Seeds of the Spirit

Nearly 7AM and it's still dark. Indian summer come and gone. Leaves turned gold and red, then brown, and now coming down in nearly constant showers, swaying as they fall, settling in crinkly heaps where the wind gathers them, dead, in airy eddies. Autumn.

What a time to think of growing things. And yet, and yet... That's what I'm doing.

Instead of the beauty of Fall, I'm thinking of fruit. Bursting, juicy, warm from a high summer sun. Ripe and perfect. Strawberries, peaches, grapes. And flowers--spreading roses and extravagant hydrangeas. Gone now, but remembered well. They are summer, lush and dripping. Already missed.

But they have left something behind. Usually brown, sometimes red or orange, the fruit of summer has left a kernel of itself, a promise. Seeds.

Credit: funflowerfacts.com

 

 

They don't look like much. I know that come next year, they will burst open into flower and then, after the grace of fertilization, will produce an apple, a zinnia, a plum, but now, well, they just sit there looking dead.
For now, they're just seeds.

Credit: www.pinterest.com

They need time.
Time. 

In the growing dark of these days, seeds don't hold a lot of hope. Not yet. Hard and as dim as these predawn hours, they don't change, not for months.

Credit: www.pinterest.com

But they are fruit. Fruit in the making.
And that's the point of fruit. It takes time. 

So it is with all kinds of fruit--even fruits of the Spirit.
Fruit is not a gift, something that once unwrapped, is instantly available, full and bursting, ready to eat. Fruit takes preparation, nurturing, time. We have to wait for it, watch it develop day after impatient day,

Credit: www.gettyimages.com

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.--Galatians 5:23

Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.
Fruit, not gifts.
Pray for them, but don't expect them to come in an instant.
When they come, they come as a seed, a promise, something to be developed slowly over time.

Credit:www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk

At their start, we get seeds of the Spirit. 
In time, with God's favor and patient grace, we eventually have fruit.

What is the Gospel?

photo: www.beaconsuccess.com

Our faith tells us that we are taught to preach the Gospel, but I have often wondered exactly what that Gospel is. Its direct translation from Greek put simply means the Good News. OK, but what good news?

From a personal standpoint, I know well the good news Christ brought to my own life--the renewal, the hope, the transformation, and the strength. But how did He do this? Well, through His suffering, death, resurrection, you say. That's right. He has done all this through His Holy Redemption.

But that's not quite it. I think there's more.

I know what Christ did--born of a virgin; lived and taught the New Covenant principles of love, humility, and sacrifice; performed miracles; died an undeserved and public death, then rose first from it and then from the earth itself. But the key to all this isn't His activity, it's Him.  

Everything Christ did only mattered because He did it. Other people performed miracles. Other people have died, then come alive again. Other people have died sacrificially for someone else. Other people live exemplary lives. But they do not carry the same weight.  Christ does not call us to preach what He did, but the One who did it--the Son of God, Son of Man, Creator-Redeemer, Jesus Christ. The Gospel, the Good News, is not what Christ did because, had anyone else done it, it would be no news at all.

Christ didn't enact the Gospel. He is the Gospel.

So, this is how I preach--deferring attention from the act to Him, lifting Him up. I know we all love to tell our stories of redemption, and we should. Believe me, I do too, but my story doesn't begin to come close to explaining the miracle and wonder of God. Nobody's does. My story, I think, is mostly for me--to remind me who God is--how intimate and mighty and, well, involved.  It helps me stay on the road toward Him.

So how do I preach? Well, if the Gospel is not what He did, then it's not what I do either. If the Gospel is who He is, then as I am called to follow Him and resemble Him, the Gospel is me. Myself. My very person. If you are saying, 'Whoa, there--we are not like God,' well then, I say that if we are not like God, if people can't see God in us, we are not equipped to preach. If people cannot see God in us, then we have no real knowledge of the Gospel at all. 

My very presence should say, 'Here He is, friend--Jesus Christ--Savior, Redeemer, Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God. He's in me and in you, too.' My life should make people long for God. I have to live the new life Christ has put in me, living primarily before the Lord, but all the while in the company of everyone He has put in my path. I can live so that when people see me, they see Christ. I can do this because God says I can.

Is this hard? Of course it is. At least until it becomes very, very easy. In the end, I don't have the responsibility for anyone else's salvation. I just have to look out for Christ as He shows the way. And that is very Good News, indeed.

For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you but Jesus Christ and Him crucified--1Corinthians 2:2
To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, Christ in you, the hope of glory.--Colossians 1:27

Stuck Between Awful and Awesome

Photo: cutestuff.co

I didn't know this would be the hard part.

It looked so straightforward at first.
I was a sinner. That was plain. The list of my ungodly behaviors was long and shameful. But God is good. He showed my sins to me one by one, as gently as was possible, and guided me out of the dark place where I lived with them. And I learned to leave them behind, step by painful step, and the horizon cleared. I learned how to live in God's light, for the most part within His commands. I changed. A lot.

And God said it was good.

So, here I am. A new person. Walking in a new light, a new life. I look around and relax into it, nodding my head in agreement with what God has done in me, saying "Yeah. Thanks, God. I'm liking this."
I go to church every week.
I'm kind to children and animals and even cranky neighbors.
I mind, for the most part, my words and thoughts.
I help the people God brings into my world.
I concentrate hard on being a good wife and mother.
I try to work to God's glory.
I've found a rhythm to this life. It's become familiar. What I used to be and do is slowing fading into a shadowy past and this version of me has become my new, redeemed normal. 

And that's the problem. It's normal.
My new life is normal and God isn't. God is awesome. He's thrilling, exciting, beyond imagination surprising.
But if something doesn't change soon, I'm going to be stuck here. Rescued from the awful, but not reaching the awesome.

This is what nobody told me when I started on this way--
God doesn't want us to look like redeemed humans.
He wants us to look like Him.

And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into His likeness with ever-increasing glory--2 Corinthians 3:18

Darn. That's hard.
Harder than following commandments. Harder than changing behaviors. Harder than stopping habits and thought patterns.
God doesn't just want me to be the best I can be. He wants me to be like Him.
And, just for the record, I am not at all like God.

And yet.....and yet. I've nowhere else to go. It's either go back to the old me--no longer a viable alternative at this point--or it's more of the same--which is bogging me down--or it's this next thing, this glory, this transformation into something that's not only not me--it's not even human.

Not even human. That's the reason it sounds and feels so strange. God wants me to become more than I've ever seen in me or anyone else. I can never be God. I can never share all of his power or might or perfection, but He does want me to become god-like. He wants me to share His glory.

He created me to be like Him.
And God made man in his own image--Genesis 1:27
He says I can be holy.
Be ye holy as I am holy--Leviticus 19:2
He says that, as His beloved child, I am one with Him.
You are gods--you are all sons of the Most High--Psalm 82:6
He says he can make me perfect.
Be ye therefore perfect, even as your heavenly Father.--Matthew 5:48, Nehemiah 2:48

If I am ever to get unstuck, this is where I have to go.
Up. More.
He must become greater, I must become less.--John 3:30
I have to aim for what looks impossible.
I have to go to a place I can never, never reach on my own. 
And maybe that's the point.
The further I go, the more I need His help. Until, finally, we get so close that we are never apart. So close as to be almost indistinguishable.
Yes. I would like that.

Putting It Together

Photo: commons.wikimedia.org

Once a year, I work a jigsaw puzzle. My son buys it for me as a Christmas gift, and we spread it out on the dining room table and lay in one piece at a time until it's done. I like laying the pieces in, watching the picture form slowly. It always seemed like a fitting activity for the dark of winter at the end of one year and the beginning of another, and now I know why.

A jigsaw puzzle is a metaphor for life.

Think about it.
A thousand pieces or more that make up a design someone else conceived. Each piece a day that I can only add one at a time. 

The edges first--a framework for everything else.  God, the law, my conscience, the place and time ordained for me above all others. I have to start there.

Then I look for big patterns--the side of a barn, a bunch of flowers, a face, a doorway--and I gather the pieces up, again one at a time, to see whether they fit. Some do. They are a job, marriage, children--the things around which all else must fit. And the easily recognizable parts begin to take shape.

These usually go together fairly quickly. Yes, I look at them one by one, but not always too closely. They come almost automatically. But then I have to join them. I have to piece together a sidewalk, a brick wall, a lake, a bookcase. This is when it gets harder and slows down. The pieces all look so much alike. Raising kids. Going to work day after day. Learning my spouse does not exist to make me happy. These are the days we learn to live with mistakes. I get frustrated when this phase starts, not liking the forced slowdown. I have to individually examine every one of these pieces for size and shape and color, in order to figure out where it fits. I find a place in the puzzle for some. Some I put aside for later. Some I try to force--surely it goes in this spot. But it doesn't. This is when I am most likely to lose or bend a piece.

But all the while, the picture builds. I see more of it every day, become familiar with each region of it. The brown pieces go in the upper right. The green ones go near the door. The ones that look like mottled eggshells are a sandy beach and go next to the water.
I dream about every detail, excited to see where the next piece will go.

And always, always, I see the end approaching. The pile of loose pieces shrinks, but I feel no panic. The empty places in between begin to disappear and I stand back occasionally to see what all those small pieces have wrought.

It is then I see what I am making. One by one, day after day, piece by piece, the overall design, made long ago by my Father in heaven, finally comes together and I can see it, and remember. This is when I did this or this is what happened on that day. This is not a painting, beautiful only for the finished product. It is gradual assimilation of detail, forever made of small things bound together into the finished whole it was always meant to be.

The puzzle only goes together one way and, eventually, I hold only one piece in my hand. The box is empty, all other places filled in. I am finished.

My last day.
And I lay my final piece into place and stand back to look. So that is what I am. That is what You planned for me all along. 
Thank you. It is beautiful.

Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom--Psalm 90:12

Stuck in the World with Other People...

photo: ccc.femvolution.com

The hard part of life isn't dealing with God, it's dealing with people.
More specifically, it's dealing with shortcomings--my own and everyone else's.
Everybody I encounter messes up. Every single person I rub up against in this life irritates me or hurts me or disappoints me sooner or later. And I do the same for them.

I don't like that.
Some days, it makes me just want to hide.

Dealing with God is different. I can depend on God to be kind and forgiving and constant. Even in exercising judgement or punishment, He is loving me. He never gives me the annihilation I really deserve, but is merciful and generous. I am safe with Him.

So why in the world am I stuck here in the world with people?  Frustrating, inconstant, sinful people?
I am not safe with any of them.
Nuts.
What good, in the end, are we for each other anyway?

As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.--Proverbs 27:17

People hone me. Make me sharper, better. 
I would much rather float through life with a perfect God, but His perfection does not provide the testing I need to make me holy. People do.
God gives us each other to show us what not to be.

How does He do that?
Lies teach me truth.
Cruelty teaches me kindness.
Betrayal teaches me fidelity.
Disrespect teaches me honor.
Thievery teaches me simplicity.
Lasciviousness teaches me purity.

When I encounter sin in myself or the people around me, I can use it to change myself. That is it's purpose.
A perfect God shows me what I am to become and sends me imperfect people to take me there.

Not Drowning in the Meaningless

photo: www.bronzemagonline.com

Meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is meaningless!--Ecclesiastes 1:1

Poor Solomon.
I always felt kind of sorry for him, but not so much anymore.
Actually, I've come to understand that he was right, but not in a bad way.
Everything IS meaningless, and that knowledge drives us to find a reason for living. This is a good thing. Understanding that most of what we do and accomplish doesn't last drives us to search for meaning, for a reason to take the next breath.
And that's where Solomon got into trouble.

His dad, David, also thought life was meaningless. He did.
David, like Solomon, knew he was a sinner. He was drowning in his sins, in fact. Like Solomon, he knew that after he'd messed up big time, his good intentions had failed. He'd done very little right. He'd tried, but was not a worthy king, a good friend, or a successful husband and father. Like Solomon, he'd messed it all up.
But unlike Solomon, he didn't sink into melancholy over it.
Unlike Solomon, he didn't lose his reason for living.

Why? In spite of all the wrong turns, God was not enough for Solomon.
But God was more than enough for David.

How can we tell? Look at the symptoms.
Frustration = lost reason
Fear = lost reason
Depression = lost reason
Loneliness = lost reason

Solomon had them all. David did not.
David had repentance and after repentance, David had God.
I must find God, too, if I am to find the source of a balance mind and heart and the source of all health. I must always know the only solid reason for my life. 

I will never leave you nor forsake you.--Deuteronomy 31:8

God will take me beyond this life into eternity. He endures.
It's OK if everything is meaningless. I have God.

What BFF Really Means

Photo:www.uber-facts.com

I always thought that the epitome of human relationships was love.
God tells me to love and most of the time, I like doing it.
I love my husband and my children and my friends in His name.
But He also tells me to love my neighbor, who I don't always like.
Even worse, He tells me to love my enemy, who I absolutely don't like.
Now that I think about it, sometimes I want to love and sometimes I don't.
But I have to. Whether I like it or not.
And God has to love us. Loving is who He is. He can't not do it.

But that is not true of friendship.
We get to choose our friends.
And so does God.
I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father, I made known to you.--John 15:15.

Friendship is a privilege, not a command.
As we believe in and worship God, He calls us friends.
 This is not a slap-on-the-back buddy relationship, but a deep heart caring that shares and laughs and cries together. It is a relationship born of basic likenesses, deeper even than love. 

Friendship is more exclusive, reserved only for the closest of those God must love.
Love comes from God to all, but friendship, well....that is a finer thing.
BFF. Yes, I'll take that.
Thank you, Lord.

You've GOT to be Kidding

Photo:howtomakeyourmanperfect.wordpress.com

Teenagers.
Don't you hate it when they pout?
After all, what does pouting really say?
"You've got to be kidding."
"This isn't even close to good enough."
"What about ME?"

Teenagers. Go figure.
They are world class pouters.
And I, of course, being older and wiser, am not.

And, then I got out of bed.
"Oh, man...the cat threw up again."
"Who left their wet towels on the floor?"
"Turn on the air, will you? It's really hot out there."
"I don't want cereal for breakfast. Can't we have french toast?"

Complaints. Whines. And yes, pouting.
Nothing is good enough.
And, just like a pouting teenager insults what I have given her, I insult what God has given me.
Yes, the cat threw up, but she also calms and cuddles.
Yes, someone left wet towels on the floor, but the floor is tiled and nothing is harmed.
Yes, it's 90 degrees today, but it's not 30 below and it's not snowing again.
Yes, cereal isn't the most exciting breakfast, but it's easy and nutritious and doesn't burden anyone.

Turn back, my soul, to your rest, for the Lord has been good to you; He has kept my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from stumbling. I will walk in the presence of the Lord in the land of the living.--Psalm 116:8-9
For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you, it is the gift of God.--Ephesians 2:9

What God gives me is GOOD--not because it makes me happy, but because it comes from Him.
Thinking it is anything else simply becomes pouting.

In Company with Songbirds

The came in silently, some with shuffling steps, some with walkers. They found the right pages with practiced hands, and looked to casual eyes like a hundred elderly ladies ready for a meeting.
Then they began to sing.
And I realized that I was in the company not of retired nuns at St. Francis House in Dubuque, Iowa, but with songbirds.

"We come to share our story...." they sang.

Their stories not so much as retired nuns, but as redeemed children of Christ.
The story that brings them so much joy, regardless of number of their years or the condition of their flesh:

"We come to break the bread..."

The bread of life, the cup of salvation,
the soaring redemption they all share regardless of their background or origin.

"We come to know our rising from the dead."

They may have trouble sitting, or standing, or walking,
But they know that amidst it all, they rise with Christ.

They taught me this.
Thank you, little birds.

Round and Round We Go

Photo:xeniagreekmuslimah.wordpress.com

Oh, those Israelites.
Round and round in the same circle.

They soon forgot what He had done and did not wait for His counsel. In the desert they gave in to their craving; in the wasteland they put God to the test. So He gave them what they asked for, but sent a wasting disease upon them.--Ps 106:14-15

Round and round.

Actively loving God, then complacent, then rationalizing sin, then worshiping idols, then subjected to bondage, then rescued by God, then back to actively loving God again.
They never quite got it, did they?  I wonder why?
I should know, after all. I do it, too.
So do you.

Nobody lives in a constant state of awe and humility before God. Nobody always credits and adores Him for life and love and faith. We all cycle through our own sinful tendencies.
And He knows this. So God gave us a conscience. And He put up danger signs, so we don't have to retrace the same sickening circle all the time.
Do you know your danger signs?
I know mine.
My danger sign is rationalizing.

Here's what rationalizing sounds like:
First comes that prick of conscience, the annoying one, the one I want reason to ignore. Then the justification--
"God won't mind that second, or third, piece of cake. He wants me to be happy and satisfied. He says so."
"I can stay a little later. My husband won't mind."
"I'm so tired. The kids can make their own breakfast. I need to take care of myself, after all."
And I can find a Bible verse to support every one of these.

The bottom line, though, is that I don't want to give up my pleasure and I want God to agree with me.
Sounds a lot like "Did God really say...?", doesn't it?
Rather than using my Bible to teach and enlighten and bring me into God's throneroom, I use it to justify myself.
Here's the beartrap:
The minute I go to my Bible to get more of earth rather than more of God, I'm in trouble.
I have entered my own cycle of sin.
When this happens, this is the next place I must go:
Save us, O Lord our God, and gather us from the nations, that we may give thanks to your holy Name and glory in your praise.--Ps 106:47
It's all God. All God.

The Reluctant Unknown

Jesus lived 90% of His life in complete obscurity. 
The Bible says almost nothing about Him until He began His ministry at 30, and He died at 33.
How could the Son of God, the coming Savior, go unnoticed for so long?

I think I know why:
He made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness.--Philippians 2:7
He did exactly the opposite of what we normally do. He knew what He had to do, melted into His appointed place, and did it. Without fanfare. Content to go without credit.
When He turned water into wine at Cana, He didn't want any notice:
Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come.--John 2:4
When He healed the leper, He told him:
Don't tell anyone but go, show yourself to the priest...Luke 5:14
When He was tempted, He did it alone.
When He suffered at Gethsamane, He did it alone.

Jesus did not need an audience.
Why do I?

I want to matter. I want notice, credit for what I do. I want to be recognized, known.
I am vain.
I count the hits on my blog. I wait with anticipation for comments.
"Oh, they like me..." I think.
Significance. The unquenchable thirst.

Like drunkenness and gluttony, vanity drugs me into overindulgence, and I disappear beneath its insistent desire:
All man's efforts are for his mouth, yet his appetite is never satisfied.--Ecclesiastes 6:7

There is only one solution. I must remember who I am. God does.
...He know how we are formed. He remembers that we are dust.--Psalm 103:14

Dust. I am dust before God. He made me and any vanity I have before Him makes me ridiculous.
I must expect no notice, crave no attention.
Instead, I must bathe in the attention of God alone, trust Him for all satisfaction, thank Him for every comfort, and honor Him for His glory.
And, as a result, I will probably be alone a lot, too.

Holding Onto Dirt

Credit: images.yourdictionary.com

OK. Everybody has idols.
Things we hold onto no matter what.
Money. Kids. Job. Expectations. Dreams.
But dirt?

Yes, we do.
And I was reminded about this from an old song:
In our joys and in our sorrows, days of toil and days of ease,
Still He calls in cares and pleasures: 
Christians, love me more than these.--Cecil Alexander, Jesus Loves Us

We hold onto the things that bring us happiness and ease, but we also hang onto people and circumstances that hurt--offenses, old pains, bad relationships, a habit of sickness, the attitude of a victim, and more.
They bring us no pleasure, but we won't let go.
We don't know who we would  be without them and don't want to find out.
Idols...all of them. Nothing but dirt.

And they become stumbling blocks to our faith. Jesus told us this:
Still others, like seed sown among thorns, hear the word but the worries of this life, the deceitfulness of the wealth, and the desires for other things come in and choke the word, making it unfruitful.--Mark 4:18-19

We don't hoard only life's pleasures, but its sorrows and troubles.
It doesn't matter what we hold onto.
If it isn't Christ, it is all dirt.

Frank and Abe, Doing it Their Way

I would not have thought that Frank Sinatra and the biblical patriarch Abraham had much in common, but I would have been wrong:
And Abraham said unto God, 'Oh that Ishmael might live before thee!'--Genesis 17:18

Just when God was promising Abe everything--all he had ever wanted and more, children too many to number and a kingdom by God for God--what does he say?
No, don't do that.
Do it my way.
Don't make everything new. Do it with this stuff, this child I already know, people I already love.
Don't give me a new people, a whole new place.
I'm old, said Abe. I'm tired of new.
Can't you do it my way for once?
And God said no.
And He didn't.

Abe and Frank, who would have thunk it?
But I want my way, too. And I suffer from the same shortsightedness they did.
If he'd gotten his way, Abraham would have missed so much just because he had no imagination for it.
Please, God, let me want your way.

In the Palm of Your Hand

You already have it, you know.
The world in the palm in your hand.
You have God and God has you. You are safe in His arms for all eternity. What more could you want?
Plenty, as it turns out.

There are two ways to live a Christian life:
The first is to experience salvation and live in the freedom of it.
The second is harder. It is the way of sacrifice:

 If I do not intentionally sacrifice, that is, eschew the things of this world I could otherwise enjoy without sinning, I will live a materially-based Christian life.
I will still go to heaven, and while I'm waiting, will enjoy the world, but I will miss something else.
If I intentionally sacrifice what comes naturally to my physical body, I am more likely to attain a full, spiritual relationship with my God.

Abraham had to offer God Ishmael before he was given Isaac.
I have to do the same.
If you would be my disciple, you must deny yourself...--Matthew 16:24

More is required of a disciple than of a believer, or even of a follower and, if I want to be one, I have to deny myself. Becoming a disciple requires discipline.
I cannot pray my way into this. It requires action. My action.
Jesus has already saved me. Now, He has shown me my part.

So, we have the world in the palm of our hand.
Now, it is for us to turn our hand over and dump it out.
In doing so, we are only making room for the better part.

The Only Miracle

Jesus, the very Power of God, showed the world who He was in part by performing miracles.
To do this, He had to approach the filthy and festering, the poor and vile.  They were all the same to Him.
They were sinners who needed His miracle.
And so am I.
I need His miracle, too.

This is what I ask of my God--
As You made them see again, give me sight.
As You made them hear, open my ears to holy Truth.
As You made them walk, keep my steps turned toward your leading.
As You cured withered hands, keep mine devoted to your service.
As You raised them from dead, keep me in new life.

Now, Christ healed generously in kindness and compassion, but I know that part of the healing is my responsibility.  I have, in this transaction, something to do, too.
I must truly desire change.
What do you want me to do for you?--Mark 10:51
That is the hardest part.
I must want the miracle so badly that I stop being what I am, what I have nurtured and built in myself, the only 'me' I know.

Instead, I must zealously follow Him, look for Him, desire Him.
I must trust Him.
I must listen.
I must love Him with my whole heart, soul, and mind.

Then I will receive the real miracle.
There is, after all, only one.
It isn't the healed hand or the seeing eye or the sure step.
The miracle is only and always the glimpse of Himself that He brings every day.
Say only the word, and my soul shall be healed.--Matthew 8:8

Waaaaa!

What do you cry about?
Be honest.
Sadness, loneliness, loss, physical pain, emotional hurt?
More often then not, this is the audio to that:  "Me. Me. Me."
Even empathy for someone else transfers from our own remembered pain.
Our tears are almost always all about us.
I do it, too.

We begin at birth with a cry of outrage when life smacks us with cold and discomfort, and we wail at its first assaults.
And they keep coming.
And, when they seem too much, we cry.

Did Jesus cry at birth?
He felt the pain and cold, too, but did He cry?
He wept later, but in very specific circumstances--over the sins of His people, and again at Lazarus' grave.  He wept for the death of people he loved. In no recorded instance did He cry over personal loneliness, insult, betrayal, or desertion.
Not like we do.
Jesus' flesh felt every body blow as deeply as our does, but He did not cry over them.
Why not?

Think about Him at His weakest moment--in the garden, sweating blood in an agony of anticipated suffering.
"Let this cup pass", He begged, but it would not.
He had come to the end of His human resources, but He did not cry.
I cry because I do not master my flesh.
Jesus, Master of all things, did.

He felt every pain, every hurt, as deeply as I do, but He did not give in to them.
Why not?  What was the difference?
He knew Himself.
He knew His Father.
He had already won.
I am supposed to know this, too, and in this knowledge, self-pity has no place.

Can I hold His kind of mastery over myself all the time?  No.
But in this, like in all things, Christ says,
"Follow Me."
"Be holy."
"My yoke is easy."

From the very first ones, all of my tears have been selfish.
Yes, tears sometimes come as a release, too, and I will still shed these, but I have no real reason to cry. Not ever.  Not really.
My Savior lives. He loves and cares for me.
What could I possibly cry about in the face of that?

Banging on the Door

God wants to meet me alone in the dark.
He wants me to go into a quiet place, to shut the door, and to concentrate on Him alone.
No distractions, no interruptions.

When you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen.  Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.--Matthew 6:6

And then He sends me life.
A thousand details.
Every day.
Like toddlers banging on the bathroom door they come, crying, "Me, me, me..."

Make beds.  Do dishes. Change diapers. Check off lists. Make appointments. Drive someone to practice. Return phone calls. Kiss an owie. Pack a lunch. Dust.

And He sends all this stuff on purpose.
He does it to teach me to love Him.

He knows that love is born in details.
When I do something big, something significant for God, I learn to love the act, not Him, or love the result or, worse yet, myself.
"Thank you for this opportunity to serve you, God and, by the way, look at the cool thing I did. Didn't I do a good job?"
On the other hand, a temporarily dry bottom or the top of a refrigerator finally wiped clean or a prayer said on the way to the grocery never inspires such obvious congratulation.

In small works of devotion, the ones invisible to all but God Himself, we encounter Him alone.
He sent me these responsibilities.  He put them in my path.  They come from Him as gifts for communion.
And they make me more like Him.

Small, insignificant tasks become, if I let them, the prayers I say without ceasing.
Whatever you do, whether word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to the Father through Him.--Colossians 3:17

What the Marys Know

In the Bible we meet only one Martha, but three Marys--accident?  I think not.

Most of us can identify with Martha of Bethany at one time or another--hardworking, efficient, aware of others' needs, skilled, a doer of things that need doing and thus always busy and, oh yes, complaining.

The Marys, all of them--Mary Magdalen, Mary of Bethany, and the virgin mother of Christ--were lovers.  All of them.  They had "the better part."

We know we are supposed to be more like Mary but somehow we just, well, can't.  
Why not?

Because Martha is just so NECESSARY.
Dishes need doing.
Babies need feeding.
Lawns need mowing.
Who is going to do it all if all we do is hang out with God and love Him all the time?

I've decided that even Mary can mow the lawn.
What separated these Marys from Martha was not what they did, it was their attitude.

A Martha knows her Bible verses.  She goes to church.  She attends Bible studies. She helps folks in need.  She cleans the church and bakes pies for socials.
Martha marches to God's cadence.  And God loves her for it.

But Mary allows herself to be drawn into His arms and loses herself there--not forever, not so the beds never get made, but for the sheer joy of these times of communion.
She does not give up one for the sake of the other.  She has found her beloved and intends to enjoy Him.

They hurried off and found Mary and Joseph and the baby, who was lying in the manger.  When they had seen Him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them.  But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.--Luke 2:16-19

Don't let the tenderness of moments with Christ escape you. 
As Marthas, we only begin our life with Christ. 
As Marys, we find its depth.

All the Little Foxes

Blooms are so tender. 
Fragile Spring flowers hold such hopes for ripe fruit. 
The grapes yielded now, at the end of summer, were sown many months ago, when sweet petals unfolded, beckoning the bees. 
But if blooms fail in the spring, if the flower withers, all is ruined.

Predators threaten the promise of fruit.
Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin the vineyards, our vineyards that are in bloom.--Song of Solomon 2:15

While we live, our own harvest, like that of the vineyard, is not sure.
Little foxes stalk our faith, our life in Christ.

Union with God is not complete in this world.  It can't be.
We are constantly distracted by the fox--the fox that is flesh and blood and, by nature, partially broken.

The danger is not in the part of us that loves God, the part in bloom, but the part not yet subject to Him.
If we are to see fruit, we must protect the bloom, that is, give to God ever-increasing portions.
We cannot rest on the part of God already blooming in our hearts.  We must stalk the fox in us, and chase him out. In doing so, we yield to Christ's promise, and make ways for the complete work of the True Vine.

We must resolutely grow in God.
If you think you stand firm, be careful you don't fall.--1Corinthians 10:12

Don't kid yourself.  The fox lurks.  Weakness and sin threaten.
But Christ brings the promise of a harvest.

Pushed into Shape

Life applies constant pressure, but I have a bad habit of ignoring it.
It pushes and I push back.
It takes my head in both hands and turns me in one direction and I look longingly to another.

And all the while, I do not see that the hands that redirect are God's.

I went down to the potter's house and I saw him working at the wheel, but the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands, so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.--Jeremiah 18:3-4

God gave me the right to go my own way, but He did not consent to make me comfortable there.  He promises to correct, to amend, to shape me relentlessly.


He, and only He, knows my intended shape, and this is it:
I am supposed to look like Him. 
 
He builds and rebuilds, always to the same model: His own.  He knows I mess myself up and constantly applies the pressure necessary to re-form me.

My God, my Creator, wants me to recover my original design.
Everything that He brings me in the course of living is designed to achieve this.
As long as I wake up every day, I am not finished.
My most important job is not to preach, or teach, or witness, or work.
It is worship Him and thus, to return fully to Him.  Period.

I work not to get a job done, but because God works.
I sacrifice not to achieve an end, but because God sacrificed.
I love not to further a relationship, but because God is love.

Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand...--Jeremiah 18:6
For every living soul belongs to me...--Ezekiel 18:1

Every time I yield to Your touch, I come closer to Your side, O Lord.  The pot you are making bears the marks of Your hands, but when you release it, looks like You.