Choice

   "Yes, I am the gate. Those who come in through Me will be saved. They will come and go freely and will find good pastures." Jesus, John 10:9

  An excerpt from Sunday's reading: God exercises restraint in His strength, patiently waiting until we invite Him in. Why? Because He is a God of love, and love always gives the supreme honour of choice. Love without choice is not love at all.

  Love without choice is not love at all. 

  Those words reached deep into my heart the moment I heard them because I've been thinking about boxes, especially the ones I am trying to climb out of. Some are of my own making. Others? Not so much.

  Choice...it pretty much governs everything we do on both a conscious and subconscious level. Conscious choices can begin a new pattern of behaviour. In time, new patterns becomes ingrained and subconscious provided we keep reinforcing whatever decision was made.

  My body pretty much has a built in alarm after doing seven months of regimented eating. It knows when snack time is and lets me know without needing to set the clock as a reminder. I had to in the beginning or I'd forget to eat according to Gina Livy's plan.

  The biggest part of creating new patterns is breaking free of the old boxes that governed our choices.

  Getting rid of boxes means unpacking them first.

  This isn't going to be easy because, right now, I am very, very angry. I am angry that my upbringing taught me I had no choice but to obey, that to want something different was a punishable offense. 

  I've said before that a compliant child needs just as much, if not more, help than one who rebels and acts out. 

  Compliant was my middle name. 

  Fear was my god. A god that ruled me in life, in marriage, and even now pokes its barbs into my heart whenever I make a decision about something.

  You see, I live in fear of making the "wrong" choice even when it's small and mundane like deciding what to make for dinner.

  

  I know why. I could write pages and pages of the frozen moments when I learned, without fail, that my choices were wrong (if they were even considered.) I rarely spoke of what I wanted for myself. It wasn't worth the pain of being slammed down, mocked or belittled yet again. So I practiced silence, my needs and wants and unspoken desires festering in my breast unheard, unheeded, unrequired.

  It was a terribly lonely way to live.

  And now? Those suppressed desires are clamoring to be heard but I know there are box builders in my life who will have no part of it. 

  Yet God calls us to sacrificial love doesn't He?

  But what if I am offering God's gift of sacrificial love to the wrong people? Is it even supposed to be a gift for people? Or is it only meant to be a gift for God?

  Oh, Lord, I am so confused right now.

  Can there even be sacrifice without love?

  Yes. Sacrifice can foster hatred when sacrifice is demanded. When the sacrifices of one are the foundation of power and control for someone else.

  God will not take something that is not offered to Him freely. People will.

  So why do I even have such people in my life?

  Because I have no choice...or do I?

  

  

  

  

Shark's Tooth

  "The Lord says, "I will give you back what you lost to the swarming locusts, the hopping locusts, the stripping locusts and the cutting locusts." Joel 2:25

  It's been a while. Much has happened, most of it being rather mundane and simply living life, wrapping up the garden and work. The diet is still working, albeit a bit slower this time around but that's okay. The body needs time to solidify to a new normal before launching into further loss.

  Then there's the stuff that's new and exciting and different.

  I am just back from Varadero, Cuba. My housemate had a friend's son do a destination wedding so she was invited but didn't want to go alone. I called myself the wedding crasher because I had only met some of the people at a shower a month or so before we went.

  It ended up being a lovely time. The resort wasn't overly large. The service was excellent once the tips started flowing. The beach and waves were a joy. There was ample food minus leafy greens and fresh vegetables with the exception of cabbage and cukes. We gave up trying to stick to the food plan and instead indulged in what was available.

  The best part was being with a large group of people for more than a day. I made many new friends.

  I had very little anxiety despite being in a strange place surrounded by strangers and noise and busy-ness. The second or third night was the only night I had to retreat to the quiet of the room following a bus trip to explore some caves. I had armed myself with ample drawing materials just in case but the days were full so I only did one on the flight down, one that captured the essence of the hotel and a rather dark piece on the flight home that was used to process a disturbing day trip to Havana. 

  Our tour guide spoke the political speech because I doubt there was anything else he could have done. He was very good at evading questions or giving answers that didn't answer anything. We were led down some alleys littered with graffiti. One showed up often and it struck me that it was a message about Cuban life: 2 + 2 = 5? 

  New Mercedi Benz sedans parked beside the iconic 1950's classic cars which are only on the road through ingenuity and band aids. Most of them have been retrofitted with diesel engines which made Havana air rank with fumes. 

  The disparity between those who have and those who don't is extreme. 

  The guide told us there were no sharks in Cuba because the water is too warm for them. 

  The last day at the resort I was left to my own devices when a group wanted to hop the bus to Varadero to see the sights. I declined to go because the beach called my name with an urgency I couldn't ignore. One of the beaches was better for collecting shells, a favorite past-time of mine. That's where I headed with open heart and mind to see what might be found. I'd already been blessed with a new type of shell for my collection the day we arrived.

  Barely ten feet into the beach walk, an ivory shark's tooth lay fully exposed on the sand. Its iconic triangular shape was impossible to miss. Scooping it up, I heard the tour guide's assurance about there being no sharks in Cuba. It would appear there are because it was white, not black and fossilized.

  I knew about fossilized sharks' teeth from a trip to the Gulf Coast of Florida when my family was young. The beaches are littered with them.

  God whispered His promise to me..."I will restore all that the locusts have eaten."

  The rest of our conversation is personal, between Him and me but sitting here, another layer of understanding has risen from the depths.

  "There are no sharks in Cuba..."

  I think of the poverty and oppression there. I think of the middle aged white man, sitting at one of the dining room tables accompanied by a young Cuban girl who was eating as though she'd never seen food. I think of the waiter who told us his daughter lived in Texas. He doubted he'd ever see her again. I think of the young mother who begged a peso after we admired her beautiful baby. I think of the terribly thin man sitting at the side of the road tending a small flock of just as thin goats. I think of the tour guide who could not speak the truth out of fear of losing his job, the same guide who tested the waters to see if one of the men on the tour might be interested in a Cuban girl. I think of the cement guard towers that were everywhere, even in the middle of nowhere where a guard sat guarding nothing.

  

  I don't think I'll go back there again although I think there are sharks no matter where I might go. 

  Lord, I pray Your promise will be fulfilled. In Jesus' precious name, AMEN!