dear rory,
sometimes I amaze myself...
I am really good at giving advice.
I mean, not to "toot my own horn", but
HONK HONK.
I always know how to handle situations...
unless it's my own.
***
yesterday Pastor talked about the Israelites.
as he recounted their repeated complaints, I felt myself almost squirming with contempt.
those idiots.
one minute, they're marching out of slavery towards a land that was promised to their forefathers by God Almighty. the next minute, they're watching God pound the waters of the Red Sea over the heads of one of the most powerful armies in the world. and the next minute...
they're thirsty.
hold the camels.
we had better turn around and offer ourselves as slaves in Egypt again. sure things weren't always easy there- our sons were being killed, we were worked almost to death under the boiling hot, desert sun, and our Pharaoh despised us.
but at least we weren't thirsty.
good thing God has more patience than I do. instead of striking them all down as I might have, God commanded Moses to strike a rock.
and what do you know? the God of miracles performed a miracle. out of the rock came water.
***
Sunday after church I had a long talk with a friend.
I found myself giving advice.
because I'm so good at that.
I was in the middle of saying something about not letting hard times make us bitter or angry-that God has a reason for the trials- when I stopped. I heard something quiet. I think it was God laughing.
***
you may remember that back in the winter, I was confined to a hospital room for several days and that I wasn't happy about it.
what you probably don't know is that while I was pouting in the hospital, God was preparing to show me that I too am an Israelite...
the hospital cart rolled down hallway after hallway. I watched people's faces as I rolled past. they were giving me a look that I had given many a time to strangers in hospital beds. the look of "I wonder if you are about to die." it's an easy look to accidentally give, but a harder one to receive. it made me want to make a monkey face at them. but I was tired, so I just stared blankly back, probably confirming their saddest imaginings.
the cart reached Destination MRI waiting room, and I said goodbye to my family and Laura. they smiled. I smiled.
but I was scared as anything. and I was angry. and bitter. where was God taking me? I just wanted to be comfortable again.
I looked up at the man wheeling me to the MRI room.
"don't be afraid," he said.
"there are a lot of friends praying for me," I answered. because that sounded like the right answer. he probably didn't want to hear my bitterness and anger.
but God saw my heart. and God struck a rock.
"I'll be praying for you too," the man said.
I licked up that drip of water and let it sink into my heart a second before being helped into the room and asked to lie down on a bench-like table.
"will my iPod be able to play during the scan?" I asked an older nurse.
"sure!" he said and smiled. he took my iPod and hooked it up to a device that would send the music through my protective mask during the hour and a half procedure.
I looked back at the cave I would be trapped in and took a deep breath. my claustrophobia isn't a huge fan of caves. especially hospital caves.
but then I was in. I heard the first few notes from my music come through...
followed by ceaseless hammering. I couldn't hear my music due to the hammering of the machine I was trapped in.
at first, I was fine. but forty minutes into it, I was feeling almost frantic. and I was feeling miserable for myself again. poor, poor me.
As the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, "I am with you".
the hammering had stopped. "Praise You in this Storm" by Chris Tomlin filled my ears instead.
I will praise You in this storm. I will lift my head. You are who You are, no matter where I am.
Moses was beating at that rock. and water was gushing out.
And every tear I cry, You hold in Your hand. You've never left my side.
the hammering didn't start again...
And though my heart is torn, I will praise You in this storm.
... until the song had ended. then it continued without ceasing until I was taken out.
***
God was still gently laughing.
Pastor was still preaching.
and I was still an Israelite.
I watched the sun setting through my friend's eyelashes, as I heard the advice come from my own hypocritical lips.
you see, in the past few weeks, I have fallen into an angry and bitter net once again. I'm not sick this time. I'm struggling to forgive.
I have let hurt turn into bitterness. and I have let sadness turn into anger towards God.
do you know, I actually thought to myself for a moment that it would be rather nice not to have to worry about God and His commands? (please gasp here.) do you know, I actually thought to myself that maybe I would be better off without Him since He doesn't seem to care anyways? (please gasp louder here)
in other words...
"God, I am thirsty. why have You brought me here? it would be better for me to march back to Egypt and become a slave again."
*face palm*
***
my struggle continues even as I type these words. is it possible that I still feel angry?
I am an Israelite at heart.
I am wandering through the wilderness. the unknowns and hardships scare me. lately, it doesn't seem to matter that what I am leaving behind me isn't worth returning to. it doesn't seem to matter that what God is leading me towards is worth dying for.
lately, I just don't like being thirsty. but I also don't like being an Israelite.
because I know deep down that God is the only one who can gush those thirst-quenching waters at me. He can bring healing. from a lifeless rock. to a hurting heart.
***
looking at my friend, I suddenly stopped giving advice and asked her to pray for me.
"I'll be praying for you too," I promised.
as I hugged her, I realized...
we're all Israelites. we're making this journey towards the "promised land" together. it's rough. it's rocky. it stinks at times.
but we have left our slavery to sin behind us. we are marching, walking, sometimes inching our way on our bellies towards the end goal.
we fall. we thirst. we fail.
God catches. God quenches. God in His mercy forgives.
I lift my eyes unto the hills,
where does my help come from?
my help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of Heaven and earth.
please pray. I'm praying for you, my fellow marchers, as well.
love,
muffin
Showing posts with label sanctification. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sanctification. Show all posts
6.11.12
4.10.11
growing pains
“oh, darling, don’t you ever grow up… it could stay this simple.”
dearest rory,
when I was little, I wished I was older. now that I'm older, I wish I was younger.
today I caught myself searching the “childhood memories box” that I keep tucked away in a convenient corner of my brain. I rummaged around in there, blowing away cobwebs, laughing at some of the sillier articles, searching for a certain memory in particular…
and at last I found what I was looking for.
when my little sister and I were a lot younger, we lived in the same house, but different worlds. I lived in the real world, and my sister lived in the imaginary world. our dinners tasted the same, but mine was just macaroni and cheese, and hers was something fit for a queen. our car was just a car to me, but to her it was a carriage. the empty seat beside me, was just an empty seat beside me, but in her eyes, it was where one of our twelve invisible siblings was sitting.
she loved playing pretend. I loved being practical.
and sometimes our two worlds would collide.
for example:
when disaster struck, like if my clumsy self (yes, I was even clumsy back then) accidentally bowled half her doll house family over with my elbow, or if dad unknowingly sat on her pretend hamster, her big brown eyes would get even larger and she would quickly say, “pretend that didn’t happen.”
“wait, what?”
pretending something hadn’t happened, when, in fact, it had, would bug my miniature self. and I would try to explain to my little sister that we couldn’t just pretend something hadn’t happened because we didn’t like the situation or it was inconvenient to us. and she would try to explain to me that it just made everything easier if we pretended certain things hadn’t happened. then, with folded arms and narrowed eyes, we would look at each other for a few moments, puzzling over how the other one could possibly think they were right. she thought I was crazy. I thought she was crazy. and so life continued with this argument frequently popping up. neither of us ever winning the debate.
of course, as we grew older, the conflict slowly slipped into distant memory, and we would laugh about it together. she grew more practical and I… well… why on earth do I sit clutching this memory with tears in my eyes wishing that life was still that simple? that I could merely pretend the bad things away like my sister once had?
probably because I didn't handle something right. and I don’t want to face the consequences. I want to pretend everything back to how it was before I messed up.
a picture of my wild-haired, bleach blonde, eight-year-old self pops into my head and gives me a look that says, “come back to reality. come back to earth.” I feel like my sister must have felt all those years ago. I want to fold my arms, stick out my lip, and say “make me!”.
but the truth is, there are consequences for things that we do or say. we can throw a tantrum and kick and scream, but eventually we’ll have to get up off the floor and deal with the problem. we can cry (and trust me, I do), but ultimately, we have to suck it up and handle things the way Christ would handle them. we can try to pretend them away, but they are still there.
with those thoughts in mind, I stare dismally at my "childhood memories box", with lauren’s “pretend that didn’t happen” ringing in my ears, and I know that I can't just pretend the hard things in life away.
but as one streak of lightening brightens the whole darkened sky in a midnight storm, so something flashes through my mind and makes the sadness fade. I remember that although God has not made it so that we can press the “oops. can I please undo that?” button, He has provided us with forgiveness and healing. and forgiveness and healing, while sometimes painful, are also much more satisfactory than living in denial of something.
so. I guess I’ll tuck my childhood memories box back into my mind again for awhile, and try to handle things in a God honoring way. in a mature way.
yeah, growing up is hard.
it probably gets harder.
I’ll most likely look back in a few years and think, “man, I wish I could go back to when I was seventeen and things were so much simpler.”
but I’m not going to pretend like I’m not growing up.
from now on, I’m going to know that with God, all hard situations can heal. forgiveness can be given and received. friendships can be restored. mountains can be moved.
all things are possible with Him. especially growing up.
love,
muffin
dearest rory,
when I was little, I wished I was older. now that I'm older, I wish I was younger.
today I caught myself searching the “childhood memories box” that I keep tucked away in a convenient corner of my brain. I rummaged around in there, blowing away cobwebs, laughing at some of the sillier articles, searching for a certain memory in particular…
and at last I found what I was looking for.
when my little sister and I were a lot younger, we lived in the same house, but different worlds. I lived in the real world, and my sister lived in the imaginary world. our dinners tasted the same, but mine was just macaroni and cheese, and hers was something fit for a queen. our car was just a car to me, but to her it was a carriage. the empty seat beside me, was just an empty seat beside me, but in her eyes, it was where one of our twelve invisible siblings was sitting.
she loved playing pretend. I loved being practical.
and sometimes our two worlds would collide.
for example:
when disaster struck, like if my clumsy self (yes, I was even clumsy back then) accidentally bowled half her doll house family over with my elbow, or if dad unknowingly sat on her pretend hamster, her big brown eyes would get even larger and she would quickly say, “pretend that didn’t happen.”
“wait, what?”
pretending something hadn’t happened, when, in fact, it had, would bug my miniature self. and I would try to explain to my little sister that we couldn’t just pretend something hadn’t happened because we didn’t like the situation or it was inconvenient to us. and she would try to explain to me that it just made everything easier if we pretended certain things hadn’t happened. then, with folded arms and narrowed eyes, we would look at each other for a few moments, puzzling over how the other one could possibly think they were right. she thought I was crazy. I thought she was crazy. and so life continued with this argument frequently popping up. neither of us ever winning the debate.
of course, as we grew older, the conflict slowly slipped into distant memory, and we would laugh about it together. she grew more practical and I… well… why on earth do I sit clutching this memory with tears in my eyes wishing that life was still that simple? that I could merely pretend the bad things away like my sister once had?
probably because I didn't handle something right. and I don’t want to face the consequences. I want to pretend everything back to how it was before I messed up.
a picture of my wild-haired, bleach blonde, eight-year-old self pops into my head and gives me a look that says, “come back to reality. come back to earth.” I feel like my sister must have felt all those years ago. I want to fold my arms, stick out my lip, and say “make me!”.
but the truth is, there are consequences for things that we do or say. we can throw a tantrum and kick and scream, but eventually we’ll have to get up off the floor and deal with the problem. we can cry (and trust me, I do), but ultimately, we have to suck it up and handle things the way Christ would handle them. we can try to pretend them away, but they are still there.
with those thoughts in mind, I stare dismally at my "childhood memories box", with lauren’s “pretend that didn’t happen” ringing in my ears, and I know that I can't just pretend the hard things in life away.
but as one streak of lightening brightens the whole darkened sky in a midnight storm, so something flashes through my mind and makes the sadness fade. I remember that although God has not made it so that we can press the “oops. can I please undo that?” button, He has provided us with forgiveness and healing. and forgiveness and healing, while sometimes painful, are also much more satisfactory than living in denial of something.
so. I guess I’ll tuck my childhood memories box back into my mind again for awhile, and try to handle things in a God honoring way. in a mature way.
yeah, growing up is hard.
it probably gets harder.
I’ll most likely look back in a few years and think, “man, I wish I could go back to when I was seventeen and things were so much simpler.”
but I’m not going to pretend like I’m not growing up.
from now on, I’m going to know that with God, all hard situations can heal. forgiveness can be given and received. friendships can be restored. mountains can be moved.
all things are possible with Him. especially growing up.
love,
muffin
18.8.11
thoughts from the gym
dear muffin,
today I went to the gym & worked out. this happens about as often as the cubs win the world series.
my trackrecord is almost as painful as theirs, too.
however, I got to wear my brother's basketball shorts [because I don't have a pair-- case in point], which made me feel hardcore & slightly ridiculous.
the guy who walked around the track kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking. either it was because I looked like a buff underarmor commercial... or else because he was amused by the girl in XL basketball shorts struggling with a 10lb weight. [I'm going with the former.]
there's something about working out; something invigorating. it makes me feel vibrantly healthy & alive. but alongside the adrenaline rush, there's the sweating part. and the huffing&puffing part. and the turn-pink-in-the-face part. I think I would work out a lot more if it wasn't for those other parts.
but that's obvious. right?
Paul told us to work out, too. to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling.
haha! you say. that is exegetically incorrect. an improper use of the text. hermeneutical homicide. and let's not even get started about cultural context.
and you're right of course. but I can't help but notice similarities.
dear God: teach me to be kind-- right now, please. and while we're at it, I wouldn't mind being buff. but don't ask me to go to the gym; I don't want to sweat. and You can't possibly expect me to never say unkind things; that would be too hard. I don't like turning pink-in-the-face.
***
Working out has two phases: there's the sprint, & there's the long-haul. the sprint is a piece of cake: you sit down at the machine, or place your foot on the track line, or slip into the pool. those first few strokes are effortless. you feel your blood begin to pump; your heartrate picks up. it feels good. you tell yourself that this time, it's gonna be a good workout. this time, you won't fail.
aaand then reality hits. a few minutes into the workout, your temples are pounding, pain is cramping your muscles, and even your toes are sweating inside your socks. as if to add insult to injury your cheeks have turned blazing pink & each breath can be heard halfway across the gym. suddenly, maintaining that avowed pace becomes a lot harder... and a waterbreak begins to sound really great. you deserve a waterbreak, right? you've tried so hard. given so much effort.
My awareness of sanctification goes in spurts, too. a sermon or article or conversation will convict me, and I recognize a problem in my life. I confess it & throw myself headlong into purging the weakness. I vow that this time, I'm gonna change. this time, I won't fail.
and then reality hits. I begin to tread water. slip on the track. allow that unkind word to fly. I see the pain on my sister's face & know I've messed up again.
but I tried so hard. can't I just have a break? some applause for the effort?
It would be nice if sanctification was more like getting a pedicure. lean back, sip your latte, & watch it happen.
But the fact is, it's not. it's more like a workout: a long, sweaty, uncomfortable workout. we are being purged by fire & refined as silver. and the most uncomfortable part is that sudden crystalline realization that you can't do it.
it's true. we can't. but thankfully, it doesn't matter, because He who calls us is faithful, and He will do it. it's still not a sanctification pedicure: the creator delights in the faithful toil of his creation.
but we are assured of victory in the end.
***
when I got home from the gym, I had a blister from the rowing machine. it felt good.
I lay on the floor, and my dog came over and licked my ear. that felt good too. but nothing felt so good as the tall glass of cold water. I took one sip and then didn't stop until the glass was empty.
***
we will fall. as citizens of humanity & runners in this race, we will never stop falling. but He promises to be our Strength and see us to the finish line.
and once that finish line has been crossed, He promises us a waterbreak like none on earth.
your fellow runner,
-rory
today I went to the gym & worked out. this happens about as often as the cubs win the world series.
my trackrecord is almost as painful as theirs, too.
however, I got to wear my brother's basketball shorts [because I don't have a pair-- case in point], which made me feel hardcore & slightly ridiculous.
the guy who walked around the track kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking. either it was because I looked like a buff underarmor commercial... or else because he was amused by the girl in XL basketball shorts struggling with a 10lb weight. [I'm going with the former.]
there's something about working out; something invigorating. it makes me feel vibrantly healthy & alive. but alongside the adrenaline rush, there's the sweating part. and the huffing&puffing part. and the turn-pink-in-the-face part. I think I would work out a lot more if it wasn't for those other parts.
but that's obvious. right?
Paul told us to work out, too. to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling.
haha! you say. that is exegetically incorrect. an improper use of the text. hermeneutical homicide. and let's not even get started about cultural context.
and you're right of course. but I can't help but notice similarities.
dear God: teach me to be kind-- right now, please. and while we're at it, I wouldn't mind being buff. but don't ask me to go to the gym; I don't want to sweat. and You can't possibly expect me to never say unkind things; that would be too hard. I don't like turning pink-in-the-face.
***
Working out has two phases: there's the sprint, & there's the long-haul. the sprint is a piece of cake: you sit down at the machine, or place your foot on the track line, or slip into the pool. those first few strokes are effortless. you feel your blood begin to pump; your heartrate picks up. it feels good. you tell yourself that this time, it's gonna be a good workout. this time, you won't fail.
aaand then reality hits. a few minutes into the workout, your temples are pounding, pain is cramping your muscles, and even your toes are sweating inside your socks. as if to add insult to injury your cheeks have turned blazing pink & each breath can be heard halfway across the gym. suddenly, maintaining that avowed pace becomes a lot harder... and a waterbreak begins to sound really great. you deserve a waterbreak, right? you've tried so hard. given so much effort.
My awareness of sanctification goes in spurts, too. a sermon or article or conversation will convict me, and I recognize a problem in my life. I confess it & throw myself headlong into purging the weakness. I vow that this time, I'm gonna change. this time, I won't fail.
and then reality hits. I begin to tread water. slip on the track. allow that unkind word to fly. I see the pain on my sister's face & know I've messed up again.
but I tried so hard. can't I just have a break? some applause for the effort?
It would be nice if sanctification was more like getting a pedicure. lean back, sip your latte, & watch it happen.
But the fact is, it's not. it's more like a workout: a long, sweaty, uncomfortable workout. we are being purged by fire & refined as silver. and the most uncomfortable part is that sudden crystalline realization that you can't do it.
it's true. we can't. but thankfully, it doesn't matter, because He who calls us is faithful, and He will do it. it's still not a sanctification pedicure: the creator delights in the faithful toil of his creation.
but we are assured of victory in the end.
***
when I got home from the gym, I had a blister from the rowing machine. it felt good.
I lay on the floor, and my dog came over and licked my ear. that felt good too. but nothing felt so good as the tall glass of cold water. I took one sip and then didn't stop until the glass was empty.
***
we will fall. as citizens of humanity & runners in this race, we will never stop falling. but He promises to be our Strength and see us to the finish line.
and once that finish line has been crossed, He promises us a waterbreak like none on earth.
your fellow runner,
-rory
24.7.11
sunday morning crumbs
dear muffin,
I don't know how it happens.
We leave church feeling upbeat, chatting about the convicting sermon & how good so-and-so looked in that color. We pull into the driveway, parade into the house, and scatter. And before ten minutes have passed, irritation sets in, patience snaps, and our nice day sways on the verge of collapse.
It's simple, really. She's upset because we stayed late at church instead of helping her prepare for dinner guests. We're annoyed because she never even told us she was leaving. He's disappointed because we don't have time to talk with him. I'm upset because there's a mound of dishes to be washed, and I can't find someone to blame. She's irritated because I didn't clean the water pitcher, even though it isn't my turn. The floor hasn't been swept, the cake came out looking funny, and someone is gonna pay for this.
I take a vicious swipe at the collander I'm washing & contemplate the injustice of life.
Wait.
...Is it just me, or is this starting to sound slightly ridiculous?!
But you don't understand. I have a LOT of dirty dishes to wash, and the dishwasher is already full. and he twisted the top of his travel mug so tightly that I can't get it open (most likely did it intentionally. just to make my life difficult). and every step I take leaves crumbs stuck to my barefeet. I mean, come on; how much can you expect a girl to take??
okay.
maaaybe you're right, and I'm being a little ridiculous. maybe a lot ridiculous. So why am I feeling like a storm cloud?
I can think of a few answers. Option 1: everyone in this house is in league to make today as miserable as possible, because they take great delight in destroying domestic peace. Option 2: No one appreciates me, even though I'm always slaving around the house & being an angel. Option 3: well...it's just a theory, you see, but maybe...I'm less like an angel & more like a... *deep breath*...selfishhumanbeingwhoneedstogrowup. THERE.
[I don't think I like option 3.]
Well. The jury's out on this one, so I'll leave you to decide.
As for me...
I have to go sweep the floor.
thoughtfully,
rory
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