Resurrection Life

   "Jesus was still angry as He arrived at the tomb, a cave with a stone rolled across its entrance. "Roll the stone aside," Jesus told them. But Martha, the dead man's sister, protested, "Lord, he has been dead for four days. The smell will be terrible." Jesus responded, "Didn't I tell you that you would see God's glory if you believe?" So they rolled the stone aside." John 11:38-41

  The story of Martha, Mary and Lazarus has been one of the most important stories in my faith walk. It's one I find myself being returned to again and again. It has helped to shape my understanding of becoming a new creation in Christ and what that means. It means having a community around you to help remove the grave cloths of the old way, the old identity, the old sin that has been forgiven.

   I've connected with Martha, the worker, and Mary, the one who sat at Jesus' feet. Both these ladies were part of my own thinking and way of living.

  "Jesus wept." (John 11:36) The shortest verse in the Bible was the one that gave me permission to grieve a long time ago. If Jesus can cry, so could I. That was when the healing journey began with honest tears and a sharing of pain with the One who had been there through all of it.

  When my step Dad passed last year, his burial service gave us the opportunity to place a small shovel full of earth on top of his urn. I'd never done that before but this simple act was a blessing, a small step towards finding closure in the face of loss.

  Do you think the ancient Jewish people felt the same when the stone was rolled across the grave?

  I've been thinking a lot about the gravestone since the Lazarus story was referenced in yesterday's teaching. While I have been called into life by Jesus who makes all thing new, there are times the stone has stopped me in my tracks.

  Being trapped in a grave isn't what Jesus wants. I don't want to be there either. 

  Lord, in spite of how angry I am, I choose to forgive the stone rollers, the ones who could not accept the person You breathed into my being. I choose to forgive those who felt the need to contain my being in a lifeless, stifling tomb. A tomb they had prepared according to their own design, and wants and needs. 

  And Lord? Forgive me for believing it was where I belonged. 

  Which brings me to resurrection life. 

  Forgive me, Lord, for rolling the stone across my own path of freedom because I do it. All the time.

  The stone has a name. It's fear. 

  

  God has been calling me out of the dark for a long time. He wants, not just me, but all of us to live large and free: to live honestly. Living large isn't a prideful thing, it's a joyous celebration of true identity. 

  And maybe, just maybe, I can begin to imagine a future lived outside. How amazing is that!

  As always, to God be the glory. AMEN!

   

  

  

  

 

Harvest

   "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." James 1:17

  I had planned on writing earlier today. Human plans, right?

  A fierce storm last night brought down a large tree branch. Right across the driveway. The old apple tree is failing. It's loaded with apples this year so I guess the ole gal couldn't handle the combination of wind, wet and weight.

  So instead of writing, I ended up chopping wood, gathering fallen apples and burning the smaller branches. It took a while. Enough time to harvest the basil and get it in the oven to dry. Purple beans were also gathered to be blanched and frozen.

  I kept an eye on the fire and puttered around the garden.

  The cucumbers needed some leaves trimmed off to make the flowers more visible. This also lets the plant spend more energy on the cukes themselves.   

  The black currants needed picking, too. They are coming along nicely and while it may be a good year for apples, the currants, not so much. They are rather finicky but it pays to take the time to pinch off the shriveled flower head as I go along. A scant harvest makes each berry precious because I use them to make cordial. It means we can enjoy the harvest in the dead of winter by adding a taste of summer sun to a cup of tea. 

  It can't be all work especially when it is a hot, muggy, thunderstorm growing kind of day. I enjoyed a few delightful moments wandering barefoot through the shaded yard, relishing the feel of the cool grass. There was an ulterior motive, though, each patch of clover was scrutinized, studied to find the ones that maybe, just maybe, have four leaves.

  Truthfully, it's not much of a hunt because I know roughly where they've been previous years. Once you find one, chances are there are more in the vicinity. There were several but I only collected two, leaving the others to continue the fun of the hunt another day. 

  The collection keeps growing, gathered through the years. Not all of them are from my own yard. I've found them in other places, too. Maybe it's because I take the time to look. All I know is they bring a little spark of childish delight to my heart and finding one always makes me smile.

  I remember visiting a family friend of my dad's when I was a little girl. They lived in rural New Brunswick so we'd camp in their yard. Carefully pressed inside an old, hardbacked, musty book was the first four leafed clover I'd ever seen. It was massive! In the way of children, I remember thinking that, one day, I'd find one, too! 

  It has nothing to do with them being a luck talisman. It has to do with cherishing the innocent dreams of a child. Dreams that God saw fit to fulfill. And in the way that God sometimes does, it has been a greater answer than I could have possibly imagined.

  You see, I lost my first clover collection. Gathered years after a little girl dreamed. Many four leafers were found in a huge clover patch just outside the henhouse. If memory serves, that's where I found my very first one. Where there's one, there's always more. The collection was left behind when the old life ended.

  Yet God saw fit to provide a new collection. So if He is faithful in restoring such a small thing, a childish fancy, I need to believe there are much greater things in store.

  The first anniversary of my step-dad's passing was a couple of days ago yet I find myself being able to spend time with the family I never knew I had until he was gone. I'm really looking forward to seeing them.

  God is good. 

  

  

The Great Sadness

   "How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul, with sorrow in my heart every day?" Psalm 13:2

  " Keep me safe, O God, for I have come to You for refuge." Psalm 16:1

  The great sadness. My constant companion since I was a child. Oh, how I wish to be free of it. I wish to be free to experience joy without the shadows of yesterday dimming its beauty. I wish for the mocking voices to be silenced once and for all: the discordant clamor that drowns out the hope of peace.

  Lord? Don't let the sadness grow into bitterness and cynicism. Help me live in the awe and wonder that envelopes the precious moments when I watch leaves ripple and dance in the wind. Help me live in the peace that comes from walking barefoot in the grass. Help me live in the joy that comes in countless other moments of being, of worship, of spending time with You. 

  But those barefoot leaf moments are when I step outside myself. The brain falls silent in the heightened and singular focus of sight, sound, colour, light and texture. I suppose it is a means of escaping the great sadness because when I return to myself, it is waiting. 

  How do you run from yourself? Do you run towards yourself? Like a father who runs towards his prodigal son, returning in poverty and shame?  Like a father who embraces the lost and throws one heck of a party in celebration?

  Is it really that simple? 

  Is the way to joy and peace found by living true to who God made me to be? To stop hiding my light under a basket? To stop listening to the sadness, the voices of the past that shaped me into who I was never meant to be?

  Lord? I'd been asked to think about what I want from life. It took a couple of days before the idea of belonging surfaced. That was nearly three weeks ago. I've been waiting to understand. There's been some grieving because belonging meant ownership and molding myself to placate those who "owned" me. That's what it took to belong. In the end, it was never enough, was it? I gave away every part of the identity You poured into my being, hiding it, running from it...and yes, ashamed of it.

  Forgive me, Lord. It's all I knew. It's all I knew how to do. It's no wonder the Great Sadness has been my constant companion all these years. I think I understand when You call us to deny ourselves and take up the Cross. When I live close to the Cross, to Jesus, that's where the longing to belong is finally filled. It's where the real me, the God designed, true me can grow and flourish. 

  It's the place where the Great Sadness has no voice, no power, no say in the present or the future. The sadness is driven out by not only joy, but peace.

  I think I want to live there and be that person. No. There's no thinking about it. I want this. Lord, grant me the courage to make the changes or say the words that will enable this new way, true way, of being. In Jesus' Name I pray.

  To God be the Glory. AMEN!

Time

   "Before the mountains were born, before You gave birth to the earth and the world, from beginning to end, You are God." Psalm 90:2

  We had our work's annual summer gathering yesterday. The location was perfect, the weather just as much. It always makes me smile when I see people in 3D. Many of my co-workers are simply zoom connections so they are much bigger in real life!

  The theme of the gathering was Look How Far We've Come (since the 90's when the Krasman Centre was first brought into being.) As a long time employee who made the transition from visitor to staff, I was asked to speak a bit about what that was like.

  It went well. I had written out a brief speech but, surprisingly, didn't simply read what I'd written. 

  While writing about the last 18 years or so, time compressed. I penned the idea of time folding in on itself in an attempt to describe what that was like. Events of years ago were like they happened yesterday. Events of yesterday sometimes feel like they happened a long time ago, a lifetime ago. 

  Maybe it's an age thing.

  Maybe it's a God thing. From beginning to end...Is "end" simply another name for a new beginning?

  

  Whoosh! Time folds in on itself in shimmering, overlapping layers: the golden fabric of story.

  I think I have just caught a glimpse of understanding about the Bible. Between its covers, the Story of Stories folds in on itself. History connects with the future. The future is history. The present is a combination, a meeting of these two junctures in time.

  Whoosh! Time ceases to exist. Because of it, God's Word remains words for today just as it was a thousand years ago. God Himself is timeless.

  As I sat on a picnic table and shared yesterday, I entered the place of being; of the still, peace filled quiet that only exists when the clock stops ticking.

  

  

  

  

Renewal

   "Instead, let the Spirit renew your thoughts and attitudes. Put on your new nature, created to be like God--truly righteous and holy." Ephesians 4:23-24

  Between the Prednisone and too much dessert, it was a restless, fitful, broken night of rest. I am up early again, counting down the days until I can stop with the pills. This ole gal needs her sleep. 

 

  I am nevertheless grateful. The desserts were part of a large gathering of friends around the supper table. The stories flowed, laughter rang freely, common ground was discovered. It was beautiful to be a part of such a thing...a blessing. 

  It makes me think of a symphony...the interweaving of harmonies, melodies, and instruments that come skillfully together to create something special. There is also the odd discordant note or minor chord that often is part of such a composition. Sour notes have their place. They are the counterbalance, the truth that songs, like life, are not always toe-tapping, soaring arias that touch the sky.

  It was good to be there.

  Throughout the day I found myself thinking about the conversations I'd had with my therapist the day before. I had thought that grieving the things that never were was wrong. That somehow, mourning the losses of what you never had was unforgiving and judgmental. 

  It isn't, though. 

  As we wrapped up our session in prayer, I realized this type of grief is of God. 

  My heart is but a microscopic fraction of His. I lost out on so much because of the choices of one or two people (and my own.) His unfathomably huge heart mourns for all of mankind. His heart mourns the missed gifts, the lost love, the thwarted dreams and hopes. 

  He grieves when the potential He breathed into our being fails to manifest itself because we were not given what should have been given. We were not given what we needed to enable God's design to be exactly as He planned.

  I have no intention of allowing bitterness to be part of this thinking because I have a God who redeems. Blended with these somber notes of grief is the aria that soars above it all. It is the joy, the peace, the delight, and the sheer amazement that I have a God who understands.

  

  

  

 

  

  

  

Recycling

 "Once again You (God) will have compassion on us. You will trample our sins under Your feet and throw them into the depths of the ocean! You will show us Your faithfulness and unfailing love as You promised to our ancestors Abraham and Jacob long ago." Micah 7:19-20

  It's early. The sun hasn't cleared the horizon yet. 

  I've ended up dealing with a second round of shingles. It flared up almost a month to the day after the first round. It's on the opposite side of the same arm that had it before. It's been far itchier and more painful than the last bout. That's what woke me. 

  It's unusual to say the least and a bit disconcerting. I will do some follow up with my family doctor to make sure it isn't just stress related. It might signify underlying, undiagnosed health issues. Which in and of itself is stressful.

  I tried to go back to sleep but the ole brain decided chasing squirrels was more fun. Sheesh!

  They aren't pretty or cute or cuddly squirrels. They are mangy, flea bitten, half blind and noisy; chattering away about things I'd much rather forget.

  But sometimes these ugly rodents are an opportunity because they speak to the problems I may be ignoring or wrestling with. Who better to take them to than my Lord? So this early morning becomes an opportunity instead of a frustrating time of sleep deprivation.

  Lord? I trust You can translate squirrel chatter.

  I guess the biggest struggle is knowing what to do next in regards to the recent correspondence with my mom. She responded exactly how I thought she might. Not unkindly. Not defensively but she is either unable to or incapable of admitting someone else might be right. It's rather sad. 

  Nevertheless, I will never forget how Allan held his children's hands as he lay in the bed with his eyes closed but when my mom tried to hold his hand, he pulled it away. At least in the beginning. As the life faded from his body, he stopped reacting to any outside stimuli. It's heartbreaking, really, this silent testimony of how things actually were, unbeknownst to me until then.

  

  Lord? This brief moment, those few seconds in the passage of time, has seared itself into my heart. I think I understand why.

  It changed me from being someone who justified or made excuses for how mom treated not just myself, but others. It was the moment I could no longer continuing to believe it was always my mis-understanding, mis-remembering, mis-everything. Or that I had some sort of fatal flaw that meant I had to accept such things...

  Oh...

  Now I understand why this is such a key memory. Maybe now I can finally lay it to rest and only remember the soft, warm hand of a man who loved me without words.

  It was the moment the scapegoat in me died.

  Allan, thank you for that. 

  Lord? Thank You as well, for delivering me from evil.

  It doesn't mean I am not grieving this morning. You see, the scapegoat persona is a vulnerable one. It means rejection is normalized. Abuse is normalized. Abandonment is normalized and a whole slew of other toxic behaviors are normalized. You believe it is okay for these things to be done to you because you are taught to believe you are inherently less than...flawed beyond being worthy of unconditional love or kindness or care.

  And the predators who seek out the such people keep coming to reinforce the scapegoat persona who, in the end, is really a mangy, flea bitten squirrel who won't shut up.

  But that was then. This is now.

  Praise God, it is now! 

  

  Lord? Help me forgive those who need forgiving. In Jesus' name.

  AMEN!

  

  

  

Gardening the Soul

   "The Lord will guide you always. He will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail." Jeremiah 58:11

  During a crises, I find myself able to be calm, in control...strong in the midst of other's inabilities to handle what's happening. There's a quiet stillness that enters my mind and soul enabling me to quickly assess what needs to be done. 

  Falling apart comes later.

  This happened last summer when my step Dad began his final journey to heaven. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, the Lord was with me in those chaotic, life changing days. Just as He has been with me in the aftermath of facing the dark truth about the one who raised me. 

  I just sent her a letter because she questioned why I was so angry. It took time to write. Time to perfect the words, honing them until it was only a sequence of events. No emotion. No accusatory statements. 

  Then I placed Jesus' staff beside her heart with a simple question, "Why?"

  She's in God's hands now. 

  I digress. The strength in crises is a strength carried every day. It caused a great deal of punishment over the years from those who saw it as a threat to their own power. Not that I was rebellious. I was compliant to the nth degree out of the need to survive. 

  I didn't understand why I was treated the way I was, what made me a target and scapegoat. I didn't know what I was carrying. Today, a "why" of my own has been answered.

  Strength is being reclaimed today. 

  It's not a strength that seeks power or control. It's not a strength used to inflict vengeance or suffering on others. It's not the kind of strength that needs propping up to sustain it, at least, not in the ways of the world.

  It will need protecting and nurturing like anything newly born. It will take time and practice to step away from the survival strategy of compliancy. In You, dear Lord, this is not only possible, it is inevitable.

  Lord, thank You for answering a, "Why?" that has been cried out in the dark nights of despair for as long as I can remember. A few tears are rolling down my cheeks as I type blurry letters. They are complicated tears of both joy and sadness. That's okay. They are healing tears, too.