I've been reading C.S. Lewis again: The Problem of Pain. I'd needed reminding. Lewis wasn't perfect, but he wrote in a way that I can understand, that I can relate to. When he talks about God's humility in wanting me even when it's because everything else I have is falling apart, has gone, and I can grasp nothing else, it makes me stop, put the book down, and think.
Pain - that horrid thing that I love and hate because it always brings me back to His feet, but it brings me back in tears. I want to learn to sit at His feet in joy! To bring Him into my strengths! And sometimes He lets me do just that, but, so often, when I don't NEED His strength desperately, I want to use my own. He slides, so gently, out of my thoughts. Life fades into sepia tones. I stop twirling and singing; I worry about what the people around me think of me; I begin looking critically at myself in the mirror, forget to eat, and rarely get enough sleep. I become what I hate: a self-absorbed, loudmouthed, callous individual with a longing for people and a superior inferiority complex - ever so proud of my humility.
Then I lose something. It's amazing what clarity pain brings. He holds His arms out to me as I turn and look up at Him - wide eyes, puzzled brow, tears flowing - "Ouch." Suddenly the sham shows itself for what it is: a glittery cardboard mock-up of Cinderella's castle - Sleeping Beauty in her chloroformed glory, centuries of dirt and cobwebs piled round, in cursed oblivion.
I came to this world with nothing. Nothing that is based only here can be brought out of it again. He shatters me because only when my blinders are broken can I see His face - and if I can't see His face, I will never see anything worth seeing. His glory is the light by which everything else becomes visible.
I ended up in 1 Corinthians 1 (because I love symmetry, I suppose), reading about wisdom, foolishness, strength, and stumbling stones. I ended up remembering that He takes things that are nothing and makes them worthwhile. He takes me - silly, little fallible nut that I am - and makes me loveable. And I love Him for it.
Oct 31, 2007
Oct 19, 2007
He, Himself, is our peace
The greatest strength of all is within me. It's from this strength I must learn to draw. "Pray without ceasing", You said. "Cast all your cares upon me", You said. "CONSIDER HIM!", You had Paul write. Consider Him.
Thirty years of waiting.
Three years of teaching, healing, and guiding the people He loved.
Then torture, unspeakable hours of torture, deserted and despised by the people He had given up Heaven just to be able to reach out toward.
Consider Him: the Lamb of God, seated on the Throne, our great High Priest, our Savior, who loved us more then Himself and suffered all for our sake. Consider Him.
God, don't let me be so self righteous as to deny myself the only comfort I can have. Remember me according to Your love! Hold me tight! Press me into You; keep me close to You; guard my silly, little heart.
Thirty years of waiting.
Three years of teaching, healing, and guiding the people He loved.
Then torture, unspeakable hours of torture, deserted and despised by the people He had given up Heaven just to be able to reach out toward.
Consider Him: the Lamb of God, seated on the Throne, our great High Priest, our Savior, who loved us more then Himself and suffered all for our sake. Consider Him.
God, don't let me be so self righteous as to deny myself the only comfort I can have. Remember me according to Your love! Hold me tight! Press me into You; keep me close to You; guard my silly, little heart.
Oct 7, 2007
find rest, my soul, in Christ alone
Why am I still such a fool that I think I can hide from You? Like Jonah, I think that, if I fall asleep under miserably wet blankets in the dank hold of a ship headed the other way from where You want me, I will become invisible.
Then You come in. I fling the covers over my head and sit there. You do nothing. I am a curious, guilty child, hiding my dirty hands and pretending that they don't exist. Why aren't You angry? Why aren't You calling me out, making me face You, interrogating me about my guilt? I ignore You.
It's getting hot. I'm wet. I'm sweaty. This blanket is rough and, covering my head as it does, it's dark. I feel so surrounded; it's claustrophobic, not comforting. I can't see my dirty hands. "What dirty hands? I have none. It's wrong to have dirty hands. I can't have them. I mustn't." Why don't You come? Why don't You go? The air under this blanket is so stale and musty. I want to ignore You.
Oh, I am tired. Sitting here, Indian-style, and it's itchy and hot and musty and unbearable. It's Your fault, You know. Just go. Just come. Be angry with me - give me justification to be easier on myself. I have no dirty hands. Are You there?
I lift a corner of the blanket. Yes, my hands are dirty. I look at them. The cloth slides off me, bunching round in a pile about my hips and back. I look at them - my dirty hands. Mute, I stare over at You. I hold my palms out toward You. Back and forth I flip them, letting You see the full extent of the filth under my nails and in the cracks. Oh! I have hands. Ugh, they're dirty. I've been hiding here, hiding them from You, hiding them from me. What will You say now?
And suddenly I realize that You're smiling. You get up off the floor and come to me. You crouch down in front of me. You're holding a washcloth; You wipe my hot, tear-stained face. Still, You don't say anything - You just smile, take my little hands in Your big, calloused ones and gently scrub the grime away. I have hands. They are dirty. They are clean.
You kiss my little hands and say, "My child, my dear little child - why are you so worried about your hands? Why aren't you more worried about what you're DOING with your hands then how they look? Do you think I will be angry if your hands get dirty doing what I tell you to do? Do what I tell you to do, my daughter. Do that, and let Me worry about your hands."
And now, my Father, my arms are 'round Your neck, and there's no need for me to tell all these things that frightened me. I hid in misery, but now, when I see Your face, I can't hold on to that. It doesn't seem real, anymore. Everything that seemed oppressive under that hot, smelly, wet blanket has disappeared now that I'm in the light of day, in Your arms.
How awesome You are, my God.
Then You come in. I fling the covers over my head and sit there. You do nothing. I am a curious, guilty child, hiding my dirty hands and pretending that they don't exist. Why aren't You angry? Why aren't You calling me out, making me face You, interrogating me about my guilt? I ignore You.
It's getting hot. I'm wet. I'm sweaty. This blanket is rough and, covering my head as it does, it's dark. I feel so surrounded; it's claustrophobic, not comforting. I can't see my dirty hands. "What dirty hands? I have none. It's wrong to have dirty hands. I can't have them. I mustn't." Why don't You come? Why don't You go? The air under this blanket is so stale and musty. I want to ignore You.
Oh, I am tired. Sitting here, Indian-style, and it's itchy and hot and musty and unbearable. It's Your fault, You know. Just go. Just come. Be angry with me - give me justification to be easier on myself. I have no dirty hands. Are You there?
I lift a corner of the blanket. Yes, my hands are dirty. I look at them. The cloth slides off me, bunching round in a pile about my hips and back. I look at them - my dirty hands. Mute, I stare over at You. I hold my palms out toward You. Back and forth I flip them, letting You see the full extent of the filth under my nails and in the cracks. Oh! I have hands. Ugh, they're dirty. I've been hiding here, hiding them from You, hiding them from me. What will You say now?
And suddenly I realize that You're smiling. You get up off the floor and come to me. You crouch down in front of me. You're holding a washcloth; You wipe my hot, tear-stained face. Still, You don't say anything - You just smile, take my little hands in Your big, calloused ones and gently scrub the grime away. I have hands. They are dirty. They are clean.
You kiss my little hands and say, "My child, my dear little child - why are you so worried about your hands? Why aren't you more worried about what you're DOING with your hands then how they look? Do you think I will be angry if your hands get dirty doing what I tell you to do? Do what I tell you to do, my daughter. Do that, and let Me worry about your hands."
And now, my Father, my arms are 'round Your neck, and there's no need for me to tell all these things that frightened me. I hid in misery, but now, when I see Your face, I can't hold on to that. It doesn't seem real, anymore. Everything that seemed oppressive under that hot, smelly, wet blanket has disappeared now that I'm in the light of day, in Your arms.
How awesome You are, my God.
Oct 1, 2007
writing this NOW? child, you've lost all timing.
You'd stop haunting me, I think, if you knew why I couldn't have you. It seems I'm stuck at this stage: not sorry I said no, just not sure who I am now that I've said it. Remorseful, knowing that I'd do it the same way over again. Thinking of that spot just behind your ear that I always wanted to kiss, and never did, and wouldn't even if I was given another chance. I'm not sure whether it's selfishness or real regret, but my typical outlook has changed to a sort of "insha'allah" (why that, of all things?).
Do you understand? Do you understand why I'm writing the things I never told you, won't tell you, can't tell you, am not even sure of myself?
I was nineteen. Does that help you understand? I told you my life is not mine - did that make sense? I told you my name was given; I told you I have never planned my life, but always been led; I told you the miracles that I can't forget; I told you that I am without ambition, and yet you saw that there's one goal I never lay down, and I lay you down for it. Did any of that get through? I never told you that, when you wore blue, you made it hard to breathe. Did it matter?
You called me a "good Christian". I told you I wanted to be. I love Him. I love Him more than me. I love Him more than you. His laws - the things He's asked me to follow, because He loves me, to show my love for Him - tell me I can't have you. You said it's good to question foundations. I said yes, but if the foundation is solid, then it shouldn't be dynamited. You called me a bitch. I deserved that.
I would die for you. Does it matter? Anything I have, you know - do you still know? - would be yours if you needed it; is yours whether you need it or not, if you want it. Do you understand? If you let go, remembered me only as the "good Christian" and not the little, philosophical nut that spun in circles in the rain, arms wide spread, and danced right into the ocean with both feet still in shoes, then I could let go too. If you'd forgive me, I could close this door. "Bitch" is a terrible ending. This strange apathy is worse.
It's like you think I treat you like everyone else. I don't. With everyone else, my heart is armored and my mind free. I speak my mind, I am myself. That's why I can speak of things I believe and think with anyone; it's why I can help people I don't know and debate religion and other things I care passionately about with folk I met five minutes ago. Only with my family, with the people I trust (this is on 2 hands, family included), my heart is unguarded. You could hurt me. Most people can't - my heart's outside their reach - but I'm vulnerable to you.
Funny that I still grin. Funny that I genuinely wouldn't change a thing (except maybe what you think of me). Funny that, quite often, I wake up and see what a beautiful world, what an awesome God, what a fun place, what interesting people. Funny that, now and then, I choose to keep a void inside because it means keeping you without breaking His law, and I'm not sure what to do about that. Funny that He loves me anyway and keeps breaking in on my reverie. Funny, sometimes I remember something you did or said, and I can almost smell you. Funny that He lets me breathe, but is always there when I need to be held. Funny, but sometimes, all I want to do is dance and laugh with Him. Funny, but quite often, I just wish you'd punch me till you let the whole thing go.
Do you understand? Do you understand why I'm writing the things I never told you, won't tell you, can't tell you, am not even sure of myself?
I was nineteen. Does that help you understand? I told you my life is not mine - did that make sense? I told you my name was given; I told you I have never planned my life, but always been led; I told you the miracles that I can't forget; I told you that I am without ambition, and yet you saw that there's one goal I never lay down, and I lay you down for it. Did any of that get through? I never told you that, when you wore blue, you made it hard to breathe. Did it matter?
You called me a "good Christian". I told you I wanted to be. I love Him. I love Him more than me. I love Him more than you. His laws - the things He's asked me to follow, because He loves me, to show my love for Him - tell me I can't have you. You said it's good to question foundations. I said yes, but if the foundation is solid, then it shouldn't be dynamited. You called me a bitch. I deserved that.
I would die for you. Does it matter? Anything I have, you know - do you still know? - would be yours if you needed it; is yours whether you need it or not, if you want it. Do you understand? If you let go, remembered me only as the "good Christian" and not the little, philosophical nut that spun in circles in the rain, arms wide spread, and danced right into the ocean with both feet still in shoes, then I could let go too. If you'd forgive me, I could close this door. "Bitch" is a terrible ending. This strange apathy is worse.
It's like you think I treat you like everyone else. I don't. With everyone else, my heart is armored and my mind free. I speak my mind, I am myself. That's why I can speak of things I believe and think with anyone; it's why I can help people I don't know and debate religion and other things I care passionately about with folk I met five minutes ago. Only with my family, with the people I trust (this is on 2 hands, family included), my heart is unguarded. You could hurt me. Most people can't - my heart's outside their reach - but I'm vulnerable to you.
Funny that I still grin. Funny that I genuinely wouldn't change a thing (except maybe what you think of me). Funny that, quite often, I wake up and see what a beautiful world, what an awesome God, what a fun place, what interesting people. Funny that, now and then, I choose to keep a void inside because it means keeping you without breaking His law, and I'm not sure what to do about that. Funny that He loves me anyway and keeps breaking in on my reverie. Funny, sometimes I remember something you did or said, and I can almost smell you. Funny that He lets me breathe, but is always there when I need to be held. Funny, but sometimes, all I want to do is dance and laugh with Him. Funny, but quite often, I just wish you'd punch me till you let the whole thing go.
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