With heavy heart from hearing an American Hero is no longer with us, I can only pray that Dr. Bernard Nathanson mentored replacements to occupy his truly great place in the history of Guardians of the American Zygote.
Fearing he did not, my already heavy heart is yet further weighed down.
God heal our land. God bless Kieth Mason & family. May his great heart dwarf Dr. Nathansen's.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Chuck Smith No More
An early start to a typical Valentines Day (except for the part where I kept coughing on DH, & ran out of Kleenex because last Friday I !ran out! of Zycam...), the 6am Valentines exchage included DH's annual humorous good nature: homemade, hot off the printer, insightful & timely. He's a genius in the Valentine dept. I went back to bed for the ultimate common cold cure, BEDREST. Darn the iPhone, however, as it's been 2 hrs. of emails and websurf, but NO REST. I blame D#1, Bryan Kemper, and Chuck Smith. The former's email documented the latter's incomprehensibly spineless pro-abortion waffling, and so my viral state continues in every way physiologic, Apple-technic, and metaphoric.
My email response, below, betrays my usual acerbity, proof that AmZyg still has a long way to go before growing up and OUT of angry arrogance. I will try to rest now, under the judgment of my Creator and my own worse self.
Only 2.5 months to go before I am 50. What a burden. As if I were not already in a lamentable state, my Valentine of 28 yrs. (+/- 3 break ups) told me I need to DO SOMETHING to halt my lately balding pate. PHILIPPIANS 4 would have me joyful at this sentiment. It indicates that my DH is finally growing serious about his convictions.
"We briefly met in the hallway of your Logos Bldg. You sampled my husband's meatballs served to a gathering of Eagle Forum guests & speakers; & we've since boasted to friends/family that 'Hey! Chuck SMITH likes Hubby's cooking...'
But after hearing you equivocate on the SANCTITY of all human life, we will boast no more, sir. We are awestruck and heartsick, & can't help but surmise whatother areas of moral compromise must be at work in your life for this counter-intuitive conclusion to be reached?? [OH, I shudder to have stooped to the hypocritical tactic of finger pointing.] Else, what Bible-based pastor could possibly counsel a woman to "deify" her doctors by holding their Darwinist opinions above Scripture & concede to kill her own offspring? Doctors are not Gods. The AMA's humanist agenda cultivates demi-gods bent on secularizing their realm. You, sir, above all others, should have seen right through their advice.
[I did not, in my headachey state, begin to address all that was offensive in Pastor Smith's answer to 'Nikki from Riverside' --see Youtube link from Mr. Kemper's StandTrue.com. It allowed that we may do whatever we wish in this life, and that the Compassionate Christ, who forgives all sin, will just look the other way! If this 'anything goes' sense of the Gospel doesn't indicate some morally abased compromise happening in someone's head or heart or doctrines, then AmZyg is not a wily sinner who's own record of justifying sin (pride? anorexia? bulimia? premarital sex? unfaithful anger?) has resulted in untold harm and sizable counseling bills... We cannot just wish away our willful behaviour on the un-biblical, semi-RomanCatholic assumption that "Jesus will just take away my sins." A Just God will press hard into us the ultimatums of right versus wrong, and His judgments are sure and heavy and painful when we refuse to surrender to what His Spirit & Scripture declare is Right. Certainly, when we repent, healing happens in time, and His forgiveness can be real, but the pain of a Believer's regret is a heavy price to pay for wrongheaded willfulness, and the toll it exacts is a lonesome distance between our repentant selves and His ready healing --Lamentations 3 to Psalm 130. This new mindset, if that is what this is, is surely the Emergent Church I keep hearing about.]
I am praying Nikki will get the benefit of true wise counsel and submit to the Awesome Sovereign God of ALL creation, rather than live out her life with the unconscionable memory of blood on her hands.
And the same for you, sir.
Sincerely, Elena Flores Blanco"
Sent from my iPhone
My email response, below, betrays my usual acerbity, proof that AmZyg still has a long way to go before growing up and OUT of angry arrogance. I will try to rest now, under the judgment of my Creator and my own worse self.
Only 2.5 months to go before I am 50. What a burden. As if I were not already in a lamentable state, my Valentine of 28 yrs. (+/- 3 break ups) told me I need to DO SOMETHING to halt my lately balding pate. PHILIPPIANS 4 would have me joyful at this sentiment. It indicates that my DH is finally growing serious about his convictions.
---...---...---...---...---...---...---
My email to Pastor Smith:"We briefly met in the hallway of your Logos Bldg. You sampled my husband's meatballs served to a gathering of Eagle Forum guests & speakers; & we've since boasted to friends/family that 'Hey! Chuck SMITH likes Hubby's cooking...'
But after hearing you equivocate on the SANCTITY of all human life, we will boast no more, sir. We are awestruck and heartsick, & can't help but surmise what
[I did not, in my headachey state, begin to address all that was offensive in Pastor Smith's answer to 'Nikki from Riverside' --see Youtube link from Mr. Kemper's StandTrue.com. It allowed that we may do whatever we wish in this life, and that the Compassionate Christ, who forgives all sin, will just look the other way! If this 'anything goes' sense of the Gospel doesn't indicate some morally abased compromise happening in someone's head or heart or doctrines, then AmZyg is not a wily sinner who's own record of justifying sin (pride? anorexia? bulimia? premarital sex? unfaithful anger?) has resulted in untold harm and sizable counseling bills... We cannot just wish away our willful behaviour on the un-biblical, semi-RomanCatholic assumption that "Jesus will just take away my sins." A Just God will press hard into us the ultimatums of right versus wrong, and His judgments are sure and heavy and painful when we refuse to surrender to what His Spirit & Scripture declare is Right. Certainly, when we repent, healing happens in time, and His forgiveness can be real, but the pain of a Believer's regret is a heavy price to pay for wrongheaded willfulness, and the toll it exacts is a lonesome distance between our repentant selves and His ready healing --Lamentations 3 to Psalm 130. This new mindset, if that is what this is, is surely the Emergent Church I keep hearing about.]
I am praying Nikki will get the benefit of true wise counsel and submit to the Awesome Sovereign God of ALL creation, rather than live out her life with the unconscionable memory of blood on her hands.
And the same for you, sir.
Sincerely, Elena Flores Blanco"
Sent from my iPhone
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Super God
It felt like failing to curtsey before the king.
Holding a two hour long story time & hike to Turtle Pond at a County park without being able to recommend the Creator Savior responsible for it all, was like giving twelve children a bag of potato chips and not a drop of milk to wash it down. I ache at the feeling following me around all evening, that I was rude to a KING.
Thus, to honor this CreatorSaviour, AmZyg is pondering the three months remaining before she must necessarily become 'grown up'; a self respecting fifty year old American citizen-survivor of laws which make it legal to kill a child throughout all nine months of pregnancy.
From a little brochure by L. Brenegan, 2004/LittleOnePublishing.com:
"Month 6. 'I am fourteen inches! I'm sitting up straight now!'
The baby's oil and sweat glands are functioning; these help regulate body temperature. A white filmy layer covers the baby and protects her delicate skin from the surrounding amniotic fluid and from scratches as she twists and turns. This waxy substance will be quickly absorbed into her skin soon after she is born. She can now respond to sound. Her lungs are fairly well developed and she would stand a good chance of survival if born at this time."
As Super Bowl champions return inflated to Green Bay and the defeated Steelers sulk home to Pittsburg, our nation sighs under the pains of opulence. What comes supersized always exacts a fallout. Nehemiah 9-11.
And thoughts of cherished survivors listening to today's reptile and amphibian stories will haunt my thoughts & prayers.
Holding a two hour long story time & hike to Turtle Pond at a County park without being able to recommend the Creator Savior responsible for it all, was like giving twelve children a bag of potato chips and not a drop of milk to wash it down. I ache at the feeling following me around all evening, that I was rude to a KING.
Thus, to honor this CreatorSaviour, AmZyg is pondering the three months remaining before she must necessarily become 'grown up'; a self respecting fifty year old American citizen-survivor of laws which make it legal to kill a child throughout all nine months of pregnancy.
From a little brochure by L. Brenegan, 2004/LittleOnePublishing.com:
"Month 6. 'I am fourteen inches! I'm sitting up straight now!'
The baby's oil and sweat glands are functioning; these help regulate body temperature. A white filmy layer covers the baby and protects her delicate skin from the surrounding amniotic fluid and from scratches as she twists and turns. This waxy substance will be quickly absorbed into her skin soon after she is born. She can now respond to sound. Her lungs are fairly well developed and she would stand a good chance of survival if born at this time."
As Super Bowl champions return inflated to Green Bay and the defeated Steelers sulk home to Pittsburg, our nation sighs under the pains of opulence. What comes supersized always exacts a fallout. Nehemiah 9-11.
And thoughts of cherished survivors listening to today's reptile and amphibian stories will haunt my thoughts & prayers.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Mere Poetry
If I can believe my Good Earth Tea tag, John Adams said, "You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket."
That is why gardening captures the soul. Since nature declares God's poetry, then weeding in The Midst, one is never alone. Unhealthy as it may seem, solo stints in the public gardens where I donate time are reparative, cleansing, thrilling; and yet as calming as an hour with Scott or Stevenson. Unplugged, uninterrupted, birdsonged, sublime.
But sometimes there is a loudmouth in proximity, usually in the flock of volunteers that serve a particular garden area at the same time each week. One recoils from within, doubled over in emotional abeyance, wishing to be anywhere else... enduring the exaltations of this one fellow's petty grievances and lonely proclamations that spoil the salve that is a well tended garden. I understand he is most to be pitied but my practiced patience is mere feigned interest in his conversations.
Would that I could really love from The True Heart of Christ. (That would be like having patience with a narcissistic son. I have so, so far to go.) I ponder the fact that I am assigned to this pack, this gardening team, because I was prone to prune outside the bounds; caught resenting an authority who said NOT to uncover the hidden cafe sign, but I meanly pruned anyway, revealing my own narcissism, even if the spanish tiled sign was now visible for the first time in well over a year. So, this suffering is born of my own rebellion! I am my OS's mother.
PS...
RE: rifled poetry
I think you were on to me, Daughter#1. I did mess with your poetry the other night. You left your laptop open, and when trying to find a podcast on bee hives, there it was, a 'Book I' in the making: 47 pages of your writing from high school to early college. I wondered 'how long till you notice my meddling??' Ah, some 24 hours later, i heard you mutter some lament @ a ...hacker? You waved me off when I inquired, so that means you like my edits?
Maybe leave your laptop off from now on. You know how I crave polished poems. And do delete Zubeo if you like. I have not had one hour at home to listen all week. Someday, when it's my time to paint, maybe.
---Your mum, aka, Clean Freak.
That is why gardening captures the soul. Since nature declares God's poetry, then weeding in The Midst, one is never alone. Unhealthy as it may seem, solo stints in the public gardens where I donate time are reparative, cleansing, thrilling; and yet as calming as an hour with Scott or Stevenson. Unplugged, uninterrupted, birdsonged, sublime.
But sometimes there is a loudmouth in proximity, usually in the flock of volunteers that serve a particular garden area at the same time each week. One recoils from within, doubled over in emotional abeyance, wishing to be anywhere else... enduring the exaltations of this one fellow's petty grievances and lonely proclamations that spoil the salve that is a well tended garden. I understand he is most to be pitied but my practiced patience is mere feigned interest in his conversations.
Would that I could really love from The True Heart of Christ. (That would be like having patience with a narcissistic son. I have so, so far to go.) I ponder the fact that I am assigned to this pack, this gardening team, because I was prone to prune outside the bounds; caught resenting an authority who said NOT to uncover the hidden cafe sign, but I meanly pruned anyway, revealing my own narcissism, even if the spanish tiled sign was now visible for the first time in well over a year. So, this suffering is born of my own rebellion! I am my OS's mother.
PS...
RE: rifled poetry
I think you were on to me, Daughter#1. I did mess with your poetry the other night. You left your laptop open, and when trying to find a podcast on bee hives, there it was, a 'Book I' in the making: 47 pages of your writing from high school to early college. I wondered 'how long till you notice my meddling??' Ah, some 24 hours later, i heard you mutter some lament @ a ...hacker? You waved me off when I inquired, so that means you like my edits?
Maybe leave your laptop off from now on. You know how I crave polished poems. And do delete Zubeo if you like. I have not had one hour at home to listen all week. Someday, when it's my time to paint, maybe.
---Your mum, aka, Clean Freak.
Monday, January 31, 2011
P.S. Anna, and, About A Chair in the Life of a Year
It was time to get the ratty Rodeo Drive heirloom chair out of the garage and make it a part of the family. It was November 2009, and we called the good-guy upholstery man who ran for Congress, has a signed photo of himself with Ronald Reagan, comes to your house with giant books of fabric swatches, and who was referred by an Eagle Forum Tiger Mom.
He arrived in the evening so hubby could sit alongside and witness the momentous purchase. Mr. Upholstery Man saw my swatch pick, a stately chair pictured in a torn out newspaper ad and saved for the day when we'd saved a little (read aLOT of) spare cash... enough, even, to have a second identical chair built to match. WELL, so we didn't really have a set-aside; we just didn't have monthly college tuition bills to pay anymore, and the new freedom called for celebration.
The day had come, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Except, Mr. Upholsterer didn't have my pattern. Before "plan B" was all signed and sealed, Mr. Upholstery and DH agreed that they liked this little swirlie pattern, and because I tend to like anything swirlie, I gave in. As we got ready to push away from the table, I sensed buyer's remorse start to creep over me. I began to suspect this pattern, small and busy, would overpower the senses. And yet, Upholstery Man was a professional, and he disagreed, so I gave in again. Christmas came and went, New Years 2010 passed by, and then most of January disappeared before delivery day arrived.
I was... mortified? Ticked? Vindicated? All of the above? Yes. Nasty, too. Pretty obviously disgruntled. Delivery Boy left inahurry. He saw what I saw. The pair look like they belonged in a bordello. Well, sigh. They were meant for our bedroom... (...yet remained in the living room all year, after several bottoms found them comfy, convenient, inviting.)
The point of this little excursion down bad-memory lane is to tag the year 2010 as the Year of Rain; or, the Year of When It Rains It Pours. What followed was a saga of numerous other misapprehensions: of Bible Bookshelves purchased at a BibleBookstore Going Out of Business Sale that got their feet wet in the art room before I figured out they'd fit in another room (--they really did shelve Bibles in their former tour of duty, so ruining sacred shelves just felt Wrong); of rainstorm after rainstorm ungluing each caulk-fix in the leaky art room; of watching OS and a very skinny friend labor under the weight of those huge floor-display shelves, spinning them in a most brilliant manner in order to wedge them just-so beneath a sloping aluminum roof; yet, they had to be moved twice more. Floods at the back door, psyche-accosting bordello chairs smirking at my front door. Termites appeared. We ignored them. A roof leak re-appeared in a bathroom. Roofers who tended to it smeared black tar across white fascia board. When called on to fix it, they didn't. My tutoree didn't re-up. My SAT proctor job didn't re-up. My oil painting dream died. My counselor didn't want to talk about She-Pastor-Persecutor, so, I stopped going. That makes, uh, ten-or-something tries at counseling? Then, one night, I quipped a rant at the Celebrate Recovery women. The shame sent me into a 'withdrawal from society' that led to my new Zygote mentality and this silly attempt at forging spiritual growth through a public bflog. What began with high hopes for hubby & me to start each day in bedroom prayer-chairs, ended in a heap of soggy concrete and a Christless Christmas. Go Team.
Rain.rain.Rain.rain. 2010 won't come again, but tho the trials seem behind, history's always on rewind.
My chairs still remind me of pubic hair, and the 6" termite hole in the den wall (nicely sprayed, thank you very much) is neatly covered up by a giant painting of moonlight I found in a neighbor's trash can, and the Oils class that lasted only three sessions before I began to sense Nero fiddling while Rome burns produced a barley passable half finished landscape; but my gut doesn't hurt anymore when I look back on 2010. And counting down this birthyear50 is becoming a helpful tool, sculpting my beleaguered mind with a new purpose: to embrace my failures and believe Christ, that His strength can be perfected in my weakness.
It could happen.
PS:
Anna, I am sorry I felt it was my place to coach you about sounding professional. Looking back, I can hear it couched in my usual self-important tone. I am an ass. Thank you in advance for the 'Whatever' response I'm pretty sure you'll offer.
He arrived in the evening so hubby could sit alongside and witness the momentous purchase. Mr. Upholstery Man saw my swatch pick, a stately chair pictured in a torn out newspaper ad and saved for the day when we'd saved a little (read aLOT of) spare cash... enough, even, to have a second identical chair built to match. WELL, so we didn't really have a set-aside; we just didn't have monthly college tuition bills to pay anymore, and the new freedom called for celebration.
The day had come, and I knew exactly what I wanted. Except, Mr. Upholsterer didn't have my pattern. Before "plan B" was all signed and sealed, Mr. Upholstery and DH agreed that they liked this little swirlie pattern, and because I tend to like anything swirlie, I gave in. As we got ready to push away from the table, I sensed buyer's remorse start to creep over me. I began to suspect this pattern, small and busy, would overpower the senses. And yet, Upholstery Man was a professional, and he disagreed, so I gave in again. Christmas came and went, New Years 2010 passed by, and then most of January disappeared before delivery day arrived.
I was... mortified? Ticked? Vindicated? All of the above? Yes. Nasty, too. Pretty obviously disgruntled. Delivery Boy left inahurry. He saw what I saw. The pair look like they belonged in a bordello. Well, sigh. They were meant for our bedroom... (...yet remained in the living room all year, after several bottoms found them comfy, convenient, inviting.)
The point of this little excursion down bad-memory lane is to tag the year 2010 as the Year of Rain; or, the Year of When It Rains It Pours. What followed was a saga of numerous other misapprehensions: of Bible Bookshelves purchased at a BibleBookstore Going Out of Business Sale that got their feet wet in the art room before I figured out they'd fit in another room (--they really did shelve Bibles in their former tour of duty, so ruining sacred shelves just felt Wrong); of rainstorm after rainstorm ungluing each caulk-fix in the leaky art room; of watching OS and a very skinny friend labor under the weight of those huge floor-display shelves, spinning them in a most brilliant manner in order to wedge them just-so beneath a sloping aluminum roof; yet, they had to be moved twice more. Floods at the back door, psyche-accosting bordello chairs smirking at my front door. Termites appeared. We ignored them. A roof leak re-appeared in a bathroom. Roofers who tended to it smeared black tar across white fascia board. When called on to fix it, they didn't. My tutoree didn't re-up. My SAT proctor job didn't re-up. My oil painting dream died. My counselor didn't want to talk about She-Pastor-Persecutor, so, I stopped going. That makes, uh, ten-or-something tries at counseling? Then, one night, I quipped a rant at the Celebrate Recovery women. The shame sent me into a 'withdrawal from society' that led to my new Zygote mentality and this silly attempt at forging spiritual growth through a public bflog. What began with high hopes for hubby & me to start each day in bedroom prayer-chairs, ended in a heap of soggy concrete and a Christless Christmas. Go Team.
Rain.rain.Rain.rain. 2010 won't come again, but tho the trials seem behind, history's always on rewind.
My chairs still remind me of pubic hair, and the 6" termite hole in the den wall (nicely sprayed, thank you very much) is neatly covered up by a giant painting of moonlight I found in a neighbor's trash can, and the Oils class that lasted only three sessions before I began to sense Nero fiddling while Rome burns produced a barley passable half finished landscape; but my gut doesn't hurt anymore when I look back on 2010. And counting down this birthyear50 is becoming a helpful tool, sculpting my beleaguered mind with a new purpose: to embrace my failures and believe Christ, that His strength can be perfected in my weakness.
It could happen.
PS:
Anna, I am sorry I felt it was my place to coach you about sounding professional. Looking back, I can hear it couched in my usual self-important tone. I am an ass. Thank you in advance for the 'Whatever' response I'm pretty sure you'll offer.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
SOHLS: Sanctity of. Human Life. Sunday.
This day use to be the circled box around which the entire calendar year revolved. I made it my purpose to insure 1200 bulletin inserts were ordered for the Sunday bulletin, at least once paid for out of my own (husband's) pocket. There was a literature table. Videos. Volunteers. All because some good soul handed me a full-color glossy leaflet at the Stanislaus County Fair sometime in the mid 70's. There was much red. The gauze, the fluids, the hacked apart baby. I was stunned, stymied, outraged. And then I forgot about it. A UCSD classmate named Mike Ebert awaked the outrage in the early 80's when he sponsored a campus wide showing of the video, "Assignment Life." Mike went on to become a missionary in Japan. I went on to... write a letter to the editor. To the campus newspaper's credit, they published it, and I'm sure my pride glowed for years over my stellar effort.
Then a pregnancy. A hastily planned wedding. A Dallas Theological Seminary pastor who chided me for being such a sinner. My head was down, but my purpose growing. Dobson. Bauer. Colson. My calling became sure, thanks to these better men. Then, a move to another city ...and "Operation Rescue."
Enter furrowed brows, more shunning pastors, subtle disapprovals. One chronic visage spoke a continual 'you are not welcome here.' This time, it wasn't over my scarlet letter. I guessed it was because I am angry, prone to outbursts; generally offensive; and I heard once that I look like someone she once hated. Being a non-relational child of dysfunction, not prone to thrive in a Nice People Only church, I just tried to ignore it, hoping and even praying that one day, by osmosis, I might become One Of Them... and now 22 years have gone by. Against my better judgment, we stayed. And I am still waiting.
DH insisted we stay. I certainly floated the Let's Get OUTa Here idea. He insisted that resolution is our duty. Reconciliation was our calling. Of course he was right, so, I placed a call one day. Asked this wife if we could talk. Take a walk. She said NO. I recall the phrase, "I am sure I do not want to do that." It's been some twelve or fifteen years, so I'm sure I've embellished it some. But the message was clear. I was not welcome to go near this person. I have been sure to steer clear. And scowl back.
Another pastor, ensconced behind his big pastor desk, surrounded by tall shelves full of big pastor books, scowled as he looked up from his work one day. I was directing worship dramas, and I'd been told he had acted well in years prior. I poked my head in and asked if he'd help me out; let me cast him in the next drama. He growled at me to leave him alone and not EVER ask him again. Ouch.
This same pastor, years later, promised to secure a Donald Sunukjian sermon tape I'd ordered for $3. He never delivered, and I never pursued it, but I do often see $3-bills upon his face when he walks by. (How did I muster the courage to even bring it up? Repeated affronts should've kept my head spinning enough to steer clear of him, too.)
Why do we go here again?
OK, so, the point is, after a few Celebrate Recovery pointers, I am supposed to be able to set all this to rights. I now have the tools to forgive and heal, become better and less deserving of scorn. The babies I used to pray for outside abortion mills and the mothers I used to bless with volunteer time at a shelter will all manage just fine without my service while I sort this all out, take refuge in a sweet preschool classroom, and wait for grace.
Broken. But not
Forgetful enough to be
Mindful that my self-doubt
Stalls my service to the least of these.
O HOLY YWH. Help my childish heart.
End the national tragedy of our forgetting You.
--- --- --- ---
"The splendor of a King, clothed in majesty!
Let all the earth rejoice!
He wraps himself in light, and darkness tries to hide!
It trembles at his voice.
CHORUS(1):
How great is our God, sing with me!
How great is our King, and all will see.
How great is our God!
VERSE(2):
And age to age He stands
and time is in His Hands
Beginning and the End,
The Godhead, three in one: Father, Spirit, Son;
the Lion and the Lamb.
CHORUS(2)
Name above all names
Worthy of all praise
My heart will sing: How. GREAT. IS. our King."
--Chris Tomlin, slightly amended
Then a pregnancy. A hastily planned wedding. A Dallas Theological Seminary pastor who chided me for being such a sinner. My head was down, but my purpose growing. Dobson. Bauer. Colson. My calling became sure, thanks to these better men. Then, a move to another city ...and "Operation Rescue."
Enter furrowed brows, more shunning pastors, subtle disapprovals. One chronic visage spoke a continual 'you are not welcome here.' This time, it wasn't over my scarlet letter. I guessed it was because I am angry, prone to outbursts; generally offensive; and I heard once that I look like someone she once hated. Being a non-relational child of dysfunction, not prone to thrive in a Nice People Only church, I just tried to ignore it, hoping and even praying that one day, by osmosis, I might become One Of Them... and now 22 years have gone by. Against my better judgment, we stayed. And I am still waiting.
DH insisted we stay. I certainly floated the Let's Get OUTa Here idea. He insisted that resolution is our duty. Reconciliation was our calling. Of course he was right, so, I placed a call one day. Asked this wife if we could talk. Take a walk. She said NO. I recall the phrase, "I am sure I do not want to do that." It's been some twelve or fifteen years, so I'm sure I've embellished it some. But the message was clear. I was not welcome to go near this person. I have been sure to steer clear. And scowl back.
Another pastor, ensconced behind his big pastor desk, surrounded by tall shelves full of big pastor books, scowled as he looked up from his work one day. I was directing worship dramas, and I'd been told he had acted well in years prior. I poked my head in and asked if he'd help me out; let me cast him in the next drama. He growled at me to leave him alone and not EVER ask him again. Ouch.
This same pastor, years later, promised to secure a Donald Sunukjian sermon tape I'd ordered for $3. He never delivered, and I never pursued it, but I do often see $3-bills upon his face when he walks by. (How did I muster the courage to even bring it up? Repeated affronts should've kept my head spinning enough to steer clear of him, too.)
Why do we go here again?
OK, so, the point is, after a few Celebrate Recovery pointers, I am supposed to be able to set all this to rights. I now have the tools to forgive and heal, become better and less deserving of scorn. The babies I used to pray for outside abortion mills and the mothers I used to bless with volunteer time at a shelter will all manage just fine without my service while I sort this all out, take refuge in a sweet preschool classroom, and wait for grace.
Broken. But not
Forgetful enough to be
Mindful that my self-doubt
Stalls my service to the least of these.
O HOLY YWH. Help my childish heart.
End the national tragedy of our forgetting You.
--- --- --- ---
"The splendor of a King, clothed in majesty!
Let all the earth rejoice!
He wraps himself in light, and darkness tries to hide!
It trembles at his voice.
CHORUS(1):
How great is our God, sing with me!
How great is our King, and all will see.
How great is our God!
VERSE(2):
And age to age He stands
and time is in His Hands
Beginning and the End,
The Godhead, three in one: Father, Spirit, Son;
the Lion and the Lamb.
CHORUS(2)
Name above all names
Worthy of all praise
My heart will sing: How. GREAT. IS. our King."
--Chris Tomlin, slightly amended
Thursday, January 6, 2011
I'm Sorry, Mags
"How else can we expect to survive a world that is unremittingly vicious? We numb ourselves with trinkets. We distance ourselves with promises of nice and happy. But God doesn’t want us to have "nice and happy," because He knows it will never satisfy. He offers Good, True, and Beautiful and knows our souls, made in His image, can settle for nothing less.
Nevertheless, we hunker down with flocked trees and smiling wise men, watching our kids unwrap the toy that will be the best thing they’ve ever seen for a grand total of one week, if we're lucky;
and we tell ourselves that if we just make enough gingerbread men together, maybe we can stave off the darkness a little longer."
--LINDSAY STALLONES ON DECEMBER 22, 2010 AT 5:00 AM / evangelicaloutpost.com
you and I, dear daughter, agree with each other, for starters. The above statement, from your own e-mail link, is proof. Christmas should be about everything else, buT not JUST @ presents.
I love you; I love your giftings, your dreams, your lore, and your persevering heart, AND I'M SORRY I was angry all december.
I'd spent my wad, and somehow missed the GIFTS YOU'D HOPED FOR. I felt horrible, and asked YOU for those "catalog hints." then MY TEMPER FLARED AGAIN, and I chucked the catalog. again. when my anger subsided, I FINALLY went to the bas blue website and the one thing i'd delighted to get you was ...out of stock.
"And your brother wanted contacts. And your sister wanted clothes. . ." I suppose the only way to prevent such travesty is to only shop at the 11th hour. My habit of collecting stuff throughout the year only serves to clutter up the holiday cheer.
"stuff" sticks to me like cat hair on wool pants. By the time December rolls around, the stuff stash feels old and infertile. After sitting up in my closet for nine months, it's slightly stale and less than love-filled. It's not the "good, true and beautiful" your web link lady longs for.
Study and pray with me, then, for a way out of Christmas as we've known it. We don't want it just because everybody else does IT. Why celebrate the author of the universe with a universal violation of his tenth commandment? We want to respond to a creator saviour who draws us, to use your Brit-Lit expression, farther up and further in... to a "walk" with him that is singular and custom built; not mass produced or "made in china for the ash heaps of january."
And I'm glum because your brother, like an American Christmas, is a hapless clone. with no discussion at dinner tonight over what did and DIDN'T happen in vegas, I was left to a miserable set of wild imaginings. The deafening absence of jolly banter over his three days and two nights in sin city spoke volumes, especially now that his friends have made it a regular destination. "How To Crush A Mum In Twenty-One Easy Lessons."
Or, did I just imagine that your Dad was avoiding the subject?
It all leaves me very intent to give up on prayer. Hence, our little Bible-Club verse today spoke volumes:
"Beware, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God; but exhort one another daily, while it called "Today," lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. For, we have become partakers of Christ IF WE HOLD THE BEGINNING OF OUR CONFIDENCE TO THE END." --Hebrews 3
O, Man. I am SO POOR IN SPIRIT.
Nevertheless, we hunker down with flocked trees and smiling wise men, watching our kids unwrap the toy that will be the best thing they’ve ever seen for a grand total of one week, if we're lucky;
and we tell ourselves that if we just make enough gingerbread men together, maybe we can stave off the darkness a little longer."
--LINDSAY STALLONES ON DECEMBER 22, 2010 AT 5:00 AM / evangelicaloutpost.com
you and I, dear daughter, agree with each other, for starters. The above statement, from your own e-mail link, is proof. Christmas should be about everything else, buT not JUST @ presents.
I love you; I love your giftings, your dreams, your lore, and your persevering heart, AND I'M SORRY I was angry all december.
I'd spent my wad, and somehow missed the GIFTS YOU'D HOPED FOR. I felt horrible, and asked YOU for those "catalog hints." then MY TEMPER FLARED AGAIN, and I chucked the catalog. again. when my anger subsided, I FINALLY went to the bas blue website and the one thing i'd delighted to get you was ...out of stock.
"And your brother wanted contacts. And your sister wanted clothes. . ." I suppose the only way to prevent such travesty is to only shop at the 11th hour. My habit of collecting stuff throughout the year only serves to clutter up the holiday cheer.
"stuff" sticks to me like cat hair on wool pants. By the time December rolls around, the stuff stash feels old and infertile. After sitting up in my closet for nine months, it's slightly stale and less than love-filled. It's not the "good, true and beautiful" your web link lady longs for.
Study and pray with me, then, for a way out of Christmas as we've known it. We don't want it just because everybody else does IT. Why celebrate the author of the universe with a universal violation of his tenth commandment? We want to respond to a creator saviour who draws us, to use your Brit-Lit expression, farther up and further in... to a "walk" with him that is singular and custom built; not mass produced or "made in china for the ash heaps of january."
And I'm glum because your brother, like an American Christmas, is a hapless clone. with no discussion at dinner tonight over what did and DIDN'T happen in vegas, I was left to a miserable set of wild imaginings. The deafening absence of jolly banter over his three days and two nights in sin city spoke volumes, especially now that his friends have made it a regular destination. "How To Crush A Mum In Twenty-One Easy Lessons."
Or, did I just imagine that your Dad was avoiding the subject?
It all leaves me very intent to give up on prayer. Hence, our little Bible-Club verse today spoke volumes:
"Beware, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God; but exhort one another daily, while it called "Today," lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. For, we have become partakers of Christ IF WE HOLD THE BEGINNING OF OUR CONFIDENCE TO THE END." --Hebrews 3
O, Man. I am SO POOR IN SPIRIT.
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