Winter

     "For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under Heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1

  A foot or more of wet, heavy snow fell in the quiet hours of the night. It's most unusual for this time of year. The snowblower was good to go and fired up nicely but it was hard slogging all the same. The wet snow kept plugging the chute as the temperatures climbed. It simply took a bit longer to clear the driveway.

  They are calling for rain so the snow won't stick around for very long. It usually doesn't when it comes this early.

  Autumn was late so it is strange to see the gold and amber leaves of the neighbour's silver Maple tree dressed in white.

  It has caught me off guard a bit. There are still some beets in the garden waiting to be dug up. I pulled a few a couple of days ago. They were roasted and eaten. I never knew beets got sweeter after the frost kisses them. They don't taste so much like dirt.

  I had planted the beets for my friend who enjoys them. It's something I am learning to like. There's an amazing Thai soup made with golden beets which is now a keeper recipe. 

  

  Now there's something to think about...frost also kills. Tender greens cannot survive being frozen. Morning Glory leaves turn to soggy spinach at frost's first caress. 

  The harder the first frost strikes, the more brilliant the autumn colours. This year there was more crimson on the trees than I've seen in a long time. It was the kind of spectacular that takes your breath away. While I know the trees aren't dead, they put their life on hold until the warm, lengthening days roll in and the cycle starts all over again.

  So maybe the frost that strikes our hearts can also do different things. But, unlike Morning Glories or trees, we can choose the ending.

  Do we allow it to kill the life and light within? Or do we allow it to help make our life and light shine more brightly?

  

  Years ago I was listening to a friend rant about her ex husband. It was a regular thing. Her bitterness and anger coloured every word. Frost had touched her soul in the form of a broken marriage.

  She paused for a breath and opened her mouth to continue. I interrupted her, "Why do you hate him so much?"

  She closed her mouth and paused, this time for a few minutes. She looked at me with a surprised expression, "Because it's easier!"

  She stopped talking about him and began the difficult task of sharing her pain. 

  It was like spring had finally come into her life.

  I'll never forget that moment. 

  Living with hatred in our heart is like being swallowed by a winter that never lets up. Nothing can grow or bloom or bear fruit. While there may be a season of needing to express such feelings, it can only be with one purpose in mind: to move through and past it. 

  I am grateful to have a God who is always there regardless of what I might say. Honesty is the spring rain that fosters new growth. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

 

Burning Basket

  "Beware of false prophets who come disguised as harmless sheep but are really vicious wolves. You can identify them by their fruit, that is, by the way they act."

  Since Tuesday's post, the image of the light smothering basket has been forefront in my heart and mind. It's a far better metaphor than a cage. The upside down basket contains the light of a life that has been covered up for decades. But no more. 

  Beams of light shoot out from between the weavers and stakes forming the sides. It starts as small, pencil sized rays. The light scorches the basket where it leaks out. It starts to turn edges black before they ignite and glow. There isn't any flame, just the red, glowing, consuming brilliance. It dances its way along anything that it can consume, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Ash flakes from the disintegrating basket drift upwards on the heat from the fire within.

  The more it burns, the more the light coming out grows and grows until the basket is nothing but a pile of burnt remains illuminated by an uncontainable light.

  It's a prayer and a promise in imagery. 

  It's often said that our faith is the light we carry but I think the source is far deeper than that. Our light is also the life the Lord breathed into our being. It only shines brighter with the Lord fanning its flames, breathing on it anew for His glory and delight.

  I've often had bonfires in my back yard, burning yard trash over a couple of days. The second day's fire rarely requires a match. It only needs the ashes stirred up to expose embers that have been smoldering overnight. Some fresh fuel and patient blowing and the flames to burst into life.

  My fuel is a battered, cracked and stained old basket. 

  

  I've also had a bit of an epiphany about today's verse as well. I thought Jesus was talking about church leaders when He spoke about false prophets. But it's bigger than that.

  There are wonderful people who have the gift of prophecy, who speak God's love and life over someone. 

  False prophets are those whose words bring death and destruction. Not literal death, but death to dreams and hopes and the gifts God gives all His children. They do not serve God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit. 

  They build baskets. They slap something over the gaps when even the smallest ray of light dares to shine through. They rarely work alone. Basket builders know each other's handiwork and will take over  construction and maintenance with delight. In fact, they seek out people who are already inside of one. It makes their job much easier.

  And we also seek basket builders when we think that's where we belong. So dear Lord, this morning I offer a repentant heart for having looked to basket builders for my identity. Forgive me for not looking to You. In Jesus' precious name, AMEN!

  "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine! Let it shine, let it shine, all the time!" 

  A long forgotten children's song has taken on a far richer meaning. 

  Then there's another verse, "Don't you go and (blow a puff of air) my little light!" 

  AMEN to that!

  

  

  

  

  

  

Of Rocks, Lamps and Baskets

   "You are the light of the world--like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand where it gives light to everyone in the house." Matthew 5:14-15

  

  Sunday was an especially difficult day. The tears and grief kept coming in waves. It started in church the moment the worship music touched my soul. 

  Our pastor opened her teaching with the scripture about listening to the teaching of Jesus and following His ways from Matthew 7:24. That way our house, built on a foundation of bedrock, will be able to withstand the storms.

  My pen did what it does...and this image was created. I didn't really understand the significance at the time. The grief was overwhelming. To be fair, I've spent the last several days writing a letter to God about everything that happened in the last month of my step-dad's life. As of today, it's over twenty-three pages long. 

  Up to this point, it's simply been a record of events as they unfolded; a timeline to help me keep track of everything. Since I was in stress induced, hyper-vigilant mode the entire time, there is a lot of detail. And I am grateful for this survival mechanism. Writing it down is laying a foundation I can stand on in order to move forward.

  It's something I needed to do, to cement events firmly into my brain. It's about validating the experiences as well as building trust in my own senses and perceptions. For far too long, the effects of gaslighting have caused me to doubt so much. Having everything written down gives me ammunition to overcome those who would try to deny the truth. 

  Today my therapist asked the question, "If the Lord was talking to you now, what would He say about you?" It was near the end of our session and was a logical question in light of everything we'd discussed up to this point.

  I thought for a bit and with a cheeky grin said, "I am pretty freaking amazing." 

  Both of us laughed. I tapped my head, "This brain of mine is special. It's smart." I went on to talk about high school, about graduating with honours without having to try. There might have even been scholarships but it was more important that I didn't make people feel bad about themselves. 

  I confess to making fun of those who used all their smarts to succeed in school. (God forgive me for that.) As children, we only do what we've been taught, don't we?

  Then the bomb dropped..."It is important to not make mom feel stupid." 

  And all of a sudden my heart understood what putting a basket on my light meant to my life, my experiences, my choices, my behaviours and my mental and emotional health. I understood the damage of gaslighting because gaslighting now has a recognizable shape. It's a basket used to suffocate the light of someone else.

  And I crawled under it time and again because it was where the illusion of safety lived.

  As I sit here, metaphorically kneeling on the Rock of my faith, I hear the storm of echoes. The words said, which directly and indirectly infused my life with "THE RULES." But, hey, rules are made to be broken aren't they? Especially when the authors of those rules are the need for power and control, jealousy, cruelty, shame, blame, guilt, and the heavy, heavy burden of false responsibility.

 It has to be the ugliest basket ever made.

  I no longer want to hide under it even though it has provided a false sense of safety. It's not really safe. At all. Lord, fill me with resolve to never, ever, ever crawl under it again. In Jesus name, AMEN!

  

  

Echoes

   "There are six things the Lord hates--no, seven things He detests: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that kill the innocent, a heart that plots evil, feet that race to do wrong, a false witness who pours out lies, a person who sows discord in a family." Proverbs 6:16-19

  I was at a funeral this past weekend. It was for a young man whose life had been shaped by the wheelchair he was bound to. His mind was broken, his body, too, by an illness he was born into. I didn't know him personally but we went to support the family. He was the brother of my friend's nephew's wife. Family can be far reaching.

  The service was held at the graveside. A dozen or so mourners gathered around, thankful the rain had held off. It was a simple service, celebrating this young man and rejoicing in the heavenly gift of a new body and a new mind. 

  I don't think there's anything scriptural about my thoughts on this, but I think Jesus has created a special place for the innocents who are unable to speak or whose mental incapacity stops them from understanding the gift of the Cross. At least, I hope He has.

  This was the first funeral after my step Dad's passing. I was okay until they lifted the board. It was covering the small grave where a simple bag with the young man's cremated remains would be laid to rest.

  It wasn't the board. It wasn't the hole. It was the Astro-turf (the fake grass carpet) cemeteries use to hide "unsightly" dirt. The board was wrapped in it, too. 

  The tears started coming. For this young man and his family, for Allan and, surprisingly, for my own dad. 

  He died suddenly when I was 19. It was December, right before Christmas. The Astro-turf was out of place against a blanket of fresh snow. He wasn't cremated so the casket sat above a grave surrounded by fake grass. It was a visual incongruity that has haunted me for decades.

  Imagine Astro-turf being the catalyst that made my heart leak from my eyes. 

  It's still leaking. That's why I had to write today. 

  I never cried at Allan's funeral or at the grave side. Not that this is a bad thing or wrong. God poured a full measure of His peace and grace into my being. For that I am most grateful.

  

  I think Astro-turf is deception personified. It's "polite society" etiquette; of how not getting dirt on your shoes is more important; of not having anything offensive in sight; of making sure death is neat and tidy...it's swept under the rug so to speak.

  I am getting a sense Astro-turf symbolizes things that reach far beyond the cemetery. 

  Lord, I lift this to You. Help me understand in Jesus' name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

Love

 "'When they look, they won't really see. When they hear, they won't understand.' This is the meaning of the parable. The seeds that fell on the footpath represent those who hear the message, only to have the devil come and take it away from their hearts and prevent them from being saved.'" Jesus Luke 8:9-12

  Love, at its best, challenges us to be better than we are. That's what Jesus does time and again. He offers a better, a different way of living. Sometimes the lines in the sand Jesus drew involved words. But like I said yesterday, change requires permission to exist. 

  If we close our hearts to change, to doing things differently, nothing changes. We stay stuck in the current situation, destined to repeat the same things over and over again. Which is exactly where a narcissist wants us.

  Unless the Lord opens the eyes of our heart.

  Love. Four letters that contain the most complex emotional part of being human.

  So what did I think love was before today?

  I thought love meant staying small. Love meant accepting the cage and living life according to the bars that formed it. My life was defined by offering grace, making allowances, and accepting a role of servitude. It also meant giving permission to be treated badly, swallowing the hurts, and ignoring the injustice because love means being nice, being the bigger person. Love meant adapting my behaviour to meet the needs of the moment: placating anger, massaging an ego, propping up weakness...and turning a blind eye to it all.

  I didn't know there was any other way to love.

  That, and who was I really serving?

  It wasn't Jesus.

  I was exactly where the enemy wanted me to stay.

  he has had enough of my 61 years.

  Love doesn't ask us to stay under the power of evil. In fact, it is our God given right to draw our own lines in the sand. I think of Gandalf in Lord of the Rings when he fought the fiery beast on the bridge. "You shall not pass!" Maybe I need to get myself a staff.

  Is that what You mean, Lord, when we say the 23 Psalm? "Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me."

  His rod is discipline. His staff, a weapon formed by words. "You, the enemy, shall not pass!"

 

  AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

The Battle Goes On

   "I love them, but they try to destroy me with accusations even as I am praying for them! They repay evil for good and hatred for my love." Psalm 109:4

  Yah. The battle goes on but the Lord is ever faithful and leads me directly to the words that will guide and sustain me. All I need to do is open my Bible and my eyes fall on the appropriate scripture for the day. 

  I have continued to work on the letter to Him. So far it's over eleven pages long. A lot happened over a short period of time. Even though some of the days are mixed up, I feel it's more important to make note of important events before the memories fade. Time will do that. Sometimes.

  Sometimes events are seared onto the synapsis. Those are the kind of memories that wash over you in glorious technicolor. Sound, smell, light and shadow are forever captured in a 3D movie that plays over and over again. 

  I am trying hard to keep the emotions from taking over. But they often do. Understandably so. It really hasn't been that long since my step Dad went to Jesus. 

  I wish I had known him better. But mom never let him speak whenever I was there. Even if he tried, she would shut him down by interrupting and taking over the conversation. Even if she wasn't in the same room. I don't know how many times she told him he wasn't remembering something correctly. 

  After a while, he simply stopped trying to talk to anyone...

  I guess he was in his own cage.

  It's so sad. For all of us in the family. So much that could have been was lost. 

  It's easy to look back and wish things had been done differently. But how could they? When doing things differently means actually knowing there is a different way. 

 As late in life as it is for me, I finally understand it's possible to move forward on a different path. It won't be easy, but it is possible.

  Change can only happen when it is given permission to exist. 

  So whose permission do I need to change the rules of the game?

  1. God's.

  2. Mine.

  Whose permission don't I need.

  1. Mom's.

  I already have my step-Dad's permission to change the rules. "Walk On," he said. It means a lot, to have a father's blessing in this. 

  But, does "walk on" actually mean walk away?

  It would sure be easier. But is that what God wants me to do?

  At this point, I don't know. It gets confusing when Sunday sermons talk about forgiving and grace and all the good things we are to embody as believers. But how? How do I do this without returning to the cage?

  God's ability to love has no limits. But I am not God (smile)...so Lord, how do I show love, Your kind of love, to mom?

  Stop expecting, needing, her to change. Set limits and boundaries according to what is and is not acceptable behaviour. Define acceptable behaviour in terms of love, compassion, generosity, and kindness. Have zero tolerance for anything of the evil one, that reflects or attempts to inflict harm on someone else. Be on guard for misdirection, manipulation and dishonesty. 

  This is the short version of the heart of Jesus and all He stood for.

  Jesus helped me do this when Allan was dying. I stood up for one who could no longer protect himself. It's okay to keep doing this for not only others, but myself as well.  

  It's okay to hang up the phone if she refuses to honour these boundaries. It's okay to "walk on."

  This doesn't mean I have to call today. In time, perhaps. I have much to think about.

  

 

  

   

  

  

   

  

  

  

  

In His Presence

   "For someday the people will follow Me. I, the Lord, will roar like a lion. And when I roar, my people will return trembling from the west." Hosea 11:10

  During another season of therapy, my therapist had learned how to do Traumatic Incident Reduction Therapy. It's a structured revisiting of traumatic events that allows a person to revisit the event in a safe and controlled manner. It's guided by questions that allow the exploration of sights, sounds, smells, and feelings. 

  It's not easy. 

  But, here's the thing, my therapist was a believer. She included questions that allowed me to see the hand of God, His presence, in the midst of remembering the awful. 

  And God was good. He showed me where He was every single time we utilized this therapy technique. Now I can remember these events, hard and as terrible as they were, and I find comfort.

  That's not to say I don't feel the pain of what happened but it no longer overwhelms my senses. The traumatic event has been disarmed. Kind of like removing the firing pin from a gun's trigger mechanism. 

  I've started doing this on my own, well, not really on my own. Instead of writing a letter to my mom, I've started writing a personal letter to God. That's what I mean when I say it's not on my own. The letter is all about what happened in the days before, during, and after my step-Dad's passing. 

  The first step involves immersing myself in the details of events, trying to get it all down in some sort of sequence. It's going to take some time because a lot happened. And I can only handle so much at a stretch.

  I am already aware of the many precious moments when the Lord showed up in astounding ways, in answered prayers, in the strength and calm of my being during the chaos. 

  He showed up in a church's post card advertisement with a scripture verse. It was laying on the floor, just another piece of garbage that didn't make into the bin. Until I picked it up, deeply grateful for such a gift. It's still in my purse, a reminder that He is with me in everything.

  I find myself wondering how and why the post card ended up on the floor of the hospital lobby. Was it given to someone who simply dropped it, uninterested in what was being offered? Or was it part of a clumsily packaged pile of cards and it fell out, unnoticed? Was it dropped intentionally by the person seeking to expand God's kingdom?

  I wish the post card could talk.

  I think my next task is to reach out to the church and share what it meant to me. That among the hundreds of their printed post cards, God used one, cast off and forgotten, to touch someone's heart and encourage them in a time of trial.

  God is a God of small things, too. 

  Lord, help me see You in the small, the moments, the seconds You make Your presence known. Help me see the bigger picture in Jesus Name I pray. AMEN!