loves me, and how much he cared for me then, how much he cares for me now, and how much he cares for my future.
And my future is bright. I think I'm gonna need shades. Already he is providing glimpses to what my future holds, and let me tell you -- there is meaning behind the term "heart's desire." And the brevity of knowing that is simply mind blowing.
Just today I read, "A clear vision makes it easy to weed out of your life those things that stand in the way of achieving what matters most. Vision empowers you to to move purposefully in a predetermined direction. Once you have clarified your vision, many decisions are already made. Without vision, good things will hinder you from achieving the best things." Andy Stanley
These are perfect words for a ransomed girl, learning who her Dad really is, and how to receive that love to simply make much of him...because it really has nothing at all to do with me.
No, no you haven't heard from me as speedily or consistently as you did, for I am still finding my footing here. My steps certainly are ordered by the Lord, for when you try to lift your feet on your own, once you've experienced the (even sometimes painful) ease of walking with him, trying to do it on your own becomes quite heavy and hard to do. Then all of a sudden, you notice you are tired and you've done absolutely nothing, but looked like you were doing something. Ouch.
While I waited for James and Amelie to order their treats I foolishly went outside, disappointed to find a locked car closed tightly because it was packed to the brim with our valuables. Cool air. It's all I wanted. Not to feel icky, gross, tired or dirty. The blacktop pavement was so hot I felt it would melt the thin sole of my flimsy flip flops. But because I was always a good mom and never smoked in the car, I had to stand there, and endure the heat in order to load up on nicotine before we hit the road again. That was the summer Dolly Parton was our soundtrack, I discovered Applejack, and I broke down and wore tank tops, not giving a whit the sun would touch my skin and give me a tan -- it was hot and in that very moment I felt like a potato wrapped in layers foil, cooking in the hawt geaw-giah suuhun. Never before or since have I felt a heat like that.
Such great detail of this setting is so important, because a few days later, I met James' grandmother. That was a day I experienced a moment that will forever be burned in my brain. What she said that day has become quite a popular phrase,even among those who never even met the woman. She is a typical southern belle, with a heavy - I mean heavy southern drawl. She is an old woman, set in her ways. She had a small, yet quaint home, complete with the scent of settled dust. We came in the back, through the small kitchen, and I was led past her round breakfast table from the sixties with a vinyl tablecloth, while her husband sat there, talking about fishing with another fella in the family. James led me on a rather brief tour of her sitting room, perfected with a baby blue couch covered in plastic she never used and drapes to match and that probably hadn't been opened to shed light upon a room full of trinkets in at least thirty years. As any propah Southern Wohman should, she has a flay-ah for the dramatic.
James pointed out later she really mucked up her southern accent in honor of meeting me, apparently. Just as clear as if it was yesterday, I remember, just shortly after this picture was taken, she said these words to her husband (imagine in the most profound of southern accents, complete with extra syllables), "Dayh-ddy? Da-ahddy! Get me my wahdawh! Im dry! (pause) I'm so very, very dry!"I would have never thought a reference to James' grandmother would ever enter the abysmal electronic record of the internet. But it is a simple memory, a very plain, and dramatic statement from an old southern woman that stuck with me -- and randomly identified the reason, several years later, why my focus was lacking and quite respectfully reminded me as I recalled her sitting room she doesn't sit in -- appearances don't count, it's the heart that matters.
A dear friend recently told me I was like a 'fart in a skillet.' What? Never hearing the phrase before, I nearly dropped the phone. I mean-- how? How prey tell --is a phrase like that even made up?!?! Only in Texas is all I can say. Although the phrase is loud and albeit highly descriptive (can you imagine?), it illuminates a discipline that just works, no matter your belief: Keep It Simple, Stupid. KISS. It was her way of calling me out, drawing my attention to the fact that at times, my attentions and desires are all over the map, dabbling in all, rather than maintaining consistency by developing well. I was making things more complicated. I was putting too many I's in my story. I, I, I, I, I, even as I went about my days, around my left wrist, sits a rubber band to remind me I am Second. Most importantly, I was not trusting God. In my routine, I began to lose sight of the point. And this friend noticed, she noticed I was being distracted, and because she loves me, in her charming Texan way, called me a fart in a skillet. How can you beat that? Here's the best part about that, you ready? The best iron skillets are well used, durable --seasoned. So valuable, in fact, included in the wills of many, passed from generation to generation. I'll take the skillet without the gas.
And I realized, she was right. For the first time I recognized I was out of step. A fart in a skillet, a fish out of water. My tail was just flippin, wiggling, my mouth open, gasping -- the water I'd been drinking was muddy, and only I knew it. I was thinking way too much of myself, going through the motions of loving the Lord, hence why nothing was coming out of me, and I felt dry! So very, very dry.
The water was there, I could see it -- going through the actions to get it, but it simply didn't taste the same. It's the living water, yes....that cool and refreshing living water I sang and sang about while the Lord patiently pursued my very soul --without my ever knowing it. Yes, that water is crisp, and much like the Lord's conviction -- it's clean.
You simply can't rely on what you've done -- or where your skillet's been or who it belonged to. Tradition. Routine. Not enough. When my daughter asks why my food always tastes so good, I have a simple answer. The secret ingredient is love (and lots of garlic). I love to cook. My heart's in it. It's that simple. And when I'm just trying to get a weeknight meal on the table in a hurry -- we can tell. It's not as good. Sometimes, it's bleh-- just like the last two weeks have been. Bleh.
And today, the tap was turned back on when I began my day, fully present, in the Word, seeing just how much he is at work, orchestrating future events at this very moment that will redeem my past, not because of me, but rather, to make much of him. When Jesus is on tap, the pour is always good.
It happens to be the first day in about two weeks I've actually finished my coffee.
So to write this post, I turned to the next segment of my journey, and that was my first time at the Village Church. Again, conviction. Oh boy. Plainly simple and purposefully clean.
My first visit to a church -- a mega church no less -- in a former grocery store -- opened with an announcement of a staff member who committed suicide that weekend.
If you haven't caught the term yet -- that is a Godwink, and I can't believe I just got it. No one thought I'd live to thirteen, and when I did, they wondered if I'd make it to sixteen. Talk of suicide --the struggle of being suicidal-- something I knew first hand is what this preacher opens with? That is the difference between the structured planning you do as a human and the loving orchestration of an all seeing God that knows infinitely more than you will ever know. That is the difference, and my friends, it doesn't stop there -- it gets even better.
I think people look at the world and themselves, and through our cultural lens, they assume that God’s mission is about us. “The reason everything exists is so that God might save me, might rescue me and might ultimately have children like we have children where we want to see them mature, safe and well put together. That’s kind of like the mission of God.” And they will point to the fact that God created us. They will point to all the verses in the Bible where God loves us, provides for us, cares for us, shields us and protects us. They’ll point to that and go, “See? Isn’t it obvious? We’re the point. We’re what God is after.”
Now, God is for you, God does love you, God does provide for you, He is a shield about you and He is the lifter of your head, but there is a motivation behind all that lifting, protecting, guiding and love that goes well beyond you.
I’m going to take you to one of the most famous verses in the Bible to show you this. If you are from Texas, you have been given this passage on a bookmark, a coffee cup or something. You will know this text even if you have no church background. So let’s look at it. Psalm 23, starting in verse 1, “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures... - Matt Chandler, The Mission of God.
At this point folks, every single piece of me welled up into a ball that just wanted to flood the stadium seating I sat in -- and I could've done that, because I was sitting in the very back. Ok, not completely. Two rows from the back. It was my first time there -- don't judge. In college I was (and am) a front row kinda gal, but I was at church. A mega church (that to this day still does not feel like one to me, btw). Why, you ask? Why was a deluge welling up inside of me? This Psalm wasn't given to me on a coffee cup -- it was handed to me in a punishment.
One day as a child, I was made to stay in my room until I memorized Psalm 23 -- that was the day I tore up three Bibles and thus began my hatred of all things Christian. It was the first day I swore I would never ever be like the person who, from my childlike perspective, locked me in my room until I memorized this chapter, this particular Psalm. Out of the entire Bible, or even all the Psalms, this is what Chandler gives a rather thorough exegetical comb over of-- my first time in church -- willingly?
And my future is bright. I think I'm gonna need shades. Already he is providing glimpses to what my future holds, and let me tell you -- there is meaning behind the term "heart's desire." And the brevity of knowing that is simply mind blowing.
Just today I read, "A clear vision makes it easy to weed out of your life those things that stand in the way of achieving what matters most. Vision empowers you to to move purposefully in a predetermined direction. Once you have clarified your vision, many decisions are already made. Without vision, good things will hinder you from achieving the best things." Andy Stanley
These are perfect words for a ransomed girl, learning who her Dad really is, and how to receive that love to simply make much of him...because it really has nothing at all to do with me.
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