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!

  

  

  

The Constant Presence

     "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to and end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness." Lamentations 3:22-23

  "Instead of asking why did it hurt me--instead ask, what did it teach me?" Denzel Washington

  Denzel's quote is from a YouTube video I've watched a couple of times, "Why God let the narcissist hurt you. The answer will change everything." It helped. A lot. I am thankful the Lord led me there.

  It doesn't mean the grief has gone away. Not yet. 

  There's a part of me that is angry with Him. This too shall pass. It's more important to be honest about the space my brain is occupying today. With our feeble, time limited lives and finite perspectives, being angry with Him is likely a common occurrence. I am simply offering my feelings up to Him. It helps when a load is shared.

 

  I don't think many of us think about the fact that He is there when terrible things happen. Every single time.

  Even when we made our own poor choices. Choices that are often made from a place of damage, be it shame, guilt, self-loathing, despair, or searching to be loved.

  I've made many poor choices over the years. There's no guilt attached to acknowledging this. Truth has no guilt. But I am now in a position to make better choices through a confidence in a Lord who only wants my freedom from old and familiar ways that are detrimental to my well being. Or could it possibly be the ways that interfere with His plans?

  Behind my mother's voice in her phone message, I heard a cage door creaking open. As much as I have a God who wants me free, there is another who would absolutely delight in destroying the rights that freedom grants.

  That is the enemy. Not my mom. Not God.

  What makes it hard is the enemy will use Him against us. For example: what kind of Christ follower am I if I don't call my mom? That's not very forgiving or loving, is it?

  I shared with my therapist about parachuting out of a plane for the first time. It's never solo. You are tied to the instructor who has full control (hopefully) of the parachute.

  I've never done it but can only imagine the dry mouthed, screaming heebie-jeebies that come the moment the plane door is opened and you are in front, feet dangling, looking down at a miniature landscape thousands of feet below! 

  It aptly described how I am feeling about doing things a new way: the way of silence, of offering God space to do His will in both our lives.

  It's reassuring to know that it's Jesus who is strapped to my back and He's the one with a firm grip on the parachute release cord. His chute will not fail. Ever.

  You know something? I've jumped out of a lot of planes since becoming a believer. The kind that are on fire and about to crash into smithereens. Jesus was always there, in the nick of time to save me.

  

Happiness

   "Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid; for the Lord God is my strength and my song, and He has become my salvation." Isaiah 12:2

  "Lord, I long to know and experience happiness in my life. I'm not talking about shallow pleasures. Those come and go, and the wrong kind leave us empty and unfulfilled. The happiness I desire is so much more than skin deep. It's bigger than my circumstances and larger than my emotions. I want the kind of happiness that trusts you, obeys you and follows you regardless of where that path leads. Amen." www.biblestudytools.com

  A friend asked a tough question. "Are you happy?" 

  To be fair, it's only been a couple of months since we laid my step Dad to rest and I am still reeling from everything that transpired surrounding his passing. The five stages of grief swirl, wrapping my heart in chaotic and often conflicting emotions.

  I had to think about it for a bit before telling her I was content. 

  That was a couple of weeks ago. Since then, the question has been rolling around in my head. What does it actually mean to be happy?

  I sadly have come to realize being happy is dangerous territory. That's when the rug gets pulled out from under you. Tattered shards of joy twist themselves around your heart and squeeze the life out of it. And it hurts. A lot. 

  There was a long, tear filled pause after I wrote those last sentences. Sometimes the hurts leave scars that never seem to heal completely.

  But that's life with a narcissist. Another's happiness is like poison to them and must be destroyed at all costs because it magnifies their own unhappiness. All they can do is snuff out the joy by pulling the rug as far and as fast as they can. 

  It does me good to be reminded that narcissists are trapped by evil and as a result are tortured souls who only know how to destroy. That's when they feel most powerful.

  It doesn't absolve them of their choices. Choices have consequences.

  And the devil would like nothing more than for me to continue to be afraid to be happy.

  Because happiness is the offspring of hope and dreams. Happiness is being able to acknowledge a great deal of my life has been really crappy but that doesn't mean it will continue to be this way. 

  You know something? The crap keeps me running to Jesus.

  Perhaps I need to seek Your forgiveness, Lord, for looking to people for my own happiness instead of You...no...that's not right. We are wired to need human connections. It starts with the deepest intimacy of all: in our mother's womb.

  Perhaps, instead of repenting, I need to make the choice to forgive. Or at least, try to forgive the people in my life who took the joy found through connection and weaponized it. That would be my mom, my ex, the abusers, and one whom I called friend.

   Doing this makes me happy because choices have consequences, don't they?

  

  

  

  

Through the Valley

   "When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs." Psalm 85:6

  "It would make me happy if you'd call." Mom

   "Sometimes, when you are not getting the love you want, giving makes you think you will." Mitch Albom, The Time Keeper

  It's a gray, cool, rainy day. The kind of day where curling up with a good book makes sense. It's not something I've done lately but during some house cleaning, The Time Keeper landed on my bedside table. It's not the first time I've read it but re-reading a good book is always good. When I came across the above quoted line, my eyes stopped, frozen by words that leapt off the page into my heart.

  And I grieve.

  Old me would have called my mom back right away but the time for old ways is done. I've had to face the stark realization that, even if I did call, my mom would not be happy. 

  How very sad.

  But it is not my responsibility to make her happy, anyways. That's something only God can do. 

  And to be honest, I have no idea what to say. I wouldn't be working with the familiar script of all our other interactions. She talked, I stayed small and silent.

  I can't go back to the way it was. 

  Not now. 

  Not after everything that has happened. Especially since God's Truth has revealed the way of it all.

  It's not easy. Having a boundary. Or should I say, it's not easy keeping it in place. It feels unnatural, even selfish. But those are old voices: the ghosts of upbringing and marriage. 

  It's not that I don't care. I care deeply for a woman who is so ensnared by deception, she cannot do anything but resort to the old strategies, the old manipulations that once had me toeing the line. It must be confusing for an old woman that they are not succeeding.

  The old tactics aren't going to work because Jesus has drawn a new line. 

  There's that and I have nothing left to give, if giving requires me to be small. 

  That kind of giving is not an act of love anyways. 

  For either of us.

  

  

  

  

  

Time of Rest

     "Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you." Psalm 116:7

  

  Imagine, if you will, the trees shimmering in crimson glory. All the shades of red from a delicate pink to deep magenta wrapped themselves in a mantle around the deep mossy greens and grays of tree bark. The rays of the morning sun, unusually warm for this time of year, bathed the landscape in flickers of gold and yellow that gave every single leaf its own halo. 

  The Muskoka chairs (or Adirondacks if you are American) provided pops of unnatural, fire engine red. 

  A heavy dew made the grass and rocks sparkle when you moved your head just so. It was like the stars had come to earth to rest for a bit before heading back into the sky come sunset.

  Autumn comes with its own fragrance. One that is impossible to describe but it smells wonderful!

  I was away this weekend at a women's retreat up in the Muskoka region of central Ontario. It's two hours north of here and the area has had a couple of light frosts. It takes frost to birth the reds that were everywhere. It was a beautiful place to be this time of year.

  The drawing was done in a little 3"x5" sketchbook that goes everywhere with me...even church. I spent a lot of time drawing. It helped ground me in the busyness and noise only a hundred and fifty (or so) women can make. The drawings also help cement a particular moment, like this one, that touched my artist's soul in a way a photo can't.

  I finished the sketchbook while I was there. It was started the end of March last year. The pages are full of images documenting the places I've been and prayers lifted to God. There are plenty of moments where pages have been filled with patterns and imaginary landscapes. 

  Attached to the back cover of the book is an envelope. I had no idea it was there until I tried to pull apart what appeared to be two pages stuck together. I asked the Lord what was in this empty envelope. He was quick to respond, as He always is. 

  It's anger.

  Then I put a small feather inside so the envelope wasn't empty any more, avoiding the issue altogether.

  But the time for avoidance is past. A friend, who knows what happened this summer with my step Dad, reminded me that anger is one of the five stages of grief. Her words gave me permission to feel this way.

  Why on earth did I need permission? That alone is infuriating! (Smile...isn't that ironic?)

  I don't like anger. Simply because anger unrestrained is so damaging. I've been on the receiving end of unjustified anger far too often. Oh. Does this mean that, sometimes, anger is justified?

  Perhaps.

  This is a conversation to have with my therapist for sure.

  And Cricket. The anger has been there a long time. 

  I never learned how to be angry without loosing complete control until I learned to control it all the time. Neither is healthy. Loosing control is awful. Maintaining an iron fist on my emotions is just as awful. But it's what I know. The control end of things, I mean. It's been decades since the anger got loose.

  Or has it? Has it appeared in passive aggressive comments? Negativity? Judgements? Bitterness? Depression? Despair? Withdrawal? Or in a thousand other ways I never realized?

  Ouch. That's a hard truth to swallow. Forgive me Lord for not realizing this before. 

 

  I am afraid to be angry, of loosing control and saying hurtful things...of being punished for letting it out...of what it will do to my own peace...and maybe there's some anger at God, too. But that is going to be a private conversation between us alone.

  Sometimes it's hard facing the truth about ourselves...