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.

  

  

Tending the Vine

   "Remain in Me, as I remain in you. Just as a branch cannot bear fruit on its own unless it remains on the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in Me." John15:4

  It's gardening season. We've had a run of perfect, working outside weather. The veggies have come up, I've removed some of the shade garden to lessen the amount of work and revamped another. I am of an age where it is becoming necessary to start paring back. 

  Part of the cleanup involved tearing out a huge patch of Lily-of-the-Valley. 

  This ground cover has a beautiful flower and a sweet fragrance but the root system is unbelievable! It has a compacted, dense mat of roots several inches thick at the surface. It has deep runner roots underneath the mat that invade everywhere. It has been classified as an invasive plant because it chokes out everything in its path. That's why I planted it in the first place, to help with controlling weeds.

  Who knew it was a weed in and of itself?

  I kept a bit in pots because because it is lovely in the spring. It will probably take a couple of years to eradicate it in the garden. Even the smallest root fragment can grow a plant.

  Tearing it out made me realize how little water was actually getting to the shrubs and other plants. They will probably fare much better now it's gone.

  Sunday's sermon touched on growing vines. Before it even reaches the pruning stage, a vine needs something to grow on. Otherwise, it will spread over the ground, seeking something to climb unless it's provided a structure or stake. 

  I've been thinking about it ever since.

  One of my structures for vine growing is permanent. It's an old, metal bedspring that lives at the north end of one of my raised garden boxes. Traditionally, pole beans cover it but this year I planted cucumbers there. A few pole beans are planted using another part of the bed frame that turns into a ladder when put on its side. 

  The structures are in place before the seeds are planted. That way there is less risk of damaging or destroying the tender seedlings.

  If Jesus is the vinedresser, then the stake that holds the vine is everything else: community, church, family, relationships...But sometimes, a gardening practice puts the stake right on top of the tender plant, either killing it or damaging it. At the very least, it stunts its growth.

  I think this will help me be more mindful of how I interact with other people, believers or non-believers. Do I want to be the gardener that provides a helpful structure that enables them to flourish or do I want to be a ham-handed, careless caretaker of someone else's growth?

  Is the stake I plant beside them Jesus' staff? I like that idea!

  Is it planted in hope? 

  Or out of the need to control? Has Jesus' staff been used as weapon?

  Sadly, yes.

  I am being called to do two things this morning. 

  First of all, Lord, forgive me. In my brokenness, self-righteousness, judgements and ignorance I have used Your staff in a way that was not mindful of the tender souls I was interacting with. 

  Secondly, help me hold an image of Your staff, the structure of love and discipline, at the forefront of my mind so I can do better. Let me place it so others have the freedom to grow according to the season of their own lives and faith.

  I want the care and hope that fills my heart each spring planting to bear fruit throughout the year. 

  I will leave the pruning up to You, dear Lord. You are the master gardener after all.

  Glory be to God!

  AMEN!

  

  

Sunday

   "Follow Me and be My disciple." Jesus said to him. So Levi got up and followed Him. Mark 2:14

  I am unable to attend church today because the ole body decided to come down with Shingles. My quarantine period isn't up yet.

  It showed up last Tuesday on my lower, left arm of all places, as a pale red rash. I'd spent the morning in the garden revamping one of the flower beds. I thought I'd gotten into something that caused an allergic reaction. It was strange that it was only on one arm and it wasn't itchy. 

  Shortly after noticing the rash, the sun came around the side of the house. The heat was unbearable. It was the first really hot day of the season. What I thought was heatstroke left me feeling feverish and weak as a kitten. I basically dropped my tools and headed inside. 

  Wednesday was a work day. The continuing fatigue made it a struggle to get through the day. It was simply a case of overdoing it in the heat. Or so I thought.

  Thursday, the red rash had started darkening and blistering. It was also becoming painful. I've never seen Shingles. I've never had it before but, and this is a God moment, it struck me that this is what it might be! 

  Doctor Google provided symptoms and images as confirmation. Just in case, I called my friend who knows about Shingles. She also happens to be away visiting a nurse friend. Both of them advised a trip to the doctor as soon as possible.

  Thankfully, I was able to get an appointment to see my family doctor early that afternoon. She confirmed Doctor Google's diagnosis and prescribed the appropriate treatment. It's crucial to start it within 72 hours of the first appearance of the rash. I was well within that window.

  I am feeling much better and smiling at my own foolish assumptions about heat stroke and allergic reactions. It was all because my body was fighting an illness and had nothing to do with what I'd been doing.

  There's a lesson here. About assumptions and perceptions. What I see and what I know can hide the truth. It can misread reality. It makes me all the more grateful to have an Advisor and Counsellor via the Holy Spirit. 

  It's important, though, to admit those perceptions might be wrong. 

  I've been wrong before. Frequently.

  It's just as important to make room for truth and the advice of wise counsel. 

  Jesus said, "Follow Me," time and time again. It's an act of surrender, not servitude. In Jesus, my wrongs will be redeemed, my perceptions sharpened, and He will guide me in all ways. 

  Besides, I loved it when He whispered in my ear, "It might be Shingles."

  

  

Conclave

   "And so, brothers, select seven men who are well respected and are full of the Spirit and wisdom. We will give them this responsibility. (To deal with conflict and discord.) Then we apostles can spend our time in prayer and teaching the word." Acts 6:3-6

  Every so often a movie comes across your path that challenges the way you think.  Conclave was such a movie. It's about the Roman Catholic event where Cardinals are sequestered in the Vatican to vote for a new Pope. It's a movie full of intrigue, of politics, of prejudices, of deceptions. Basically, it's a movie about people, albeit those who have chosen to give their lives to God. Even so, they are still very, very human. 

  There is an unexpected twist at the end which I won't get into because I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it. The twist was not only eye opening, but heart opening. It's left me examining my own prejudices, politics, and plain old ignorance. This is a good thing. A God thing.

  There was something else, too, that spoke directly into my heart. "The church isn't about the past, it isn't about the present, it's about what we do next." Food for thought for all of us, regardless of our denomination.

  But thoughts without actions bear no fruit.

  And at the same time, our thoughts can cause our actions to be unfruitful or even outright damaging.       Actions that rise up from a place of brokenness and the fears such brokenness creates can colour the way we interact with each other. 

  I had a conversation with my therapist about revisiting traumatic events. We talked about getting stuck in an endless loop, about being stuck in that place, that time, that event by replaying it over and over in our minds. It can happened, the being stuck part. 

  Thoughts without actions bear no fruit...it would appear this is an important thought for today.

  I shared with her that rather than being stuck in a loop, when I revisit the hard stuff, it was more like a Slinky. That's a childhood toy, a metal spring made of many spirals that would move freely, slinkily. It can even walk down stairs under its own momentum! A fun thing.

  So I have the thoughts, the memories of dark days. Things that created core beliefs that poisoned my soul. My action against the loop is to ride the Slinky...to share them with God and hear what He has to say about it all. In doing so, He heals. He brings irrefutable truth and speaks life into the shadows.

  

  So today, I take these seemingly random thoughts and invest in the action of writing. I'd love to have some sort of deeply profound wrap up but instead, there is an upwelling of gratitude for the One who guides the actions of my thoughts. 

  Gratitude for the One who tempers unkindness with gentleness, who fills the pit of ignorance with knowledge and the understanding of such knowledge. Gratitude in knowing I have a long way to go yet knowing nonetheless my God is a God of grace. 

  Because, after all, the church isn't about the past or the present, it's about what happenes next.

  To God be the Glory. AMEN!

Choices

   Thousands upon thousands are waiting in the valley of decision. There the day of the Lord will soon arrive." Joel 3:14

  So here I sit, with thousands of others, in the valley of decision. 

  I believe this is a prophecy relating to the arrival of Christ. It is referring to all the people who are deciding to believe or not believe He is the Son of God, the Messiah.

  But there's something about the idea of waiting before making any decisions that is reassuring.

  There's something about the idea of waiting.

  Right now, my wait is a time of reflection, of tempering my words, of allowing the Lord into the brokenness. Decisions made from brokenness aren't necessarily the best especially if it involves others. 

  Oh. 

  And in those words, the seeds of grace are planted. 

  But what does grace look like? Specifically in regards to the situation with my mom? How is grace to manifest or shape my part in all of it?

  I honestly have no idea.

  In my brokenness, my heart wants vengeance. It wants revenge. It wants to see her suffer with the same suffering she caused others.

  Yet, I know this is not the way of love.

  I need to stay in the valley a little longer, to allow the Lord to temper the anger, to refine it and purify it.

  Right now, grace looks like silence and not saying the hurtful things I want to say. 

  Grace is leaving her to the tender mercies of God.

  Grace is acknowledging that in her brokenness, she is not a safe person to confide in or share my feelings with. Grace is understanding she will never admit wrongdoing no matter what I say. Grace is realizing I cannot change a thing.

  Here's the thing about choices and decisions, there are always consequences. 

  If I choose to continue a relationship that was unhealthy without changing the infrastructure of that relationship, it undermines and destroys all the work God has done in my life. If I ignore His work and His truth under the label of duty and familial ties and return to the old ways, I turn away from Him. 

  It is a sacrifice I am not prepared to make. 

  Decisions made from a place of wholeness are decisions made from a foundation of love.

  This means loving myself, too.

  "Yeah, though I walk through the valley..." Psalm 23:1

  

  

  

  

  

Approach

     "Am I a God who is only close at hand?" says the Lord. "No, I am far away at the same time. Can anyone hide from me in a secret place? Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?" says the Lord. Jeremiah 23:23-24

  There is great comfort in these words today. The God of mountains is the God of pebbles and stones. He is the God of new life and life passing. He is the God of the wind and tides, of storms and the calm before such storms. He is the God of the calm. 

  He is the God of everywhere and everything, including each letter I type, each thought that rises to the surface, each moment I share with Him.

 

  He is the God that dwells in the nothing moments between heartbeats. 

  I've been thinking about this a lot. I feel there is something significant about it but I haven't quite grasped what it might be. 

  Lord? What are You trying to show me?

  In the meantime, I saw my mom on the weekend. It was a short visit. Allan's scent still lingers even after all this time. It was a grim reminder of everything that had happened.

  We stayed just long enough to pick up my friend's scissors and have a brief chat. I didn't say much all the same. She, mom, did most of the talking. I left a Mother's Day card for her that simply contained a blessing, none of the mushy crap. Mushy is decidedly dishonest at this point in time.

  My friend had picked it out because the last thing I wanted to do was browse through cards celebrating the lovely relationships between daughters and oh, so wonderful, mothers. Lord, please, don't let me be bitter.

  My mom wished I would talk to her about why I had left so angrily the day Allan passed. She wished I would share my feelings with her.

  As I left, I told her I wasn't prepared to talk because I didn't trust myself to not be unkind and said I would write a letter.

  So I can. And will. I am grateful to have taken the time to write out the sequence of events around Allan's passing not long after he went home to Jesus. That way she cannot twist what I say or accuse me of "mis-remembering." I can also leave my feelings out of it because it is unwise to put them in. 

  It will probably take several drafts before I end up with what I want but that's okay. God is the God of the in-between spaces. 

  So, Lord, help me find the best approach. Be with me as I re-visit the pain of shock and grief.

  In Jesus' name I pray. AMEN!

  

Decisions

  "If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and He will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking. But when you ask Him, be sure that your faith is in God alone. Do not waver, for a person with divided loyalty is as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is blown and tossed by the wind." James 1:5-6 

  Dear Lord, I am in need of wisdom. I feel like the wave, tossed, storming and unsettled. I seek to do what is right in Your eyes but am conflicted and confused by what this really looks like. Images of Jesus tossing tables in a righteous anger is at war with wanting to love my enemy.

  Help me find the clear path, in Jesus most precious name, AMEN.

  So what is stirring up the wave? 

  It's Mother's Day tomorrow. It has put knots in my stomach and a tightness around my chest that makes breathing difficult. 

  Lord? There's a fire of deep fury within my heart. It rages against the cruelty I witnessed last year. It rages against the maliciousness and spite and neglect and utter disregard of and for others. It seethes with boiling heat over the deceptions and lies. 

  Dear Lord, I ask You, what am I to do with it all?

  (There was a long pause as I waited for an answer. God is good.)

  You woke me this early this morning with the idea that the stone I wrote about a couple of days ago is anger. Is it anger that enabled the determination to do right by my step-dad when I saw the terrible condition he was in? Is it anger that gave me strength to override the one who was in control up until then? Is it anger that enabled me to thwart the continued abuse? 

  I know You were with me in those dark, terrible days. 

  Can anger become my armor?

  Yes. My armor and my weapon: my stone and sling. 

  David slew Goliath, who had mocked the Israelites and God for forty days. His righteous anger made him go far beyond his own fear. His trust in God made him fearless.

  I have to decide whether or not to reach out to my mom, and possibly even see her later today. She has some things that belong to my friend and I would like to get them back. Before I started writing, I was in a mess.

  Anger that explodes is dangerous and harmful. I know this. It was a part of my life before Jesus.

  But, this anger, this stillness, this burning fire can be used, harnessed, so my aim is straight and true. For I fight against powers and principalities, not a person. 

  Lord, guide my words and actions this day.

  To Him be the glory! AMEN!

  It's time to slay a giant.

  

  

  

The Ask

 "Anyone who listens to My (Jesus') teaching and follows it is wise, like a person who builds a house on solid rock." Matthew 7:24

  In the TV show, The House of David, David is given a vision of a warrior angel standing in a stream. The angel points his sword at the rushing water. David reaches in and pulls out a round, white stone covered with blood. It would later be a real stone, plucked from a real stream, and is the one that was used to slay the giant, Goliath.

  It wasn't much bigger than a golf ball. A small thing, really, but was enough to bring a giant down.

  I've been mulling over this for several days, about the power in something so small. 

  Rocks don't start off small. They begin as a mountain. Time, weather, wind and water gradually break them down and wear them away. Only the densest rock stubbornly refuses to turn into sand. That's what David plucked from the stream. A stone which had been rounded and honed by the elements until only the hardest part was left.

  Since the dawn of creation, God had known there was going to be a precise moment in time when a shepherd boy needed a particular stone on a particular day. It's mind boggling to think about how much time it took to wear down a mountain just so. All for an unlikely shepherd boy who would become king.

  I am in need of a stone to slay my own giant; the giant that was shaped by perception, history, and childhood fear. Like sandstone, layer after layer has built up over time. Forceful external and internal pressures have fused it solid and shaped it into a seemingly un-climbable mountain. 

  However, if I look closely, it is only sand and vulnerable to the forces of a storm.

  It is not solid rock. Not one bit. 

  I can see it crumbling. If I rub it with my fingers, it disintegrates. The grains of stand can be brushed off my hands or dispersed with a light breath. 

  God's Rock, the one on which I stand, is solid.

  My giant slaying stone is within. It always has been. It has been revealed by turning to Him again and again in the countless moments when the sandstone mountain looms large over my heart and soul.

  

  "Be strong in the Lord and in His might power. Put on all of God's armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil." Ephesians 6:10 -11

    And God's Word is my slingshot.

    AMEN!

Upwelling

     "You have turned my mourning into joyful dancing. You have taken away my clothes of mourning and clothed me with joy, that I might sing praises to You and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give You thanks forever." Psalm 30:11-12

  Grief is a funny thing. It has a way of laying silent until something random draws it out of the depths of your heart with an ache...a pain...that is sharp enough, deep enough to take your breath away. It sits in your chest throbbing hard enough to make your eyes leak.

  Grief is a funny thing. A car passing, music blaring with a song that twists and warps and fades with distance but those few measures, that one line...the ache starts singing it's own melody of loss and sorrow and, perhaps, regret.

  Grief is a funny thing. It has the ability to transect time and space, dwelling in the silence that only exists between the steady thump-thump of your heart. The same heart that was present when grief became part of your story. Thump. Thump.

  I spent some time organizing my closet on the weekend. It was time to pack away winter to make room for summer. Up on a shelf was my red, hand knitted kitty cat. He's sixty years old next Christmas and was starting to become unknit. I've made him clothes but like time, they've disappeared or simply disintegrated. My childhood sewing skills weren't that good.

  Since I had my knitting stuff out, I decided to make him a new outfit to protect the fragile cotton he was made from. The holes were repaired before he got his new finery put on. The sweater even has a pocket holding a brief biography.

  We were inseparable for many years. So much so, his face got loved off. A good friend of the family, Mrs. Morgan, gave him a new one. After carefully selecting buttons for eyes, I remember leaning on the farm house table watching the surgery. It brought Kitty back to life. That face, too, is almost gone but the button eyes are still holding strong.

  Mrs. Morgan was a country hostess. No matter what time of day or night we showed up, there would be hot biscuits and homemade jam on the table. It's the only time I remember thinking about being grown up, "One day, I will make biscuits just like Mrs. Morgan's!" Thump. Thump.

   It took decades to get them just right.

  Grief is a funny thing. And this is why I am writing tonight.

  It's Mother's Day on Sunday: an annual event where moms and kids celebrate all the good things about Mom...

  So maybe I can find some good things despite all the wrong. There were music lessons and instruments, riding lessons, band practices, a bike, trips, an education. That took time, money and commitment to get me there and back. I am grateful for all of it. 

   But gratitude is not obligation is it? Thump. Thump. 

   Neither is forgiveness. 

  And on the heels of that sentence, I will choose to forgive my mom. Whether or not I call on Sunday remains to be seen.

  Prayers are appreciated.

  My joy is in the Lord. In Him I will trust. AMEN!

 

Anointing

   "What are mere mortals that you should care for them?" Psalm 8:4

  We've been watching the first two seasons of The Story of David. While it may not be completely accurate according to Scriptures, it has been enlightening all the same. Being mindful it's not a hundred percent true and being mindful of what I already have read of this story, I find it's helpful to get a sense of the context of David's time. The history, the culture, the wars, the violence drive home the closeness to death the people and kings of the time lived in.

  I've found myself reflecting on the parallels of David's life and the life of Jesus. How David's story is a foreshadowing of what was to come many generations later. 

  But most of all, when Samuel, the holy prophet of God, anointed a shepherd boy to be king in Saul's place, it drove home how special this gift is. It was rare in those times. 

  God's anointing was reserved for only those chosen by God: kings, priests, or prophets.

 There's a saying, "Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely." Saul, the first King of Israel, was corrupted by the power of the throne, the victories he claimed for his own...he stopped giving the glory to God and instead placed the glory on his own shoulders. His need to protect his reign created a man corrupted by madness, paranoia and fear.

  The tv show says that God revoked Saul's anointing and gave it to David who would be the next king of Israel. I am not sure if this is scriptural or not. What I do understand is Saul's ego and pride eradicated the blessing and drove it out of his own heart, mind and soul.

  In the context of the Old Testament, being anointed means being given the gift of not only God's blessing, but His Spirit.

  Fast forward several generations and a young woman in a backwater town was anointed and chosen to be the mother of God's Son. Jesus is the game changer, the Redeemer, the bearer of a new covenant between God and His children. 

  Because of Jesus, God changed the rules. He doesn't pick and choose those He anoints. Instead He waits for us to invite His Son and His Spirit into our heart and lives.

  The gift that was once reserved for great kings, the holiest of priests and carefully selected prophets is ours...mine...because God has chosen us all.

  

  

In Practice

 "But I press on to possess that perfection for which Christ Jesus first possessed me...I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us." Philippians 4:12,14

  My friend and I just completed an Alpha course. It's good to think about what you believe. It was an opportunity to ponder and celebrate the ever changing self that comes through faith; through letting go and letting in all that is good and true.

  In coming to the end, I realized my own spiritual practices needed to be more consistent. There were several resources offered. The one my friend and I have started doing is through an app. It's called Lectio 365, produced by the same people who created the Alpha program.

  There are three opportunities throughout the day to tap into the app but I've only been doing the morning one. The teaching can either be read or listened to. I like to read and listen at the same time. It seems to sink in better that way. 

  It's also nice to have something to look forward to after waking up before getting swept up in the to-do's of the day. 

  Those ten minutes have made a huge difference in less than a week. I feel more centered and grounded in my faith. I need to view it as necessary as eating a good breakfast. This is more than creating a new habit, it is feeding my soul on a daily basis.

  I also didn't realize how much I was hungering for something like this or should I say, how much something like this was lacking in my day to day.

  But God is good. All the time. He knew exactly what I needed and provided it in exactly the right moment. He does that a lot.

  Lord, I thank You for the creators of Alpha and the Lectio 365 app. Bless them, guide them and guard them. In Jesus name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

A New Way

   "Unless the Lord had helped me, I would soon have settled in the silence of the grave. I cried out, "I am slipping!" but Your unfailing love, O Lord, supported me. When doubts filled my mind, Your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer." Psalm 94:17-19

  My therapist patiently listened as I revisited the events of my step-dad's passing. So many moments have been forever seared into the visual memory bank. Trauma does that and when hyper vigilance is in full gear, it amplifies everything: the sounds, the smells, the environment, the slightest of changes unfold in slow motion. When the memory leaps up out the past, it's strong enough to erase the present. 

  Clinicians call it flashbacks. They can be utterly debilitating when your body stays in the present but your brain is reliving the past.

  I have an arsenal of tools I've used over the years whenever the flashbacks decide to appear. Mostly they help me come back to today. 

  It's taken some time to realize I have no control over a when a flashback might strike, but, by the grace of God, many of them have lost their power through other healing strategies. The memories are still there but they don't hijack my brain as often. For that I am most grateful.  

   Today's conversations led to a different approach. The other tools were about breaking free from the flashback and coming back to the present. Basically they slammed the book shut. Sometimes successfully. Other times not so much.

  The flashback memories are just one piece of a whole story. I think most of us can relate to reading a book with a scary part. Unless it is really scary, we all continue to turn the page to see what happens next. Our hearts may beat harder, our mouths may be dry, our hands may even shake a bit as we keep on reading. Nevertheless, we keep on going!

  A traumatic memory has already been written, unforgettably so. There were events leading up to it. There were events afterwards. Today birthed the realisation it's important to give space for further remembering or, at least, trying to remember what happened next. I am hoping it will enable me to find closure.

  We gave it a trial run. As my therapist and I explored a key childhood memory. (It's one that the Lord has been bringing to mind a lot lately.) So, stretching back through time and allowing myself to remain in the memory, I tried to remember what happened next. 

  I hit a wall of blank nothingness.

  Instead of giving up, I looked closer at the wall. The event had birthed a stew of overwhelming, confusing and toxic emotions. So fierce was the incomprehensible, emotional onslaught on a little girl's heart, it only left one option: shut down. It was the only thing Cricket knew would work to stop the pain.

  So even though I have no memory of what actually happened next, there is greater understanding. I can identify our feelings and validate them. I am able to offer comfort when there had been none. I can reassure both of us that we had no other option but to shut down. 

  This is good. This is a key to wholeness and wellness I've been missing. But most of all, instead of locking the flashback memories away in a box, they will be integrated into our, my, story.

  Just not too many in a day, okay, my Lord? This isn't easy.

  As for my step-dad, I can remember other things beside the shock-trauma over the state he was in...like his utter delight in having a Quarter Pounder with cheese for lunch. I can focus on the peace he found once he was hospitalized, clean, receiving pain meds and having his head wound cared for. I can celebrate that his childhood friends could finally see him and that his son was with him in his final hours. 

  I can be most thankful that through everything, I knew the Lord was there.

  Jesus, You are who You say You are...Comforter, Redeemer, Healer, Friend. Thank You for all You are doing, for all You have done. AMEN! 

  

Psalm

   "But in that coming day no weapon turned against you will succeed. You will silence every voice raised up to accuse you. These benefits are enjoyed by the servants of the Lord; their vindication will come from Me. I, the Lord, have spoken!" Isaiah 54:17

  I am God's child. He is my Father, my Abba. 

  He is truth and hope and love and all that is beautiful in this world. He is the joy that greets the rising sun. He is the peace that watches the waters ripple and wrestle with the wind. He is the wind. 

  He is the companion of sleepless nights and watchful days. His Word, His Son, are all I need to overcome the thief, the liar, the author of doubt and self loathing. But most of all, He will cast confusion aside and scatter it to the wind. He is the wind.

  He is my comforter. Like a soft down filled blanket, His feathers cover my heart and wrap my soul in shimmering, living, breathing light.

  I am not alone. 

  

  Ever.

  In the times when I feel unseen, He sees.

  In the times when I feel unheard, He hears.

  In the times when words don't come easily, He waits.

  In the times when I doubt the path I am on, He guides.

  In the times when I feel I've failed, He redeems.

  In the times when I don't understand, He teaches.

  When I am afraid, He is courage.

  

  With Him and because of Him, I become real, not some deceptive fabrication formed to appease, to please, to earn love. With Him, I find the strength to break out of the mold. Even when I crawl back into it because it is familiar, He offers a hand to climb out once again...and again...and again. Each time I become more real.

  His real.

  The need to lie falls away as grace heals the wounds that built the mold; as I forgive the builders and release them into God's hands again...and again...and again.

  And when the builders cry out to come back, I find the strength to walk away.

  I am a child of God. I am His. He is mine. Always.

  

  

  

Heavenly Whispers

  "He also asked, "What else is the Kingdom of God like? It is like the yeast a woman used in making bread. Even though she put only a little yeast in three measures of flour, it permeated every part of the dough."" Luke 13:20-21

  There's been a bubbling up, a rising up, of clarity. With clarity comes acceptance. With acceptance comes peace.

  My friend and I have been doing the Alpha course. It's been challenging and thought provoking but well worth doing. Last night was about sharing your faith with those who may not know Jesus. Most of my friends are from church. I don't go out much. Never mind the fact that talking with people I don't know is very difficult. But then I shared about the blog and how many people have read it.

  Writing these words is where my faith has been cemented. It's a record of God's healing and redemption. His patience and grace are documented, celebrated. It's also where I am challenged to be better than I am. But more importantly, it's a written record of the dialogue I have with my Lord and Creator. It's the foundation of our relationship.

  But most of all, it's where I become more and more like the person God destined me to be. It's only through Him can it be even possible. 

 Next weekend the Alpha group will spend Saturday together to learn about the Holy Spirit. I've been asked to host an afternoon activity. It will be an introduction to praying through art with time to spend working on individual pieces.

  In true, human fashion, I was nervous about it.

  My friend and I have also been watching season 5 of The Chosen. It focuses on the events leading up to Jesus' betrayal by Judas. It is powerful, beautiful and sad all at the same time. 

  Time and again, Jesus tells the disciples He will be leaving them. He repeatedly assures them they won't be left alone, that His Spirit will be with them...always.

  

  I have been discipled in the Art of Prayer. The art making has become a sacred act, carefully refined over thousands of hours of creating images before God. I have experience in helping others rediscover their creative abilities. God prepared the way for all of this to be in place. It is also a redemption story recorded over hundreds of posts.

  It's a great comfort. 

  As the ole gray matter ponders the events unfolding next Saturday and practices (aka prays) what needs to be said and how, I am left smiling. God has given me a dream, a hope, for the future. For the first time in my life I can see it, taste it and welcome it.

  The yeast has proved. All that remains is learning how to bake bread!

  Maybe tomorrow.

  

  I heard the best description of sin this weekend thanks to my pastor. Sin is everything that takes us away from love. 

  If you haven't ever done so before, I ask you, dear readers, to turn towards the Author and Creator of the purest love that ever existed. Let Jesus show you what that's all about. He's pretty good at it. AMEN!

  

  

On Happiness

 "So I say, let the Holy Spirit guide your lives. Then you won't be doing what your sinful nature craves. The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants." Galatians 5:17

  "But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." Galatians 5:22-23

  The idea of happiness has been swirling around the ole gray matter lately. To the point that I thought I might do some visualization exercises similar to the kind of mental exercises athletes do before they run a race. They run it in their heads: imagining their stride, their breathing, their victory. 

  It seemed a good idea to close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to be happy without being afraid of it. It's perfectly understandable why happiness comes tainted with such fear. Life taught me it was a punishable offence. 

  So maybe I need to look into why it is this way.

  More importantly, I will ask the Lord who I need to forgive; the ones who taught me to fear the mere idea of being happy.

  Like the happiness felt over something I created when it was misconstrued as boastful pride. Those moments of silliness and laughter that were simply too loud to permit. The moments of feeling accepted only to find there was a cost to pay for such acceptance...

  Happiness was taken from me so it was easier to shut it down rather than feel the hurt or face the punishment it always brought.

  It's time to let that go. It's time to stop being afraid of the happiness rug getting pulled out from under me.

  So, Mom, I forgive you for hating my happiness. Brother, I forgive you for stealing happiness. Husband, I forgive you for crushing happiness on so many occasions. Monster of the closet, I forgive you for taking the happiness of safety from me. The other monsters who lived outside of the closet, I forgive you for using happiness to lure me in. Friend, I forgive you for dismissing anything I was happy about as being inconsequential.

  I give my fear to Jesus.

  Lord, I repent of shutting down my emotions; of running from them. I repent of believing the lie that happiness was not allowed. 

  Forgive me, my Lord, the One who has patiently shown me that happiness is the offspring of joy, of play, of delight, of community and celebration. It's the happiness found in quiet moments of seeking, of learning, of growing, of knowing a job is well done. Happiness is in creating something beautiful, or in the act of writing words that touch the heart. Happiness is standing in awe of all You have created and continue to create each and every day.

  But most of all, dear Lord, happiness is knowing that You are here. Always.

  Oh...now this stings...Forgive me for being jealous of the people who laugh easily. Forgive me for stealing happiness away from others in things I have said or done. In Jesus name.

  Lord? Thank you for forgiving me. I will ask You to continue showing me areas where this lie may still exist. Help me remain open to hearing what You have to say. 

  Teach me how to protect and guard my joy, my happiness, against the one who has had the power long enough. Help me stand against the ones he uses to do his work. 

  Joy and happiness are from the Lord. The enemy of my soul has no claim on them. Not any more. AMEN!

 

  

  

Burden of Light

   "Then Jesus said, "Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you. Let Me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light."" Matthew 11:28-30

  It's been a while since this verse crossed my path. I always imagine the burden of light as a gleaming sun. The kind of sun that glows gold after a storm and rays like holy swords pierce the clouds, bathing the earth below in brilliance. The light of the sun is a beautiful thing, weightless, yet powerful enough to traverse galaxies.

  Light doesn't weigh a thing. It can't be captured and put on scales. You can't feel it pushing you down. The only sign the sun has touched you is a warming of the shoulders, and perhaps the need to squint when it gets too bright.

  Winter seems to have been especially long and gray this year. March will begin to reveal glimpses of spring in a burst of brilliant warmth. Enough to have you standing in the driveway after coming back from shopping, grocery bags in hand, eyes closed and face turned upwards. The sunlight infuses a hope that winter is nearly over.

  Then it snows. Again. But that's March. She's a tease.

  So this morning I stand here, grocery bags in hand, and I look to Jesus. I am trying to understand what it means to surrender. Even thought the actual word, "surrender" doesn't appear in Scripture, the essence of it is captured in the idea of submitting or giving yourself to God.

  Or maybe I am overthinking this.

  Is it really as simple as putting down the grocery bags once and for all? Or better yet, give them to Jesus to carry?

  I suppose I have equated the idea of surrender as being defeated. Of living under an oppressor because that's the way of the world. The way I am most familiar with. The kind of surrender that enabled me to survive. 

  Maybe, (smile), I might have to surrender understanding the nature of Divine surrender because it is truly unfathomable. 

  Years ago, I was at a conference and they paired us up to do the falling back exercise where you are supposed to trust the person behind to catch you. They were a stranger so naturally, I could not do it. 

  Maybe another synonym for surrender is trust.

  And maybe that's what I am being called into; a deeper, fathomless, unrestricted, unbroken trust in the One who saved me. A trust that spans every moment of every day, not just the art or writing sessions. A trust that means I know one hundred percent He will catch me when I fall or better yet, carry the heavy bags or do something as small as untangle a gold chain.

  He will catch me when I fall back into old habits. He will catch me when the anxiety is too much to bear. He will catch me when a trigger sends me retreating from everyone. He will catch me when my poor, injured brain short circuits.

  You know why I know this?

  He already has. He always has. 

  Surrender to His perfect love is not about surviving, not when the Light of the World turns His face upon you. 

  So here I stand, grocery bags in hand, eyes closed, basking in a Light words cannot describe.

  The bags can be unpacked another day. I'll need help for that. Or maybe I will just give them to God because, in the end, what's inside doesn't really matter. At all...

  Yah. There's no maybe about it. Here You are, dear Lord. You can have them.

  

 

The Chain

   "The paths of the Lord are true and right, and righteous people live by walking in them." Hosea 14:9

  My friend left a gold necklace on the table this morning. It had a knot in the chain. Untangling chains has been a task I derive great pleasure from and it's never been any trouble.

  Out came the curved, needle nose pliers and a tapestry needle that makes it easy to manipulate fine chain. A half hour later, the knot remained, stubborn and determined to be unfixable. I tried breaking it, knowing it was easy to fix a break, but it stubbornly remained a well made chain.

  Rather than get frustrated, I decided to take a break. Time was running short anyways because we were going to a celebration of life for a friend's mom. 

  The knotted chain was set down on an envelope so it wouldn't get misplaced. The pliers and needle were left on the table beside it so they would be handy for the next attempt.

  When I came out of the shower, my friend thanked me profusely for untangling the chain of one of her favorite necklaces. 

  Let's just say I was stunned. 

  I had not untangled the chain. The knot had been clearly visible against the white envelope when I had placed it there. 

  I had to look at the chain to make sure there wasn't some sort of mistake.

  It was in perfect condition.

  My eyes were as wide as saucers because I had to admit it hadn't been me. Not one bit.

  In a half joking manner, as my brain tried to make sense of it all, I said to her, "Maybe...just maybe...God sent His angels to look after it while I was showering."

  Maybe He did.

  There was a large gathering at the church for a woman who was clearly and dearly loved. While the pastor spoke, I heard another Voice.

  "What happened with the chain this morning is what it means to surrender."

  Tears came to my eyes because I finally understood a crucial part of my faith. As much as I have surrendered to God through the art and writing, it has always been about my need and drive to untangle the knotted chains of my life.

  Not that any of it has been a waste or wrong. The hours spent in His presence have built a foundation of trust in a God who has been with me, led me, and held me through it all. 

  But it's time to fully surrender to a love I cannot fathom; the kind of love that will repair a knotted chain.

  Because He can.

  He really and truly can.

  

Aftermath

   "Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty." Psalm 91:1

  Lord, I need Your rest. I need Your shadow. I got poked by the umbrella.

  Panic attacks are extremely unpleasant. The shaking, the tears, the gasping for air, the nerve ends firing like fireworks...Every single sense engages RED ALERT MODE. The smallest of noises are amplified a thousand fold. The tiniest of motions has you scanning the surroundings like a zebra looking out for lions. 

  It's primal. 

  

  I had to leave work. 

  One good thing about this is I finally understand what has been triggering these regularly occurring panic attacks.. 

  It's having to take part in a large, virtual meetings.

  It's not the meeting in and of itself. It's the constant motion on screen, the random changing of the image without doing it yourself and being prepared for the change. It's how it changes every time someone new speaks. It's watching a dozen or more people move about in a confined area.

  

  Part of PTSD is a constant monitoring of the environment. Everyone does it. It's part of our wiring but in my case, the wiring has been heightened. So every time the image changes or there's a movement, I do a full on, yet subconscious, threat assessment.

  Until the assessment system gets overloaded and simply sends out the signal to RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!! IT'S ALL LIONS OUT THERE! 

  And because there isn't really a threat, I end up a blubbering mess. 

  Primal brain can't understand logic.

  I am grateful to finally understand why these attacks have been happening on a regular basis. It means it's possible to come up with a strategy. 

  For now, I am home where it is safe, sipping a cup of Zen tea. Even though it happened a couple of hours ago, the nerves are still firing with a zinging feeling that travels up and down the ole body. It will take time to calm Primal down. Sometimes it takes a couple of days.

  

  A hot bath is in order.

  Writing helps, too.

  

Framework

   "I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me. No wonder my heart is glad and I rejoice. My body rests in safety. For You will not leave my soul among the dead or allow Your holy one to rot in the grave. You will show me the way of life; granting me the joy of Your presence and the pleasures of living with You forever." Psalm 16:8-11

  Sometimes when you share things, other things rise up between the words, between the emotions, between the ideas. Good things. God things.

  I was sharing about the umbrella, the image of the bare ribs and handle I wrote about yesterday. I shared about how necessity taught me I had to make my own protection, my own comfort, my own safety. As I spoke of these things I realized there is far more to the framework than the grief it initially generated. 

  

  We also talked about the idea of being a victim, about living in the past and being trapped by it. I said that I don't live in the past, the past lives in me. It's why I need meds. It's why I live with CPTSD. It's why I get overwhelmed easily. It's why I retreat into smallness sometimes. Not by choice, but because it simply happens.

  It's all related to the framework of my life's experiences.

  But the Lord had more to say about it when the conversation was over. He made me smile.

  This same framework is also why I am the way I am...in good ways. In ways to be grateful for. 

  Fear of abandonment instilled a fearless curiosity to try new things, or learn new skills. Perhaps to prove my worth. Perhaps it was because I wanted to earn my keep. The why isn't important. The end result is unusual abilities that are far outside of the gender framework I was born into.

  It fills me with gratitude for not having the support I needed because of all the skills I now have. 

  In all the years of eggshell walking because of the need to anticipate, placate, or keep the peace, I learned to see the smallest sign when someone is hurting. It means being able to come alongside them so they don't feel so alone. I know what that feels like. I know what it looks like. I've seen it in the mirror often enough.

  In the Great Alone, I learned to create: to play music from the heart, to draw, to paint, to write, to knit, to sew, to build things. Most importantly, when I was literally on my own, I learned to pray using all of it. I learned to trust that God will get me through regardless of how painful the path might be.

  If I don't speak the language of relationship very well, it's good to feel assured that one day I will. 

  My life is being built around a new framework, a better one. Like any skill, it takes time to master. It takes practice and often a complete do-over.

  That's okay. 

  God has placed good people, trustworthy people in my life who will support my tentative efforts at living differently, living better. 

  To God be the glory! AMEN!

  

The Retreating

   "Now let Your unfailing love comfort me, just as You promised me, Your servant. Surround me with Your tender mercies so I may live, for Your instructions are my delight." Psalm 119:76-77

  There's this thing I do whenever my emotions run deep and high. I withdraw, retreat, into a profound silence that echoes with the memories of a solitary life. I don't always know what triggers the retreat. It could be something as simple as the scent of a man's aftershave, a touch, a look, that kicks this primal response into full gear.

  I guess it's a legacy of having to live small to survive.

  I don't speak the language of connection very well. How could I? I never learned how.

  While praying through art today, I came across the image of an umbrella. It was just the skeleton: bowed ribs and a handle. The protective fabric was missing. As far as its ability to protect you from the elements, it was utterly useless.

  As I pondered this, it helped me understand that my childhood had been lived within the framework of family and home that, based on all external appearances, was as it should be. I had a roof over my head, piano lessons, schooling, food on the table. But this framework was just a skeleton that required me to add my own layers of protection.

  The lessons learned in childhood were honed to perfection in a marriage that also was nothing but a skeleton of appearance. It was not safe. Not for me. Not for my children. I did my best to be the fabric of protection while wrapping myself in the fabric of smallness. Just to survive.

  In all of this there was no room for fears, or questions, or discussion. There was no room for emotions or needs or desires. To have any was a punishable offence.

  One spring morning on the farm, my ankle got pinned between the barn wall and a two hundred pound sow. It was because of my ex's careless handling of the animal. I thought it was broken.

  The hospital wrapped my ankle in white athletic tape so I could leave. The x-ray results weren't available until the next morning. When I found out I needed a cast, my ex's angry response was, "What am I supposed to do about it?" A cast meant I could not do barn chores.

  The sad but funny thing is I didn't know I was allergic to athletic tape. When the nurse peeled it off, I had a rash from mid calf to the ball of my foot. It had been driving me crazy with the itching but I never said a thing to anyone. It was bad enough being injured and not being able to fulfill my responsibilities.

  The nurse was horrified and told me I should have taken the tape off! 

  In the end, it was just a bone chip, albeit a very painful one. While a cast would have made me more comfortable, I opted to simply wrap my ankle with elastic because the chores were more important...appeasing my husband even more so.

  There's something terribly wrong with this picture. Part of me knew it then. I definitely know it now. I just wish these lessons would get unlearned because it impacts my ability to trust others with my needs. And the great retreat remains my first go to. 

  It will take time to break the habits of a lifetime and I am getting better at it. But it's awfully hard to over-ride the survival mechanisms that are so automatic, I don't even realize it's happening.

  Lord, help me do better. In Jesus name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

The Critic

   "The mouth of the godly person gives wise advice, but the tongue that deceives will be cut off." Proverbs 10:31

  It's time to cut a tongue off. More than one, actually. They are the tongues that sing the songs of destruction. Their lyrics mock and belittle. Discordant harmonies serve one purpose: to make you afraid.

  As I sat in church, I started drawing measuring tools. A ruler, triangles, a set square and anything else I could think of at the time. 

  A tape measure was drawn as though the case was far away. The metal measuring part stretched back across the page, growing smaller and smaller as the rules of perspective were honoured. It was as though time was also being measured.

  Then I realized the tape measure wasn't mine. It belongs to those who taught me I could never measure up or be good enough. It's the tape measure that taught me I could never measure up or be good enough as a child, a daughter, a teen, a wife, and a woman. 

  Perversely, it also taught me not to be too good at anything because why would I even try to be the best? It was never enough. 

  The voice of the destroyer has a familiar sound. How could it be otherwise? It's the compounded voice of the one who raised me, who was a sibling, who was a spouse, a teacher, a culture, a gender expectation. And sadly, it is also my own. How could it be otherwise? 

  I never knew anything better.

  Even when the Lord set me free, their voices continue to be at war with the truth God was trying to have me believe.

  Today is the day these voices will be cut off, their tongue silenced. The only way to do this is to choose to forgive the critics, the judges, the cruel tongues whose voices echo across the years. So I will choose to forgive them. 

  I can thank the Lord for helping me find compassion for them. Their world is an ugly place.

  Then there's the hard part. Lord forgive me for allowing the critic's voice to become my own.

  He reminded me of my once four year old son and a little girl I was babysitting. The two of them were squishing grapes into the carpet, utterly silent, utterly enthralled by it.

  I've realized watching grapes explode was exactly the same as my sugar melting cereal bowl. I reacted just as my mother had with a cross "What were you thinking?" Forgive me Lord, for that.

  But then, when this same son wrote, "Welcome home, mommy, I love you" on the wall by the front door, I didn't get mad about it. How could I? We did have a chat about the wall not being the best place to write notes on. 

  Thank You, Lord, for forgiving me, for Your patience.

 It's time to put the tape measure that was never Yours back in the box. 

  I want to do better. I want to celebrate the giftings You blessed me with without shame or guilt or deception. But most of all, I want to learn to protect and nurture them without shame or guilt or deception.

  I want to live as the woman You created me to be and celebrate all You have made.

  Lord, hear my prayer! AMEN!

  As for the critic. I know its voice now. It's been a companion for far too long. It no longer has a place in my heart, my mind or on my tongue. Lord, I give it to You to do as You see fit. AMEN!