© 2010 David’s Harp and Pen
Mood: Hopeful
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from Child Protective Services, Child Psychologists, or any parents. I’m all for preventing child abuse, but what about the too often ignored epidemic of babysitter abuse? When the little girl I watch throws my cell phone in the toilet, smacks me in the face because I had the audacity to make her sit in her car seat, or pounces on my stomach right after I’ve eaten lunch, who’s going to stand up for poor, defenseless me?
Children have always been drawn to me, except, of course, when I was a child. When I unexpectedly had to go back to work this year after having to take a break from school, the only job I could get was babysitting a small child during the day. I must admit that part of me is jealous of the kid. Some days, I wish I could get away with anything simply because I was little and cute. I think the main reason God allows children under the age of eight to be so cute is to prevent their parents from killing them when they are naughty. Should I ever have children of my own, I pray that they be ugly so I will not have trouble disciplining them. Being a small child also allows one to have mood swings for which someone my age would be declared schizophrenic and thus institutionalized. Of course, there is also the lesser-publicized benefit of being given exorbitant amounts of candy whenever the kid takes a trip to the bank, mall, or doctor’s office. Best of all, not only are midday naps perfectly acceptable, they are also greatly encouraged.
Before taking the job, I had been praying to God about growing in Christian maturity. Paul said in 1 Corinthians 13:1, “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; now that I have become a man, I am done with childish ways and have put them aside.” Jesus said in Matthew 18:4, “Whoever will humble himself therefore and become like this little child [trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving] is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” When I read these passages, I got the sense that the Word condemned childishness but encouraged childlikeness. Hence began my little journey to discover the difference.
I decided that perhaps the best place to begin when attempting to understand the difference between childishness and childlikeness is to define the two words. So I looked them up in Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. ,
According to Merriam Webster, childish has three definitions:
”of, relating to, or befitting a child or childhood, marked by or suggestive of immaturity and lack of poise; childish: lacking complexity: simple; deteriorated with age especially in mind”
Merriam Webster also describes childlike as “resembling, suggesting, or appropriate to a child or childhood; especially: marked by innocence, trust, and ingenuousness.”
While I certainly found those definitions helpful, I realized I needed help applying them to my life, so I began to ask the Lord to help me understand the difference between the two. God, the great Canadian Comedian that He is, decided I would best learn this in the form of daily object lessons from the children placed in my care.
CHILDISHNESS
I must admit: this job has been more challenging than I thought it would be. Most days, I just have the one kid to watch, but some days, I have her brother and sister, too. One of my greatest frustrations is the competitiveness among the three. Their house has four bathrooms, three televisions, three large pieces of living room furniture, three brand-spanking new state-of-the-art video game systems, and two computers. However, all three kids have to be using the same (fill in the blank) at the same time. For example, if they all have to go to the bathroom at the same time, they will fight to use the same bathroom. Despite the abundance of cushy couches, not only will they have to be on the same couch at the same time, they have to be sitting on the same couch cushion at the same time. The other day, when I had to drive the three of them someplace, they fought over who would get into my car first, even though my car has four doors, which allowed each of the kids to enter the car at the same time with their very own door. The competitiveness is such that, if I were allowed to spank them, they would fight over which of them would get the honor to be spanked first. What’s worse is they will fight over something even if they have each have identical items. This happens mostly around mealtime. They often eat pizza for dinner, but no matter how evenly I slice the pizza, and even in light of the fact that I give them slices from the same pizza, they fight because they think somehow one of the other ones got a superior slice.
This was the first of childish behaviors God pointed out to me. Childishness questions the goodness of the Father and believes God shows partiality among His children based on silly, irrational whims, or that He would want to withhold His best from us for no apparent reason. Ephesians 6:9 says, “You masters, act on the same [principle] toward them and give up threatening and using violent and abusive words, knowing that He Who is both their Master and yours is in heaven, and that there is no respect of persons (no partiality) with Him.” Jesus also tells us in Matthew 7:11, “If you then, evil as you are, know how to give good and advantageous gifts to your children, how much more will your Father Who is in heaven [perfect as He is] give good and advantageous things to those who keep on asking Him!” This isn’t to say that God won’t at times give something to one and withhold that same thing to another, but that is only because, since we are all in different places with God and stages in our spiritual growth, what is beneficial to one person at a certain time might be detrimental to another. However, one thing that doesn’t change is God wants His best for all of His children, and though His best may mean different things to different people, He never holds back what will be the most beneficial to each of His individual children.
Another example of childishness is conditional obedience. Jed, the boy in the family is a master negotiator. I foresee a successful future for him in law. Most of the time, when I ask something of him, the conversation goes something like this:
“Jed, pick up all these toys and put them away,” I’ll say.
“I’ll only pick up the toys that are mine,” he’ll respond.
“No, you played with all of them, so you have to put all of them away.”
“But Lexi played with all of them, too, and she doesn’t have to put any of them away.”
“It doesn’t matter what your sister does or doesn’t do. You have to do what I tell you, or you’re going to bed.”
“I won’t pick up the toys unless Lexi helps me.”
“Okay, then. You’re going to bed right now.”
“If you’re sending me to bed right now, I’m going to put a DVD on to watch while I fall asleep.”
“Oh no you’re not! You’re going straight to bed with no DVD.”
“Alright, but I’ll have to have milk and cookies first!”
“No! No milk and cookies, no DVD, no room service. Don’t you understand that going to bed early is punishment for disobedience?”
“But I’ve been a good boy!”
“No you haven’t. I told you to clean up the toys and you refused!”
“Yes, but I stopped choking the cat when you told me to, and I’ve been good because I didn’t hit you all day yesterday.”
“Not doing something you weren’t supposed to anyway doesn’t get you out of doing what you’re supposed to do, and that’s why I’m sending you to bed!”
“But you wouldn’t have to send me to bed if I didn’t have to clean up all those toys!”
“Don’t argue with me, Boy! It’s total obedience or you pay the piper!”
“Well what if I only clean up my toys, and I go to bed with cookies, but no milk?”
“Do I look like a car salesman to you? This is not a negotiation! I don’t offer options packages. You either do everything you’re told, or you’ll totally be punished!”
“Okay, I’ll clean up all my toys and go to bed with no DVD or milk or cookies. But only if I get to hit you first.”
“That’s it! Not only will you clean up all these toys, not only will you go to bed early with no snacks and no DVDs, but I’m going to ship you off to the Supernanny lady on TV!”
The Bible makes it clear that obedience is immediate and total. Paul tells us in 1 Corinthians 8:3, “But if one loves God truly [with affectionate reverence, prompt obedience, and grateful recognition of His blessing], he is known by God [recognized as worthy of His intimacy and love, and he is owned by Him]” (Emphasis added). Moses wrote in Exodus 15:26, “If you will diligently hearken to the voice of the Lord your God and will do what is right in His sight, and will listen to and obey His commandments and keep all His statutes, I will put none of the diseases upon you which I brought upon the Egyptians, for I am the Lord Who heals you” (Emphasis added). In fact, the issue of total obedience is reiterated in the Books of Moses six more times. In God’s eyes, delayed and partial obedience are the same things as disobedience.
The last major facet of childishness God pointed out to me was self-sufficiency, not the good kind that makes a person take responsibility for himself, but the prideful kind that desires to look and be in control all the time to the point that one cannot admit his need for help or that he has weakness of any kind. McKenzie, Jed’s other sister, refused to brush her teeth for the longest time. Her breath got so noxious that, if she stood too close to me while she spoke, my skin would start to peel. Many heated arguments ensued, and what usually ended up happening was I would have to physically carry her to the bathroom, hold her down and her mouth open with one hand, and brush her teeth for her with the other. She would scream and cry and try to hit me each time I did it. I finally pinned her down one day and wouldn’t let her go until she told me why she didn’t want to brush her teeth. She told me it was because the flavoring of the particular brand of toothpaste her family used burned the inside of her mouth. So, we switched to a different brand of toothpaste, and it was no longer a problem. I asked McKenzie why she didn’t just say in the beginning the toothpaste flavoring was the reason she didn’t want to brush her teeth. She said she didn’t say anything because she didn’t want to look stupid, especially since her brother and sister were able to use that toothpaste without any problems. I told her, though, that she looked a lot stupider throwing a temper tantrum every time she had to brush her teeth than coming out and admitting she had trouble with the toothpaste. That is so much like most of us, however. In our attempts to look like we’re in control, that we don’t have any problems, that we don’t need anything, we do things that only cause us to look out of control and needy. Jesus stated plainly in John 15:5 that apart from Him we can do nothing, and a major part of allowing God’s power to work in us is admitting our need and weakness apart from Him.
CHILDLIKENESS
Since I am not permitted to spank McKenzie, Jed, or Lexi, I must devise creative, non-corporal methods of persuasion. I learned early on one of the most effective threats I can make, no matter where we are or what we’re doing, is to leave them alone. For example, if I’m out in public with Jed, and he refuses to do something I’ve told him, even if he just told me he hated me, if I threaten to leave him behind or leave him alone, he will panic and scream, then tell me he’ll do whatever I ask. For little kids, there is no feeling worse than being abandoned by a parent or parental figure.
Part of Biblical childlikeness is the revelation that close communion with the Father is the greatest thing on earth, and there is no one or thing worth being separated from Him for even a second. King David, who had more worldly wealth, possessions, and accomplishments than most of us ever will, nailed it when he said in Psalm 84:2,10, “My soul yearns, yes, even pines and is homesick for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out and sing for joy to the living God. For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand [anywhere else]; I would rather be a doorkeeper and stand at the threshold in the house of my God than to dwell [at ease] in the tents of wickedness.”
Jed spends a lot of time in time out. In fact, to really drive home whatever point I’m trying to make with him, I make him spend time out in his old crib. The vertical bars on the crib give that nice, prison cell feel, so much so, that time out is now referred to as ‘Jed Jail.’ However, as much as he hates punishment, as much as he’ll say every hateful and hurtful thing he can think of to me to get me to commute his sentence, when time out is over, he will run to me and hug me, because he wants to know that he is forgiven. Then he will ask me to help him with whatever got him in trouble in the first place so that he won’t get in trouble again.
Often, whether I consciously decide this or not, when I’ve messed up, I stay in that prison cell long after my sentence is finished. I will scheme and strategize how to clean myself up and better myself so when I approach the Father again, I can successfully argue why I am now worthy of forgiveness, that I’ve corrected my own mistakes, and am therefore now able to resume my relationship with Him. However, like Jed does as soon as he’s finished his jail time, the arms of the Father should be the first place I run. Another important component of childlikeness is to run to Him first and quickly when I’ve sinned, when I’m in need, when I hurt. In the story of the Prodigal Son in the Book of Luke, once the prodigal realized how badly he had messed up his life, how far he had fallen from who he was meant to be, he went straight to his father.
Ever since I became a Christian back in 1987, I have longed to grow in my relationship with God and get to the place Peter talks about when he said, “You will be mature and complete, lacking in nothing.” Back in November, I was upset with myself because I felt like I wasn’t making the progress I should. One night, I was talking to a girlfriend who had spent many years working in a women’s prison. She said many of the inmates had atrocious childhoods. One prisoner, at eight years old, witnessed her mother violently murdered. Even though the woman was now in her early 30s, she was emotionally never more mature than a little girl. My friend said she noticed with these women in the prison that, however old they were when the traumatic events in their lives transpired, that was the emotional age they stayed at as they got older. My friend’s words gnawed at me long after our conversation ended. I knew what she said applied to me. As far as my spiritual and emotional growth were concerned, I too felt like I was ‘stuck.’ Even though I was 35, I was still responding to the people around me and the circumstances that befell me in downright childish ways. At that time, I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly I had gotten stuck, or what I needed to do to fix the problem.
My heart was heavy with my lack of emotional and spiritual maturity as I began Thanksgiving Day 2009, and the events of the day didn’t help to improve my outlook. I went to a large Thanksgiving dinner at my Life Group leaders’ home, and in front of everyone, I experienced a wardrobe malfunction of mythic proportions. I felt self-conscious and silly for the rest of the day, even though I’m sure no one except me remembers my little clothing snafu. My mood grew progressively worse as the day wound down. Towards the end of the day, I tried to be of service to a girlfriend, but instead of being helpful, I succeeded only in being annoying. From the time I began to drive home on Thursday night well into Friday night, I bawled my eyes out. I began the regular practice of obsessing about the day, what I should’ve said and done differently, and convincing myself that my girlfriend would never speak to me again. Then I remembered what my friend, the former prison worker had said. I cried out to God, “Lord, what’s wrong with me? I’m a grown woman, but in so many ways I act and think like a child. There is something I can’t seem to get past. I want to grow up and walk in maturity, but something is holding me back. Please help me.”
I put the whole matter to fervent prayer and decided I would stalk God until I got the answers I needed. Since I didn’t have a job at the time, I barricaded myself in my apartment for the next week. I turned off the internet. I turned off my cell phone. I didn’t talk to anyone except God and Bruno, my dog. Friday night the following week, the Lord showed me where I had gotten stuck.
It was my first day of school, tenth grade. I had just started a new Christian school and was terrified. Every school I had attended previously, including another Christian school, I had been teased mercilessly and lacked any friends. I had recurring visions of the times I had been knocked to the floor or the dirt by classmates; of the school bully who slammed a volleyball into the side of my head in the first grade so hard that I lost part of my hearing in my right ear; of the boy behind me on the school bus who, after spitting into my hair over and over again, crumbled a chocolate cupcake on top of my head, to the delight of all the other kids on the bus; of the kids at the first Christian school I attended who told me all the time that I smelled and teased me because I couldn’t afford the expensive clothes they could; of my last day at that first Christian school, when I arrived in a new outfit, and when I couldn’t answer my classmate’s question as to the brand name of my new outfit, she snuck up behind me, put her hand down the back of my dress, and pulled the label out to see for herself. I’m happy to say that my experience at the second Christian school was wonderful, and I made many true, life-long friends. However, a harmful habit got set in place. I discovered that I could make my classmates laugh. Since my newfound sense of humor seemed to draw people to me, I took on the role of the one who always cheered up those around her, who solved all her friends’ problems, and who couldn’t be honest about herself and her own struggles.
This mindset stayed with me all through my 20s and halfway through my 30s. The week following Thanksgiving, I had to come face to face with the fact that the reason I was still reacting like a child in so many ways was because emotionally, I was still that 16-year-old high school sophomore, scared out of my mind, desperate for anyone to like me and be my friend, but who couldn’t shake the notions that no one would like me unless I performed; that like the proverbial problem child, although I was tolerated, I was not celebrated; that though the people around me cared about me, they didn’t respect me.
God showed me where and when I had gotten stuck in childish thinking and immature behavior. Next, I asked Him to get me unstuck. He then had me revisit that petrified teenager who started over in a new school. As I saw myself there, so unsure of myself, I suddenly saw Jesus standing there next to me. He put His arm around me and said to me, “Your Father loves you. He wants you to know that you are His child, and He has always approved of you.”
In the time that’s passed since that fateful Thanksgiving, I have experienced what I can describe only as spiritual growing pains. Knowing that God has always accepted me as His precious daughter has helped me mature by leaps and bounds. However, in the last three weeks, I found myself in familiar situations, and the temptation to behave and think childishly was painfully overwhelming. In some of those situations, I persevered. In others, I failed miserably. When I went back to God with my frustration, He said something to me that most people would’ve assumed was a given, but opened up a whole new level of freedom and maturity for me. He said, “Sharon, you don’t have to grow up spiritually by yourself.”
Without going too much into detail, most of my life, I spent most of my time growing up alone. I had to learn too much on my own. I didn’t get a whole lot in the way of guidance, except after I tried to figure things out by myself and failed. In recent days, though, God has told me over and over again that He will not leave me to my own devices when it comes to maturity in Him. He is with me every step of the way, not only to direct me in the way I should go, but also to model for me what a grownup Christian looks like. When it comes to God, there are no questions too stupid to be asked when I need help. He assures me in James 1:15, “If any of you is deficient in wisdom, let him ask of the giving God [Who gives] to everyone liberally and ungrudgingly, without reproaching or faultfinding, and it will be given him.” The Apostle Paul echoes this hope in Philippians 1:6 when he says, “And I am convinced and sure of this very thing, that He Who began a good work in you will continue until the day of Jesus Christ [right up to the time of His return], developing [that good work] and perfecting and bringing it to full completion in you.”
Because of my Father’s great love for me and approval of me, I am able to move from childishness to Christian maturity. I long for the day when Christ is fully formed in me, and I am brought to completion, and I hear the words, “well done, good and faithful servant.” As I grow up, I want to be just like my Father, and my Father will see to it that His little girl grows up big and strong.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
My Name is Kevin
© 2010 David’s Harp and Pen
Mood: Slightly Coherent
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any people named Kevin or any advocacy groups for people named Kevin. I have worked through all my issues and hold no resentment towards any of you. I realize none of you can help being evil. You were just born that way.
“Welcome to Open Door Church!” I said with all the enthusiasm I could muster.
“Thanks! Looks like a cool church you have here,” replied the dark haired, brown-eyed stranger who stood before me with an innocent smile upon his face.
“My name is Sharon. What’s yours?” I asked.
“My name is Kevin,” he answered, completely unaware of the anguish he was about to unleash upon me.
“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” I screamed with the ferocity of a woman whose last frazzled nerve had been stomped upon with an industrial strength, steel-toed, steel-shanked work boot. Kevin, fortunately, was one of those perpetually perky and jovial types who wasn’t easily fazed. Why he even talked to me again after my deplorable first impression is still beyond me. As he stared at me curiously, my friend Lisa rushed to my side with a worried look on her face.
“Sharon, what is wrong?! You sound like you just saw a ghost!” Lisa exclaimed.
“They’re everywhere! I can’t escape, no matter where I go,” I muttered in a tone revealing my impending delirium.
“Who’s everywhere?”
“The Kevins! They’re popping up all over the place, like a crop of poisonous mushrooms after a bad storm!” I replied, alternating between speaking and chewing my nails down to a nub.
Before I go any further, I must, of course, give the reader, some background as to why a name as innocent sounding as Kevin could turn me into a complete mental case. As one can probably imagine, it all started with a guy named Kevin:
Kevin epitomized the phrase wolf in sheep’s clothing. Hindsight is usually 20/20, and in retrospect, it was poor judgment on my part to be chummy with him the first place, but more about that later. Without going into detail, I’ll merely say that he burned me, and burned me badly. I don’t remember when I’d felt such a seething hatred towards anyone before and, feeling perfectly justified in my bitterness and resentment, decided to hold a grudge against him. After all, I told myself, he deserved it for what he did to me.
One day, I was talking on the phone with Richard, a mutual friend of Kevin and me. As I related my tale of woe to him, he said, “Sharon, you have to let this go. I know he did you wrong, but you know what the Bible says about forgiveness.”
“How do you expect me to forgive him after what he’s done to me? Besides, I tried to work this out with him, and he did everything to send me the message that he wasn’t sorry except spit in my face!” I shot back.
“Sharon, you don’t have to convince me that he was wrong. Holding a grudge against him isn’t gonna make the pain go away!”
Thoroughly agitated at this point, I ended the conversation by saying, “Maybe it won’t make the pain go away, but it’ll at least ensure that he can’t pull one over on me ever again.”
After we hung up, I felt something change inside of me. At the time, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was one of those surreal moments, kind of like when Bill Murray’s character in “Groundhog Day” discovered that he was reliving the same day over and over again. Yeah, my bitterness had encased me in a wall of self-protection, but I was soon to discover what had snuck in while I was building that wall.
The next morning, I awoke to snow and ice covering everything in sight, including my car. Naturally, this hadn’t been predicted in the weather report the night before, and I was running behind getting to work, too, so I put myself in overdrive as I began the task of chipping the ice off my car.
After ten minutes, I’d not made much of a dent in the glacier holding my car hostage. As I sighed in dis-gust, I saw a friendly looking middle aged man in some kind of dark blue work uniform approaching me.
“You look like you need some help there, Little Lady,” he said cheerily.
“Why thank you. I can’t believe how thick this layer of ice is on my car,” I replied, thankful for the assistance.
Another 10 minutes passed before we were successful in clearing away enough ice to open my driver’s side door. As I got in to my car, I extended my hand to the Good Samaritan and said, “Thank you so much. My name’s Sharon, by the way.”
He took my hand and replied, “You’re most welcome; my name is Kevin.”
Time stopped for a split second and a cold chill went through me. How I’d grown to hate that dreaded name! Oh well, the guy couldn’t help what his parents named him, right? And the name Kevin, although relatively common, wasn’t as popular as, say, John or Stephen, so I’d probably met my quota of Kevins that I’d have to interact with that day, right?
I turned the radio on as my car warmed up. The overly enthusiastic DJ, in a sing-song voice, said, “You’re listening to Tennessee’s Christian music station, WWDJ 89.1. John Seymour’s sick today, so I’m filling in for him. My name is Kevin Berry and…”
Uggh! There it was again. Up until that point, I didn’t realize there were quite so many Kevins in the world.
The drive to my office was rather treacherous that morning. Parts of the road had been plowed and salted, but others hadn’t. What was normally a 15 minute drive took 45. As I neared the office, about to move from the right to the left lane, a large white work van cut in front of me, causing me to swerve and drive up on the median. After regaining my composure, I looked over at the van as it sped off. Guess what it said on the side of it? “Kevin’s Mobile Motors!”
The office receptionist greeted me as I walked in the door of the health insurance network where I worked. “Rough ride this morning, huh?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen ice that thick before,” I replied.
“Just so you know, we’re still having that administrative meeting this morning. We’re going to meet the newest member of the credentialing board.”
“That’s cool. What’s his name?” I asked. (You’d think I’d know better by this point.)
“Kevin Jernigan,” she replied, oblivious to the damage her revelation was doing to my sanity.
I didn’t say anything more. I merely retreated to my desk in order to bury myself in my work for the day. Now, my job at the health insurance network was to oversee the credentialing of the doctors and facilities that wanted to be a part of our network. On a typical day, I’d get about five files, some as thick as a phone-book, of doctors whose references and credentials I needed to check before sending their applications on to the credentialing committee. Guess what the first name of the first, third, and fifth doctor in my stack of five files was? KEVIN! I was beginning to sense a pattern here.
I left my office job at noon (I only worked there part time) and headed to the detective agency where I worked the rest of the time. As I drove, I turned the Christian radio station on again, just in time to hear an interview with one of the members of DC Talk. Guess which one? Kevin Max. At that point, I decided I needed to invest in a good CD player for my car.
I walked into the detective agency and picked up my stack of assignments, which included delivering a subpoena to a local law office. I was thankful for this type of work, because it meant I’d mostly be driving in my car and not having to interact with anyone for extended periods of time.
Determined to salvage a bad day, I pasted a smile on my face as I walked into the law firm. Approaching the man at the front desk, I asked to speak with the attorney whose name appeared on the subpoena (which surprisingly enough, wasn’t Kevin). The young man watching the phones took the papers from my hand and asked me to wait while he tried to locate the attorney.
“Hey, this is Carl,” he spoke into the phone, “I’m trying to find Jerry. Do you know where he is?... Well, why don’t you ask Kevin?...What do you mean you don’t know where Kevin is? I just talked to Kevin not even thirty seconds ago…Have you looked at Kevin’s desk?...Kevin and Jerry were working on this thing together…I swear, Kevin takes more smoke breaks than anyone I know…Tell Kevin I’m looking for…What do you mean you’re not Kevin’s secretary…Well, you can tell Kevin that if Kevin worked like the rest of us in-stead of cultivating lung cancer all the time, Kevin would be thought of more highly by yours truly…Yeah, well, just give Kevin the message.”
When Carl turned back to look at me, I’m sure he was probably frightened at what he saw. I think the security video actually got footage of real smoke coming out of my ears.
“Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked sheepishly.
“Sir, I just have one question for you: DON’T YOU KNOW ANY PRONOUNS?” I screamed, dealing a deadly blow to proper business etiquette.
After ending my work day, I was looking forward to a peaceful evening at my church’s Wednesday night service, hearing a soothing message from my pastor, and then going home and quickly drifting into unconsciousness. As I walked in the front door of the church, Richard greeted me warmly.
“Hey there, Miss Private Eye, how are you?”
“Fine,” I replied unconvincingly as we made our way to our seats in the sanctuary.
“Are you sure? You look…deranged!”
“There is nothing wrong with me! Do you hear me? I’m perfectly sane. I have every right to feel what I’m feeling, and no one can tell me otherwise.”
“Sharon, are you still seething about Kevin?”
“Don’t mention that name in my presence” I shot out sarcastically just as our pastor approached the podium.
“Good evening, folks, and welcome to our mid week service,” Pastor Dan said excitedly from the pulpit, “Before we go any further, I’m pleased to announce the newest additions to our Board of Elders. Would you please give a warm round of applause to Kevin Mills and Kevin Burkowitz?”
I don’t remember anything else from that night, except the feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach as I came to the realization that Kevin’s name was haunting me like a bad dream everywhere I went. It was a master conspiracy on the part of the powers that be to drive me completely batty, and the entire city of Nashville, including the Christian radio station, was in on it. I had to escape, get out of town or something, before that awful K name did me in once and for all.
The next day, Elizabeth, one of my girlfriends from church, asked me if I wanted to tag along with her to Louisville that weekend. She’d been a missionary in Africa for several years and was speaking at the churches up there that had supported her financially. I was thrilled to have the ticket out of town, so I gladly accepted her offer.
The weather was snowy that weekend, so the drive up took about two hours longer than normal. For most of the drive, a white sedan kept ahead of us, bearing the personalized Tennessee license plate reading, “Kevin 1”. Not how I’d have liked to have started my great escape.
After five exhausting hours, battling snow and the Louisville rush hour traffic, we arrived at the home of the Reeds, friends of Elizabeth’s. We would be staying with them that weekend. We made our introductions, and Shelley, the mother, introduced all of her four children. Guess what the names of the two youngest were? Richard and Kevin! Not only that, but Elizabeth and I would be sleeping in their room that weekend.
Shelley showed us up to the room. As I looked around, I saw posters, plaques, etc., with the boys’ names and initials everywhere. Directly in front of my view from the bed was one of those name plaques that show a person’s name, the meaning of the name, and a corresponding Bible verse. Yes, it was Kevin’s plaque. Turns out his name means “kind and gentle,” by the way. The verse under his name? Colossians 3:13, which says, “Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”
At this point, I tried deluding myself into thinking that my continued exposure to the K name and the alarming frequency with which it was spoken to me over the last week were mere coincidence. On that note, I retired to bed early that evening, hoping to forget that name and my childish reactions to it.
It started snowing again that night. Outside the bedroom window was a street lamp. Every so often during the night, the light would flicker due to the snow, causing me to wake up. When I’d awaken, the light from the street lamp would shine into the bedroom, illuminating a very small area on the wall opposite my bed: namely, the Kevin name plaque and that verse about forgiveness. It must’ve happened about eight times in the night before I finally surrendered my hope of getting any sleep that evening. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence after all.
The weekend passed quickly, and I was happy to get through Saturday without hearing that name. Sunday afternoon, we attempted to make our way back to the highway leading back to Nashville, only to get our-selves hopelessly lost. As we drove around, my thoughts kept drifting back to that verse. I knew at this point that I was disobeying God by holding on to my anger, and maybe hearing Kevin’s name all the time was God’s way of reminding me that I needed to let it go. I replayed in my mind my entire friendship with Kevin, how we met, the things we did together, even the nicknames we had for each other. He used to call me Ms. Stone, like Sharon Stone the actress, and I called him Mr. Costner, after Kevin Costner the actor. The more I thought about it all, however, the angrier I became, and I defiantly said to God, “Why in the world should I forgive him? Don’t You remember what he did to me? It was totally inexcusable! Do you think I’m going to open myself up to that kind of treatment again? If so, God, You are sadly mistaken!”
No sooner did I finish my dialogue with God that we finally came upon a street sign, hoping it would tell us where we were and we could then look at the map to find our way back to the highway. The name of the street we were on? Kostner Road, like Kevin Costner the actor, except Costner was spelled with a K—as in Kevin!
For the next 24 hours, all I remember is kind of floating through the minutes and hours in a numb, drug-like daze. As Monday evening approached and I drove to church for Volleyball Night, I was beginning to think that maybe holding on to a grudge was way more work than letting the grudge go. Which brings us back to the beginning of my little story here: me screaming in terror at church at a bewildered stranger who showed up at Volleyball Night, his only crime being that he shared the same first name as the one who of-fended me.
Tuesday afternoon, I went in to see my pastor for a counseling session. I related to him all the events of the past week and asked him if he thought all these Kevins I’d encountered were God’s way of telling me to let this bitterness go.
Pastor replied, “Sharon, forgiveness isn’t for Kevin’s benefit. It doesn’t sound like your grudge is hurting him any, but it’s definitely hurting you. When you forgive, you’re not saying what he did was right or having to be his friend again. You’re merely letting him off your hook and putting him on God’s hook for Him to deal with Kevin as He sees fit.”
For the first time in a week, logic took the driver’s seat in my mind and heart, and I realized what I needed to do. By holding on to bitterness, I was protecting myself to a certain extent, but in trying to keep Kevin out, I was also keeping God out. God wanted to heal me, but that whole time, all I wanted to do was be angry, and the end result was reliving all the pain the offense had caused me in the first place. Forgiveness sets me free, whereas bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness keep me locked up with the crime for me to painfully experience over and over again.
“Well, I’ve made my decision!” I told Richard confidently as we spoke on the phone.
“And what is that?” he inquired.
“I’m going to forgive Kevin completely.”
“Oh, that’s great, Sharon. God will honor you for it.”
“Yep. I’m meeting with Pastor tomorrow, and he’s going to take me through the whole forgiveness process.”
“Awesome! Let me know how it goes.”
“I will. Oh, hey, what time is it?” I asked.
“Let’s see…it’s almost 10 PM,” he answered.
“Yeesh, I need to go,” I said.
“Where are you going at this hour?”
“I’m going to Kevin’s house to slash his tires!”
“What?” Richard yelled. “I thought you just said you were going to forgive him for everything!”
With tongue planted firmly in cheek, I replied, “I am, but I’m forgiving him tomorrow, which means any revenge I want to exact I need to get in tonight!”
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Slightly Coherent
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any people named Kevin or any advocacy groups for people named Kevin. I have worked through all my issues and hold no resentment towards any of you. I realize none of you can help being evil. You were just born that way.
“Welcome to Open Door Church!” I said with all the enthusiasm I could muster.
“Thanks! Looks like a cool church you have here,” replied the dark haired, brown-eyed stranger who stood before me with an innocent smile upon his face.
“My name is Sharon. What’s yours?” I asked.
“My name is Kevin,” he answered, completely unaware of the anguish he was about to unleash upon me.
“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” I screamed with the ferocity of a woman whose last frazzled nerve had been stomped upon with an industrial strength, steel-toed, steel-shanked work boot. Kevin, fortunately, was one of those perpetually perky and jovial types who wasn’t easily fazed. Why he even talked to me again after my deplorable first impression is still beyond me. As he stared at me curiously, my friend Lisa rushed to my side with a worried look on her face.
“Sharon, what is wrong?! You sound like you just saw a ghost!” Lisa exclaimed.
“They’re everywhere! I can’t escape, no matter where I go,” I muttered in a tone revealing my impending delirium.
“Who’s everywhere?”
“The Kevins! They’re popping up all over the place, like a crop of poisonous mushrooms after a bad storm!” I replied, alternating between speaking and chewing my nails down to a nub.
Before I go any further, I must, of course, give the reader, some background as to why a name as innocent sounding as Kevin could turn me into a complete mental case. As one can probably imagine, it all started with a guy named Kevin:
Kevin epitomized the phrase wolf in sheep’s clothing. Hindsight is usually 20/20, and in retrospect, it was poor judgment on my part to be chummy with him the first place, but more about that later. Without going into detail, I’ll merely say that he burned me, and burned me badly. I don’t remember when I’d felt such a seething hatred towards anyone before and, feeling perfectly justified in my bitterness and resentment, decided to hold a grudge against him. After all, I told myself, he deserved it for what he did to me.
One day, I was talking on the phone with Richard, a mutual friend of Kevin and me. As I related my tale of woe to him, he said, “Sharon, you have to let this go. I know he did you wrong, but you know what the Bible says about forgiveness.”
“How do you expect me to forgive him after what he’s done to me? Besides, I tried to work this out with him, and he did everything to send me the message that he wasn’t sorry except spit in my face!” I shot back.
“Sharon, you don’t have to convince me that he was wrong. Holding a grudge against him isn’t gonna make the pain go away!”
Thoroughly agitated at this point, I ended the conversation by saying, “Maybe it won’t make the pain go away, but it’ll at least ensure that he can’t pull one over on me ever again.”
After we hung up, I felt something change inside of me. At the time, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was one of those surreal moments, kind of like when Bill Murray’s character in “Groundhog Day” discovered that he was reliving the same day over and over again. Yeah, my bitterness had encased me in a wall of self-protection, but I was soon to discover what had snuck in while I was building that wall.
The next morning, I awoke to snow and ice covering everything in sight, including my car. Naturally, this hadn’t been predicted in the weather report the night before, and I was running behind getting to work, too, so I put myself in overdrive as I began the task of chipping the ice off my car.
After ten minutes, I’d not made much of a dent in the glacier holding my car hostage. As I sighed in dis-gust, I saw a friendly looking middle aged man in some kind of dark blue work uniform approaching me.
“You look like you need some help there, Little Lady,” he said cheerily.
“Why thank you. I can’t believe how thick this layer of ice is on my car,” I replied, thankful for the assistance.
Another 10 minutes passed before we were successful in clearing away enough ice to open my driver’s side door. As I got in to my car, I extended my hand to the Good Samaritan and said, “Thank you so much. My name’s Sharon, by the way.”
He took my hand and replied, “You’re most welcome; my name is Kevin.”
Time stopped for a split second and a cold chill went through me. How I’d grown to hate that dreaded name! Oh well, the guy couldn’t help what his parents named him, right? And the name Kevin, although relatively common, wasn’t as popular as, say, John or Stephen, so I’d probably met my quota of Kevins that I’d have to interact with that day, right?
I turned the radio on as my car warmed up. The overly enthusiastic DJ, in a sing-song voice, said, “You’re listening to Tennessee’s Christian music station, WWDJ 89.1. John Seymour’s sick today, so I’m filling in for him. My name is Kevin Berry and…”
Uggh! There it was again. Up until that point, I didn’t realize there were quite so many Kevins in the world.
The drive to my office was rather treacherous that morning. Parts of the road had been plowed and salted, but others hadn’t. What was normally a 15 minute drive took 45. As I neared the office, about to move from the right to the left lane, a large white work van cut in front of me, causing me to swerve and drive up on the median. After regaining my composure, I looked over at the van as it sped off. Guess what it said on the side of it? “Kevin’s Mobile Motors!”
The office receptionist greeted me as I walked in the door of the health insurance network where I worked. “Rough ride this morning, huh?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen ice that thick before,” I replied.
“Just so you know, we’re still having that administrative meeting this morning. We’re going to meet the newest member of the credentialing board.”
“That’s cool. What’s his name?” I asked. (You’d think I’d know better by this point.)
“Kevin Jernigan,” she replied, oblivious to the damage her revelation was doing to my sanity.
I didn’t say anything more. I merely retreated to my desk in order to bury myself in my work for the day. Now, my job at the health insurance network was to oversee the credentialing of the doctors and facilities that wanted to be a part of our network. On a typical day, I’d get about five files, some as thick as a phone-book, of doctors whose references and credentials I needed to check before sending their applications on to the credentialing committee. Guess what the first name of the first, third, and fifth doctor in my stack of five files was? KEVIN! I was beginning to sense a pattern here.
I left my office job at noon (I only worked there part time) and headed to the detective agency where I worked the rest of the time. As I drove, I turned the Christian radio station on again, just in time to hear an interview with one of the members of DC Talk. Guess which one? Kevin Max. At that point, I decided I needed to invest in a good CD player for my car.
I walked into the detective agency and picked up my stack of assignments, which included delivering a subpoena to a local law office. I was thankful for this type of work, because it meant I’d mostly be driving in my car and not having to interact with anyone for extended periods of time.
Determined to salvage a bad day, I pasted a smile on my face as I walked into the law firm. Approaching the man at the front desk, I asked to speak with the attorney whose name appeared on the subpoena (which surprisingly enough, wasn’t Kevin). The young man watching the phones took the papers from my hand and asked me to wait while he tried to locate the attorney.
“Hey, this is Carl,” he spoke into the phone, “I’m trying to find Jerry. Do you know where he is?... Well, why don’t you ask Kevin?...What do you mean you don’t know where Kevin is? I just talked to Kevin not even thirty seconds ago…Have you looked at Kevin’s desk?...Kevin and Jerry were working on this thing together…I swear, Kevin takes more smoke breaks than anyone I know…Tell Kevin I’m looking for…What do you mean you’re not Kevin’s secretary…Well, you can tell Kevin that if Kevin worked like the rest of us in-stead of cultivating lung cancer all the time, Kevin would be thought of more highly by yours truly…Yeah, well, just give Kevin the message.”
When Carl turned back to look at me, I’m sure he was probably frightened at what he saw. I think the security video actually got footage of real smoke coming out of my ears.
“Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked sheepishly.
“Sir, I just have one question for you: DON’T YOU KNOW ANY PRONOUNS?” I screamed, dealing a deadly blow to proper business etiquette.
After ending my work day, I was looking forward to a peaceful evening at my church’s Wednesday night service, hearing a soothing message from my pastor, and then going home and quickly drifting into unconsciousness. As I walked in the front door of the church, Richard greeted me warmly.
“Hey there, Miss Private Eye, how are you?”
“Fine,” I replied unconvincingly as we made our way to our seats in the sanctuary.
“Are you sure? You look…deranged!”
“There is nothing wrong with me! Do you hear me? I’m perfectly sane. I have every right to feel what I’m feeling, and no one can tell me otherwise.”
“Sharon, are you still seething about Kevin?”
“Don’t mention that name in my presence” I shot out sarcastically just as our pastor approached the podium.
“Good evening, folks, and welcome to our mid week service,” Pastor Dan said excitedly from the pulpit, “Before we go any further, I’m pleased to announce the newest additions to our Board of Elders. Would you please give a warm round of applause to Kevin Mills and Kevin Burkowitz?”
I don’t remember anything else from that night, except the feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach as I came to the realization that Kevin’s name was haunting me like a bad dream everywhere I went. It was a master conspiracy on the part of the powers that be to drive me completely batty, and the entire city of Nashville, including the Christian radio station, was in on it. I had to escape, get out of town or something, before that awful K name did me in once and for all.
The next day, Elizabeth, one of my girlfriends from church, asked me if I wanted to tag along with her to Louisville that weekend. She’d been a missionary in Africa for several years and was speaking at the churches up there that had supported her financially. I was thrilled to have the ticket out of town, so I gladly accepted her offer.
The weather was snowy that weekend, so the drive up took about two hours longer than normal. For most of the drive, a white sedan kept ahead of us, bearing the personalized Tennessee license plate reading, “Kevin 1”. Not how I’d have liked to have started my great escape.
After five exhausting hours, battling snow and the Louisville rush hour traffic, we arrived at the home of the Reeds, friends of Elizabeth’s. We would be staying with them that weekend. We made our introductions, and Shelley, the mother, introduced all of her four children. Guess what the names of the two youngest were? Richard and Kevin! Not only that, but Elizabeth and I would be sleeping in their room that weekend.
Shelley showed us up to the room. As I looked around, I saw posters, plaques, etc., with the boys’ names and initials everywhere. Directly in front of my view from the bed was one of those name plaques that show a person’s name, the meaning of the name, and a corresponding Bible verse. Yes, it was Kevin’s plaque. Turns out his name means “kind and gentle,” by the way. The verse under his name? Colossians 3:13, which says, “Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”
At this point, I tried deluding myself into thinking that my continued exposure to the K name and the alarming frequency with which it was spoken to me over the last week were mere coincidence. On that note, I retired to bed early that evening, hoping to forget that name and my childish reactions to it.
It started snowing again that night. Outside the bedroom window was a street lamp. Every so often during the night, the light would flicker due to the snow, causing me to wake up. When I’d awaken, the light from the street lamp would shine into the bedroom, illuminating a very small area on the wall opposite my bed: namely, the Kevin name plaque and that verse about forgiveness. It must’ve happened about eight times in the night before I finally surrendered my hope of getting any sleep that evening. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence after all.
The weekend passed quickly, and I was happy to get through Saturday without hearing that name. Sunday afternoon, we attempted to make our way back to the highway leading back to Nashville, only to get our-selves hopelessly lost. As we drove around, my thoughts kept drifting back to that verse. I knew at this point that I was disobeying God by holding on to my anger, and maybe hearing Kevin’s name all the time was God’s way of reminding me that I needed to let it go. I replayed in my mind my entire friendship with Kevin, how we met, the things we did together, even the nicknames we had for each other. He used to call me Ms. Stone, like Sharon Stone the actress, and I called him Mr. Costner, after Kevin Costner the actor. The more I thought about it all, however, the angrier I became, and I defiantly said to God, “Why in the world should I forgive him? Don’t You remember what he did to me? It was totally inexcusable! Do you think I’m going to open myself up to that kind of treatment again? If so, God, You are sadly mistaken!”
No sooner did I finish my dialogue with God that we finally came upon a street sign, hoping it would tell us where we were and we could then look at the map to find our way back to the highway. The name of the street we were on? Kostner Road, like Kevin Costner the actor, except Costner was spelled with a K—as in Kevin!
For the next 24 hours, all I remember is kind of floating through the minutes and hours in a numb, drug-like daze. As Monday evening approached and I drove to church for Volleyball Night, I was beginning to think that maybe holding on to a grudge was way more work than letting the grudge go. Which brings us back to the beginning of my little story here: me screaming in terror at church at a bewildered stranger who showed up at Volleyball Night, his only crime being that he shared the same first name as the one who of-fended me.
Tuesday afternoon, I went in to see my pastor for a counseling session. I related to him all the events of the past week and asked him if he thought all these Kevins I’d encountered were God’s way of telling me to let this bitterness go.
Pastor replied, “Sharon, forgiveness isn’t for Kevin’s benefit. It doesn’t sound like your grudge is hurting him any, but it’s definitely hurting you. When you forgive, you’re not saying what he did was right or having to be his friend again. You’re merely letting him off your hook and putting him on God’s hook for Him to deal with Kevin as He sees fit.”
For the first time in a week, logic took the driver’s seat in my mind and heart, and I realized what I needed to do. By holding on to bitterness, I was protecting myself to a certain extent, but in trying to keep Kevin out, I was also keeping God out. God wanted to heal me, but that whole time, all I wanted to do was be angry, and the end result was reliving all the pain the offense had caused me in the first place. Forgiveness sets me free, whereas bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness keep me locked up with the crime for me to painfully experience over and over again.
“Well, I’ve made my decision!” I told Richard confidently as we spoke on the phone.
“And what is that?” he inquired.
“I’m going to forgive Kevin completely.”
“Oh, that’s great, Sharon. God will honor you for it.”
“Yep. I’m meeting with Pastor tomorrow, and he’s going to take me through the whole forgiveness process.”
“Awesome! Let me know how it goes.”
“I will. Oh, hey, what time is it?” I asked.
“Let’s see…it’s almost 10 PM,” he answered.
“Yeesh, I need to go,” I said.
“Where are you going at this hour?”
“I’m going to Kevin’s house to slash his tires!”
“What?” Richard yelled. “I thought you just said you were going to forgive him for everything!”
With tongue planted firmly in cheek, I replied, “I am, but I’m forgiving him tomorrow, which means any revenge I want to exact I need to get in tonight!”
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
One Is Such a Lonely Number
© 2010 David’s Harp and Pen
Mood: Bordering on Rational
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any self-help gurus or personal enrichment organizations. If I become any more well-rounded, I could pass for a globe.
The whole thing started out so innocently. I’d placed a call to a lady from church because I wanted to find a cleaning person.
“Sharon, you’re a single woman with no children,” the well-intentioned lady said. “Why do you need a house cleaner?”
“Well,” I replied, “house cleaning just isn’t my thing, so I’ve always paid someone to do it.”
“Oh, Sharon. Some day, you’ll be a wife and a mother. You can’t put off that responsibility forever. As women of God, we’re supposed to be good stewards of our homes, which means doing all we can to keep things orderly. I think this may be the time that God wants to instill this in you.” It sounded good. It sounded logical. It even sounded spiritual. I made up my mind, then, that I would take on the task of doing my own housekeeping. Little did I realize at the time the Pandora’s box I was about to open.
Then came the phone call from my girlfriend Marcie.
“Sharon,” she said enthusiastically, “church is starting up a women’s intensive discipleship class that’s going to run for the next 10 weeks. I’ve been assigned to be one of the small group leaders. Can I sign you up?”
“Oh, Marcie,” I answered, “it sounds like fun, but work is really busy right now, and I don’t know that I can really devote the time to it.”
“But Sharon, you’ve said in the past that you wanted to learn how to be more a girly-girl and have more female fellowship. Besides, the Bible says the older women are supposed to pour into the younger women, and the younger women are supposed to submit to the older women, so really, you have a responsibility to be there.” Again, she sorta sounded right, so I told her to put me down for the class.
A few days later, I went to Life Group, and the topic of discussion was physical health. When we were all done talking, my Life Group leader Joshua, who’s also a personal trainer at the local YMCA, came up to me and asked, “So, Sharon, when are you going to stop procrastinating and join the Y?”
“Oh, Josh,” I replied, “I really don’t have the money. I exercise when I can, which is usually at night after work, and I seem to be doing okay.”
“But Sharon,” Joshua said in a chiding manner, “the Bible says that we’re the Temple of the Holy Spirit. Studies show that everyone needs vigorous exercise for 30 minutes at least three times a week, and it’s always best to do it first thing in the morning so that you’re burning calories all day long. As for the membership cost, can you really put a price on the good health God’s given you?”
Now, around this time, I was having major health problems and was finding it difficult to keep up what was becoming an increasingly impossible schedule. I talked to a leader of mine, also well-intentioned, and very innocently told her that I wanted to hear from God what I should and shouldn’t be doing, what my limitations were, specifically in regards to my health. Then, she went there. I was waiting for someone to finally go there, and she did. She said, “Sharon, my Bible says that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. So, that means you shouldn’t have any limitations.”
Okay, then. I was supposed to be superwoman. I was glad someone finally told me so. Thus began my descent into insanity. I signed up for everything. Before long, I became completely unrecognizable as a human being. The following is an excerpt from my diary during that time (I like to call it, “The Week of Living Ridiculously”):
So, as was just previously demonstrated, I made a horrible superwoman. Instead of doing it all, I had accomplished nothing, and I felt like a failure. I’m sorry to say that I went through several stages similar to this in which I felt a spiritual obligation to do and be everything. It doesn’t help when it’s preached from the pulpit, either. Several years ago, some of the local churches came up with a theme for the year: “simplify and intensify.” Now, I distinctly remember the intensify part, but the simplify part completely escaped me, and I know I was not alone in feeling that way, either.
Shortly after I moved to Tennessee, I was going through a crazy phase of trying to do and be it all, and was being very down on myself because of my perceived failure. I would pray nonstop, “Lord, please change me.”
Finally, one day, God replied and asked, “Why do you keep praying that?”
I answered, “Because, I don’t like myself. I know I’m not doing enough for You. If I could just do more and be more, I could be so much useful to You and I would be so much happier with myself.”
God said gently, “Sharon, you don’t have to change who I’ve made you to be. You need to change some of your behavior and wrong thought patterns, but your personality, your insight, your perspective, your personhood—that’s how I made you, and you will bloom where I plant You. You have to be what I made you to be and do only what I tell you to do. Nothing more.”
This summer, I read the book “Strengths Finder 2.0.” What a burden-lifting experience that was. The book promotes something called “Strengths Psychology”, the heart of which says that, instead of spending so much time to try to compensate for our weaknesses, we should focus on flourishing in our strengths. The book includes a test which shows the reader what their top five strengths are and ways to build on those strengths. While I felt such freedom knowing that it was finally okay to not be superwoman, I was also angry. I was angry over all the time I had wasted trying to do things I was not equipped or even expected by God to do. I hated all the time I had spent trying to be omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent.
When I wrote my first draft of this blog, Peter, my scholarly and astute editor, whose job it is to make sure my writing is theologically and grammatically correct, doctrinally sound, and that I come across at least mildly coherent, brought up some good points, which I must, of course, include, or he will hit me in the head with a frying pan. (Just kidding. He would never do that. He would just look at me with searing disappointment, which would make me wish he had hit me in the head with a frying pan.) Now, there will be times and seasons when we do have to do things outside of our giftings, skills, and talents. One of the ways we learn to trust God and grow in our faith is when we are in situations in which we don’t feel comfortable, because Paul said in II Corinthians that when we are weak, then He is strong. However, God should be the one Who leads us to do those things that don’t come naturally to us, because He has a special purpose to accomplish in us through those things. We should not take on extra tasks just because we feel the unnatural need to do everything. When God does tell us to step out in faith to do those things for which we have neither the talent nor the desire, His grace will meet us in our shortcomings.
After my multiple failures at multi-tasking, I decided to see what the Word really had to say on the subject, including the infamous Philippians 4:13. When Paul said he could do all things through Christ who strengthened him, he was speaking in the context of difficult circumstances and trials he had to endure, not ridiculously heavy burdens Paul had inflicted on himself. Even Jesus didn’t do it all. John 14:31 says Jesus only did what the Father told Him to do. So, where does this compulsion come from to do and be everything? Could it be a ploy from the enemy to keep us busy being busy and out of fellowship? Paul clearly states in 1 Corinthians 12 that not all of us have the same gifts, but each gift is important and a valuable part of the Body of Christ. When we try to do everything, Satan is tricking us into disregarding our need for community with other believers and communion with God. Self-sufficiency negates relationship. God is the only all-powerful One, and when we succumb to that hyper multi-tasking, we are falling for the same lie Satan gave Adam and Eve in the Garden: “You can be like God.”
Most Christians have heard the story in Luke 10 about the sisters Mary and Martha. Jesus had come to visit them. Martha was busy making dinner and entertaining guests, but Mary sat at Jesus’ feet. Martha was upset that Mary wasn’t helping and told Jesus to tell Mary to help. Jesus replied: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”
I had always wondered about what Jesus said here. I mean, after all, aren’t we as believers called to serve others, to be hospitable? What was the problem? The problem was Martha’s response to Jesus’ presence, namely service, wasn’t the appropriate one AT THAT TIME. Jesus was going to be crucified soon, then return to Heaven. Mary had decided she was going to use the time to soak up as much of Jesus’ manifest presence while she could, and that which Jesus imparted to her would be hers forever. Ecclesiastes says there is a time and a season for everything. My pastor, whom I love, says we can do it all, just not at the same time. Therefore, I am listening very closely to the voice of the Holy Spirit, because I don’t want to waste any more time doing things He hasn’t called me to or trying to become something God never intended me to be. I must be on guard against the temptation, because, let’s face it, I’m human. If someone pitches something to me to do or try, I am prone to do it, no matter how gloriously out of context the Scriptures are taken to justify me doing whatever it is. Now when I feel pressured from someone to do something I know is not God’s plan for me, I simply ask him or her “Are you trying to help me become more like Christ, or are you simply trying to make me more like you?”
The days are short. Time is precious. I would rather do one or only a few things well than many things poorly. Paul said in 1 Corinthians 10:23, “ ‘Everything is permissible’—but not everything is beneficial. ‘Everything is permissible’—but not everything is constructive.”
At this moment in my life particularly, Jesus isn’t calling Sharon the athlete, Sharon the Bible scholar, Sharon the singles’ ministry leader, or Sharon the super cleaning lady. He’s calling Sharon, part of His Bride and Sharon the Worshipper. I want to do that one thing well, so I can have that which can never be taken from me.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
Mood: Bordering on Rational
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any self-help gurus or personal enrichment organizations. If I become any more well-rounded, I could pass for a globe.
The whole thing started out so innocently. I’d placed a call to a lady from church because I wanted to find a cleaning person.
“Sharon, you’re a single woman with no children,” the well-intentioned lady said. “Why do you need a house cleaner?”
“Well,” I replied, “house cleaning just isn’t my thing, so I’ve always paid someone to do it.”
“Oh, Sharon. Some day, you’ll be a wife and a mother. You can’t put off that responsibility forever. As women of God, we’re supposed to be good stewards of our homes, which means doing all we can to keep things orderly. I think this may be the time that God wants to instill this in you.” It sounded good. It sounded logical. It even sounded spiritual. I made up my mind, then, that I would take on the task of doing my own housekeeping. Little did I realize at the time the Pandora’s box I was about to open.
Then came the phone call from my girlfriend Marcie.
“Sharon,” she said enthusiastically, “church is starting up a women’s intensive discipleship class that’s going to run for the next 10 weeks. I’ve been assigned to be one of the small group leaders. Can I sign you up?”
“Oh, Marcie,” I answered, “it sounds like fun, but work is really busy right now, and I don’t know that I can really devote the time to it.”
“But Sharon, you’ve said in the past that you wanted to learn how to be more a girly-girl and have more female fellowship. Besides, the Bible says the older women are supposed to pour into the younger women, and the younger women are supposed to submit to the older women, so really, you have a responsibility to be there.” Again, she sorta sounded right, so I told her to put me down for the class.
A few days later, I went to Life Group, and the topic of discussion was physical health. When we were all done talking, my Life Group leader Joshua, who’s also a personal trainer at the local YMCA, came up to me and asked, “So, Sharon, when are you going to stop procrastinating and join the Y?”
“Oh, Josh,” I replied, “I really don’t have the money. I exercise when I can, which is usually at night after work, and I seem to be doing okay.”
“But Sharon,” Joshua said in a chiding manner, “the Bible says that we’re the Temple of the Holy Spirit. Studies show that everyone needs vigorous exercise for 30 minutes at least three times a week, and it’s always best to do it first thing in the morning so that you’re burning calories all day long. As for the membership cost, can you really put a price on the good health God’s given you?”
Now, around this time, I was having major health problems and was finding it difficult to keep up what was becoming an increasingly impossible schedule. I talked to a leader of mine, also well-intentioned, and very innocently told her that I wanted to hear from God what I should and shouldn’t be doing, what my limitations were, specifically in regards to my health. Then, she went there. I was waiting for someone to finally go there, and she did. She said, “Sharon, my Bible says that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. So, that means you shouldn’t have any limitations.”
Okay, then. I was supposed to be superwoman. I was glad someone finally told me so. Thus began my descent into insanity. I signed up for everything. Before long, I became completely unrecognizable as a human being. The following is an excerpt from my diary during that time (I like to call it, “The Week of Living Ridiculously”):
Day 1: I woke up at 4 AM because I was told that really spiritual Christians are all morning people. I can’t remember the Biblical justification for that, but it sounded good at the time. After my quiet time, I went to the Y and attempted to do the Nautilus circuit. I wasn’t fully awake, though, and I managed to not only knock over the machine I was using, but it caused a domino effect to knock over all the other machines in the circuit. The Y staff wasn’t too pleased with me, so I decided to try again the next morning.
After work, I went home and decided to clean. However, I got off to a very rocky start and suddenly remembered why I had always hired someone else to do my cleaning for me. I wiped and wiped the bathroom mirror and surfaces continuously, but the streaks I created looked worse than everything did before I started to clean. I was about to try a second round of elbow grease on the bathroom, when I noticed my face, arms, and hands were now covered with giant red splotches from the cleaning products. This created another problem, because when Bruno saw me, he attacked, probably because my face now resembled a pepperoni pizza.
Day 3: I got up again at 4, but I had entered hyper-exhaustion. As much as I tried readjusting my system, I was finding it impossible, even though I was tired, to fall asleep before midnight. Therefore, I was beginning to go through life in a daze. I went through my quiet time, but couldn’t remember anything in the Bible I had read after I closed it.
I then headed to the Y, this time to try water aerobics. My thought was that maybe this would be safer because there’s no equipment for me to break. Twenty minutes into the workout, I got terribly nauseous and threw up in the pool. Again, the Y staff was not pleased, and had I been more awake at the time, I would’ve taken it harder when they asked me to go the Y across town.
When I got home from work, I feverishly rushed to finish a dessert I was supposed to bring to my women’s class for an assignment. As soon as I took the dish out of the oven, I got a text message from the children’s church pastor asking if I would teach the 3 year olds’ class that Sunday. I replied with a wholehearted yes. No sooner did I hit send on the reply when I got a call from the singles’ group leader to ask if I would spearhead food for the Valentine’s Day dinner, which just so happened to be right after church on the day when I agreed to teach the 3 year olds’ class. Again, I said yes, because I was under the impression that to say no to anything remotely God-related was a sin. I was starting to feel very empowered, almost superhero-like, when, to my horror, I turned around to find Bruno eating my dessert. He didn’t even leave the foil pan in which I baked it. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to use the excuse, “Well, my dog ate my homework,” especially since I made it all the way from kindergarten to college without ever having used it.
I came back from the class, feeling good that I had not been too terribly chastised for the whole dessert debacle. Even though I should have, at that point, been trying to go to sleep, my house really needed to be cleaned, so I was going to make another attempt. This time, I was going to try these environmentally-friendly cleaning products that would be tough on dirt but easy on the ozone layer. Again, the streaks that I produced on everything made the bathroom look worse and this time, instead of big red splotches on my skin, I began to sprout big, eco-green splotches, similar to something I saw in “The Toxic Avenger.” I had to keep trying, though, no matter how tired or frustrated I was, because if other women could do it, why couldn’t I?
I was about to collapse into bed when I remembered I needed to do laundry and feed Bruno. Unfortunately, I was so tired at the time that it wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I had fed Bruno with laundry detergent and ran the washer using dog food.
Day 5: I was now barely functioning on 4 hours of sleep a night. I didn’t know if my system would ever convert from nocturnal to morning person. I was convinced the very fate of my soul depended on it, though.
I went back to the Y, this time to try the indoor track. I didn’t like being there that early because the place was packed, but I was determined to make it happen. However, three laps into it, I became horribly light-headed. Now, I don’t remember what happened next, but according to eye witnesses, I passed out on the ground, which caused all the other runners to trip and fall on top of me, causing a 20-jogger pile up. When I came to, I was lying face down on the hood of my car, and lying next to me was my Y membership card, which apparently had been run through a paper shredder.
I felt so bad I called in sick to work, which made my boss really angry because, since I’d started this insane schedule, I was about as productive as a pet rock.
When I got home, I decided again to try to tackle the housecleaning thing. I bought some cleaning products that were advertised in an infomercial as being the same cleaning products used on all the space shuttles. I thought all the dirt, germs, and streaks lying around in my house had finally met their match. However, because I was so tired, I failed to notice the directions, which said, don’t mix bottle A with bottle C, as toxic fumes may result.
Day ?: I wasn’t sure how long I had been unconscious, but it was long enough to miss teaching the kids class and cooking for the singles’ dinner. I woke up to my cell phone dinging with voicemails and text messages. The children’s pastor said in his voicemail he was very disappointed in me and it would be better if I had a millstone tied around my neck and I was cast into the sea. The text message from the singles’ group leader said I better be dead, because that was the only excuse she would accept. Another text message from Joshua, my Life Group leader, said he had been fired from the Y, and when he asked them why, they told him to ask me. If all that wasn’t bad enough, though, poor Bruno, who didn’t know what was going on all that time, had nothing to eat while I was in a coma except the two smaller dogs.
So, as was just previously demonstrated, I made a horrible superwoman. Instead of doing it all, I had accomplished nothing, and I felt like a failure. I’m sorry to say that I went through several stages similar to this in which I felt a spiritual obligation to do and be everything. It doesn’t help when it’s preached from the pulpit, either. Several years ago, some of the local churches came up with a theme for the year: “simplify and intensify.” Now, I distinctly remember the intensify part, but the simplify part completely escaped me, and I know I was not alone in feeling that way, either.
Shortly after I moved to Tennessee, I was going through a crazy phase of trying to do and be it all, and was being very down on myself because of my perceived failure. I would pray nonstop, “Lord, please change me.”
Finally, one day, God replied and asked, “Why do you keep praying that?”
I answered, “Because, I don’t like myself. I know I’m not doing enough for You. If I could just do more and be more, I could be so much useful to You and I would be so much happier with myself.”
God said gently, “Sharon, you don’t have to change who I’ve made you to be. You need to change some of your behavior and wrong thought patterns, but your personality, your insight, your perspective, your personhood—that’s how I made you, and you will bloom where I plant You. You have to be what I made you to be and do only what I tell you to do. Nothing more.”
This summer, I read the book “Strengths Finder 2.0.” What a burden-lifting experience that was. The book promotes something called “Strengths Psychology”, the heart of which says that, instead of spending so much time to try to compensate for our weaknesses, we should focus on flourishing in our strengths. The book includes a test which shows the reader what their top five strengths are and ways to build on those strengths. While I felt such freedom knowing that it was finally okay to not be superwoman, I was also angry. I was angry over all the time I had wasted trying to do things I was not equipped or even expected by God to do. I hated all the time I had spent trying to be omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent.
When I wrote my first draft of this blog, Peter, my scholarly and astute editor, whose job it is to make sure my writing is theologically and grammatically correct, doctrinally sound, and that I come across at least mildly coherent, brought up some good points, which I must, of course, include, or he will hit me in the head with a frying pan. (Just kidding. He would never do that. He would just look at me with searing disappointment, which would make me wish he had hit me in the head with a frying pan.) Now, there will be times and seasons when we do have to do things outside of our giftings, skills, and talents. One of the ways we learn to trust God and grow in our faith is when we are in situations in which we don’t feel comfortable, because Paul said in II Corinthians that when we are weak, then He is strong. However, God should be the one Who leads us to do those things that don’t come naturally to us, because He has a special purpose to accomplish in us through those things. We should not take on extra tasks just because we feel the unnatural need to do everything. When God does tell us to step out in faith to do those things for which we have neither the talent nor the desire, His grace will meet us in our shortcomings.
After my multiple failures at multi-tasking, I decided to see what the Word really had to say on the subject, including the infamous Philippians 4:13. When Paul said he could do all things through Christ who strengthened him, he was speaking in the context of difficult circumstances and trials he had to endure, not ridiculously heavy burdens Paul had inflicted on himself. Even Jesus didn’t do it all. John 14:31 says Jesus only did what the Father told Him to do. So, where does this compulsion come from to do and be everything? Could it be a ploy from the enemy to keep us busy being busy and out of fellowship? Paul clearly states in 1 Corinthians 12 that not all of us have the same gifts, but each gift is important and a valuable part of the Body of Christ. When we try to do everything, Satan is tricking us into disregarding our need for community with other believers and communion with God. Self-sufficiency negates relationship. God is the only all-powerful One, and when we succumb to that hyper multi-tasking, we are falling for the same lie Satan gave Adam and Eve in the Garden: “You can be like God.”
Most Christians have heard the story in Luke 10 about the sisters Mary and Martha. Jesus had come to visit them. Martha was busy making dinner and entertaining guests, but Mary sat at Jesus’ feet. Martha was upset that Mary wasn’t helping and told Jesus to tell Mary to help. Jesus replied: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”
I had always wondered about what Jesus said here. I mean, after all, aren’t we as believers called to serve others, to be hospitable? What was the problem? The problem was Martha’s response to Jesus’ presence, namely service, wasn’t the appropriate one AT THAT TIME. Jesus was going to be crucified soon, then return to Heaven. Mary had decided she was going to use the time to soak up as much of Jesus’ manifest presence while she could, and that which Jesus imparted to her would be hers forever. Ecclesiastes says there is a time and a season for everything. My pastor, whom I love, says we can do it all, just not at the same time. Therefore, I am listening very closely to the voice of the Holy Spirit, because I don’t want to waste any more time doing things He hasn’t called me to or trying to become something God never intended me to be. I must be on guard against the temptation, because, let’s face it, I’m human. If someone pitches something to me to do or try, I am prone to do it, no matter how gloriously out of context the Scriptures are taken to justify me doing whatever it is. Now when I feel pressured from someone to do something I know is not God’s plan for me, I simply ask him or her “Are you trying to help me become more like Christ, or are you simply trying to make me more like you?”
The days are short. Time is precious. I would rather do one or only a few things well than many things poorly. Paul said in 1 Corinthians 10:23, “ ‘Everything is permissible’—but not everything is beneficial. ‘Everything is permissible’—but not everything is constructive.”
At this moment in my life particularly, Jesus isn’t calling Sharon the athlete, Sharon the Bible scholar, Sharon the singles’ ministry leader, or Sharon the super cleaning lady. He’s calling Sharon, part of His Bride and Sharon the Worshipper. I want to do that one thing well, so I can have that which can never be taken from me.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Puppy Chow
© 2009 David’s Harp and Pen
I’ve never been much of a dog person. The last experience I had with a dog left me bearing a striking resemblance to a pincushion. I’ve always preferred cats. The thing is, dogs are overbearing, and slobbery, and they love a person right off the bat, whereas cats make a person earn their love, and since I’m addicted to rejection, that works out well!
In December, I moved into the basement of the home of some good friends. The location was great and the price couldn’t be beat. Another plus was that they had lots of animals, which meant lots of company for me. I was happy that the kitty hotel for the landlords’ two cats was in my place, so I’d get to the little fluff-a-lumps whenever I wanted. However, there would soon be trouble in Paradise.
The owners also had three dogs. There was Larry, the German Shepherd. Larry was 12 years old and as docile and compliant as they come. Then there was Sparky, who was a little bit of everything. Also around 12, she was sweet and obedient, not to mention a great foot-warmer. Then, there was HIM.
Bruno was about three, but was still all puppy. He was half Saint Bernard, half horse. Bruno wasn’t allowed upstairs in the landlords’ house any more since they had a kid, mostly because Bruno was too klutzy to be around small children. So, Bruno spent all of his time in the back yard. When I moved in and I was told Bruno’s history, I was also told that, since I would have to go through the back yard and gate to get in and out of my apartment, I would have to make sure Bruno didn’t escape when I used the gate. I wholeheartedly agreed, thinking, “How hard could that be?”
Little did I know that underneath that happy, dopey-looking furry exterior beat the heart of the world’s biggest mischief-maker and the brain of a brilliant military strategist, rivaling even Churchill himself.
It was 7:30 PM. I was going to impress the socks off my boss by getting to work super early. I had just moved in and everything was still in boxes. I walked to the gate with Bruno running close behind me. I turned to him and told him to stay back because I had to leave. As soon as I opened the gate, he charged into me, knocking me over and ran straight into the dark, cruel night. I went after him, calling to him and trying to grab him, all to no avail.
An hour passed. No matter how close I got to him, he would always slip away. I followed in horror as he made his rounds in a poor, unsuspecting subdivision. There was no shrub he wouldn’t mark. There was no other dog he wouldn’t…gosh, I can’t say it, but I’m sure you know what I mean. Time was now my enemy. I had to be at work soon, and I couldn’t face the landlords without having returned Bruno safely to his yard. So, I stayed a reasonable distance behind him as he traipsed through another backyard. There was another dog there to keep Bruno’s attention, so I thought this time for sure I had him. I was about three steps away when Bruno saw me and darted. I went after him, and then I sank. Straight down into a mud pit. All the way down to my knees. Bruno sat and watched, a blank look on his face, as I uttered multiple expletives in English, Spanish, and Yiddish, unable to free myself from his ingenious trap. The landlords, who by this time had joined in the chase, heard me screaming and pulled me out. However, the mud was so thick that when I finally got out, it ripped the soles right off my shoes. Now, normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, except since I’d just moved in, these were the only shoes that had been unpacked.
As if he knew, Bruno finally stopped for me to catch him at the time I would be officially late for work. I held on to him with all I had until the landlady arrived with the minivan. Since I didn’t have the foresight to bring a leash with me before the chase began, the only way I could be sure to get him to the minivan was to physically carry him. The biggest casualties of the evening were my shoes, my back, and my dignity.
When I arrived back home the next morning (I was working third shift), I saw Bruno galloping about the yard, as if nothing happened. I carefully slipped through the gate undetected. When Bruno saw me, however, he ran right to me, like I was his best friend or something. I proceeded to scold him about his naughtiness the night before, as if he had any kind of inkling of what I was saying. I then turned my back to him and unlocked my door, wanting nothing more than to collapse into unconsciousness.
BOOM! Next thing I knew, my head was throbbing from the impact of the storm door, and Bruno was circling my couch like wagons during an Indian raid. I commanded him to get out. He stuck his nose up at me. I asked politely for him to leave. He barked and wagged his tail so fast it sounded like a helicopter about to launch. Seeing this was a losing battle, and I was exhausted, I said, “The heck with that crazy dog. I’m going to bed.”
I got into my PJs and hopped into bed. So did Bruno. This was getting weird. I tried to push him out, scream him out, beg him out. He wouldn’t budge.
“Leave me alone, you big, brown, hairy beast! I don’t like dogs. Besides, I’m mad at you. I’m sleep-deprived, in trouble with my boss, and barefoot now because of you,” I said.
He nuzzled his head into my side.
“I’m a cat person!”
He put his paw on my chest.
“If you think this is getting you any where, you’re sadly mistaken.”
He licked my face, then snuggled himself next to me.
“Oh, c’mon! This is emotional blackmail of the highest order!”
Then, he fell asleep. What was happening here? Maybe this is the same scenario as the little girl & the class bully. He tortures her and makes her life a living hell because he really likes her but doesn’t know how to say it. Or maybe he’s just a lower life form who has no idea of what he does from one moment to the next. I decided I’d think about it after I finally got some sleep.
I woke up 9 hours later and, to my amazement, Bruno was still next to me. I admit, he was much nicer than my teddy bear, not to mention the best alarm clock money couldn’t buy. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe the whole mud pit incident was isolated.
“Good morning, Bruno!” I said cheerily as I patted him on the head. He looked at me, smiled, jumped off the bed, and proceeded to scarf down the entire contents of the cats’ litter boxes. Okay, maybe he was crazy after all.
More great escapes and daring food raids would follow. I became convinced his stomach was a ravenous, insatiable black hole, and no food, plant, article of clothing, live animal, exercise equipment, purse, or cell phone were safe. And his skill for getting out of the yard was unparalleled. The acrobatics with which he circumvented that gate would give even Cirque de Soleil a run for their money.
The landlords grew wearier and wearier of Bruno’s escapades, but I had to admit, for all of his antics, I found myself laughing more than I had in a long time. Not to mention some of the perks, like always having someone to come home to and the ego boost of knowing there was at least one guy out there still interested in my legs.
The phone rang at 11 PM. It was the landlady. She told me Bruno had eaten a skunk, the second in two weeks. When she opened the door to see what all the noise was about, Bruno ran inside, stinking the house to high heaven. Bruno was going to the pound in the morning. End of story. I didn’t say much, but when we hung up, I felt like I was about to lose my best friend. I knew the landlady was right to be angry, and that Bruno was getting to be too much, and his propensity to eat everything in sight, including their new above-ground swimming pool, had finally gone too far. Also, let’s face it, giving Bruno tomato baths was getting old very quickly. After seven months, though, I’d gotten used to seeing that happy face when I came home, and life wouldn’t be the same otherwise. I prayed and asked God what to do, and He answered very clearly, “Fight for him.”
I walked to my door and looked out the window. There was Bruno, sitting in the middle of the steps leading to the upstairs deck. His silly grin was replaced with a look of utter terror. He looked at me, as if to say, “You’re the only one who can help me.”
My campaign began first thing in the morning. I told the landlady I’d adopt Bruno, bathe him, take him the vet, enroll him in doggy reform school, and as an added punishment, chain him to the TV and force him to watch every Lassie episode and movie ever made. She said she’d think about it. Then came the moment of truth.
The landlady made up a special mixture of peroxide, herbs, and sulfuric acid to bathe Bruno in order to get rid of the skunk smell. I offered to help her. I’d never given a dog a bath before, so I was going to learn something. Now, Bruno has a thick fur coat, so it took a lot of water to get him totally wet. After the garden hose was turned off, I looked at Bruno and discovered, to my dismay, that I could see Bruno’s ribs and his spine! He was woefully skinny, so much so that he almost resembled a greyhound! Why in the world was he so thin?
I made an appointment with the vet right away. When Bruno was weighed, the vet said he was 18 pounds underweight!
“Bruno’s only 62 lbs. He needs to weigh around 80. How much food is he getting?” the vet asked.
“The owners give him four cups a day,” I answered.
“Oh, that’s not enough. For a dog Bruno’s size, he needs to have at least five cups a day. No wonder he’s skin and bones.”
“So, the reason he tries stealing my food and eating skunks and escaping from the yard is because he’s been hungry?”
“Yes.”
I never felt so guilty in my life. Why hadn’t I noticed all those months? I was Michael Vick, only cuter.
I sprang into action. I stocked up on all the necessary doggy meds, then went to the store and bought gourmet puppy chow, which the vet said would fatten up Bruno. When I told the owners what the vet had said, they felt awful, because they’d only been feeding Bruno according to the previous vet’s instructions.
After only a week of feeding Bruno according to the vet’s instructions, it’s as if he’s a new dog. He’s calmed down tremendously. At the end of that week, I looked at Bruno as he lay curled up at the foot of my bed, and the Lord began to speak to me.
“Sharon, you looked at Bruno with compassion. And when you saw that he was hungry, your solution for him wasn’t to tell him, ‘Well, just stop being hungry.’ You got him the food that he needed so he could be well again. That’s what I do for you.”
You see, I had been very much like Bruno. I had a serious problem: I had an emptiness inside me that I couldn’t fill on my own. It made me do crazy things, and because of that, most people wrote me off as being some kind of defective. But God looked down and saw past my junk to my need and filled that hole and healed that gaping wound inside me, knowing that once I got what I needed, most of that mess that was my life would take care of itself.
We’re all screwed up, and sometimes it’s not even really anyone’s fault. My landlords weren’t intentionally starving Bruno. They were doing what they thought was the right thing. We get so hurt in life because of the best of intentions and those we go to for help sometimes can’t see past our mess on the outside to the hollowness on the inside. Then there are those who, when we tell them we’re hungry, tell us to stop being hungry, or when we’re hurting, tell us to stop feeling.
What a great God we have. Not only does He see our need, He looks on us with compassion and meets us on the deepest level imaginable so that we can truly be satisfied, for He knows that holiness and purpose start when our innermost beings are completely consumed by His passion for us. C.S. Lewis said, “God doesn't love us because we're good. He makes us good because He loves us.”
Bruno knows I fought for him and I am giving him what he needs for a long and happy life. Now he never leaves my side. Yes, he still mistakes the kitchen trash can for the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, and he still has bouts with wanderlust. When he ran out this last time, though, he didn’t go far, and when he saw me go after him, he came right to me. I know God fought for me and believed in me when no one else would. It only takes one very great God to believe in me. When I fully trust that, He changes me, and then those around me begin to see the value that He saw all along. Yes, God did all that, and I will never leave His Side!
THE END
Milk!!!
I’ve never been much of a dog person. The last experience I had with a dog left me bearing a striking resemblance to a pincushion. I’ve always preferred cats. The thing is, dogs are overbearing, and slobbery, and they love a person right off the bat, whereas cats make a person earn their love, and since I’m addicted to rejection, that works out well!
In December, I moved into the basement of the home of some good friends. The location was great and the price couldn’t be beat. Another plus was that they had lots of animals, which meant lots of company for me. I was happy that the kitty hotel for the landlords’ two cats was in my place, so I’d get to the little fluff-a-lumps whenever I wanted. However, there would soon be trouble in Paradise.
The owners also had three dogs. There was Larry, the German Shepherd. Larry was 12 years old and as docile and compliant as they come. Then there was Sparky, who was a little bit of everything. Also around 12, she was sweet and obedient, not to mention a great foot-warmer. Then, there was HIM.
Bruno was about three, but was still all puppy. He was half Saint Bernard, half horse. Bruno wasn’t allowed upstairs in the landlords’ house any more since they had a kid, mostly because Bruno was too klutzy to be around small children. So, Bruno spent all of his time in the back yard. When I moved in and I was told Bruno’s history, I was also told that, since I would have to go through the back yard and gate to get in and out of my apartment, I would have to make sure Bruno didn’t escape when I used the gate. I wholeheartedly agreed, thinking, “How hard could that be?”
Little did I know that underneath that happy, dopey-looking furry exterior beat the heart of the world’s biggest mischief-maker and the brain of a brilliant military strategist, rivaling even Churchill himself.
It was 7:30 PM. I was going to impress the socks off my boss by getting to work super early. I had just moved in and everything was still in boxes. I walked to the gate with Bruno running close behind me. I turned to him and told him to stay back because I had to leave. As soon as I opened the gate, he charged into me, knocking me over and ran straight into the dark, cruel night. I went after him, calling to him and trying to grab him, all to no avail.
An hour passed. No matter how close I got to him, he would always slip away. I followed in horror as he made his rounds in a poor, unsuspecting subdivision. There was no shrub he wouldn’t mark. There was no other dog he wouldn’t…gosh, I can’t say it, but I’m sure you know what I mean. Time was now my enemy. I had to be at work soon, and I couldn’t face the landlords without having returned Bruno safely to his yard. So, I stayed a reasonable distance behind him as he traipsed through another backyard. There was another dog there to keep Bruno’s attention, so I thought this time for sure I had him. I was about three steps away when Bruno saw me and darted. I went after him, and then I sank. Straight down into a mud pit. All the way down to my knees. Bruno sat and watched, a blank look on his face, as I uttered multiple expletives in English, Spanish, and Yiddish, unable to free myself from his ingenious trap. The landlords, who by this time had joined in the chase, heard me screaming and pulled me out. However, the mud was so thick that when I finally got out, it ripped the soles right off my shoes. Now, normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, except since I’d just moved in, these were the only shoes that had been unpacked.
As if he knew, Bruno finally stopped for me to catch him at the time I would be officially late for work. I held on to him with all I had until the landlady arrived with the minivan. Since I didn’t have the foresight to bring a leash with me before the chase began, the only way I could be sure to get him to the minivan was to physically carry him. The biggest casualties of the evening were my shoes, my back, and my dignity.
When I arrived back home the next morning (I was working third shift), I saw Bruno galloping about the yard, as if nothing happened. I carefully slipped through the gate undetected. When Bruno saw me, however, he ran right to me, like I was his best friend or something. I proceeded to scold him about his naughtiness the night before, as if he had any kind of inkling of what I was saying. I then turned my back to him and unlocked my door, wanting nothing more than to collapse into unconsciousness.
BOOM! Next thing I knew, my head was throbbing from the impact of the storm door, and Bruno was circling my couch like wagons during an Indian raid. I commanded him to get out. He stuck his nose up at me. I asked politely for him to leave. He barked and wagged his tail so fast it sounded like a helicopter about to launch. Seeing this was a losing battle, and I was exhausted, I said, “The heck with that crazy dog. I’m going to bed.”
I got into my PJs and hopped into bed. So did Bruno. This was getting weird. I tried to push him out, scream him out, beg him out. He wouldn’t budge.
“Leave me alone, you big, brown, hairy beast! I don’t like dogs. Besides, I’m mad at you. I’m sleep-deprived, in trouble with my boss, and barefoot now because of you,” I said.
He nuzzled his head into my side.
“I’m a cat person!”
He put his paw on my chest.
“If you think this is getting you any where, you’re sadly mistaken.”
He licked my face, then snuggled himself next to me.
“Oh, c’mon! This is emotional blackmail of the highest order!”
Then, he fell asleep. What was happening here? Maybe this is the same scenario as the little girl & the class bully. He tortures her and makes her life a living hell because he really likes her but doesn’t know how to say it. Or maybe he’s just a lower life form who has no idea of what he does from one moment to the next. I decided I’d think about it after I finally got some sleep.
I woke up 9 hours later and, to my amazement, Bruno was still next to me. I admit, he was much nicer than my teddy bear, not to mention the best alarm clock money couldn’t buy. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe the whole mud pit incident was isolated.
“Good morning, Bruno!” I said cheerily as I patted him on the head. He looked at me, smiled, jumped off the bed, and proceeded to scarf down the entire contents of the cats’ litter boxes. Okay, maybe he was crazy after all.
More great escapes and daring food raids would follow. I became convinced his stomach was a ravenous, insatiable black hole, and no food, plant, article of clothing, live animal, exercise equipment, purse, or cell phone were safe. And his skill for getting out of the yard was unparalleled. The acrobatics with which he circumvented that gate would give even Cirque de Soleil a run for their money.
The landlords grew wearier and wearier of Bruno’s escapades, but I had to admit, for all of his antics, I found myself laughing more than I had in a long time. Not to mention some of the perks, like always having someone to come home to and the ego boost of knowing there was at least one guy out there still interested in my legs.
The phone rang at 11 PM. It was the landlady. She told me Bruno had eaten a skunk, the second in two weeks. When she opened the door to see what all the noise was about, Bruno ran inside, stinking the house to high heaven. Bruno was going to the pound in the morning. End of story. I didn’t say much, but when we hung up, I felt like I was about to lose my best friend. I knew the landlady was right to be angry, and that Bruno was getting to be too much, and his propensity to eat everything in sight, including their new above-ground swimming pool, had finally gone too far. Also, let’s face it, giving Bruno tomato baths was getting old very quickly. After seven months, though, I’d gotten used to seeing that happy face when I came home, and life wouldn’t be the same otherwise. I prayed and asked God what to do, and He answered very clearly, “Fight for him.”
I walked to my door and looked out the window. There was Bruno, sitting in the middle of the steps leading to the upstairs deck. His silly grin was replaced with a look of utter terror. He looked at me, as if to say, “You’re the only one who can help me.”
My campaign began first thing in the morning. I told the landlady I’d adopt Bruno, bathe him, take him the vet, enroll him in doggy reform school, and as an added punishment, chain him to the TV and force him to watch every Lassie episode and movie ever made. She said she’d think about it. Then came the moment of truth.
The landlady made up a special mixture of peroxide, herbs, and sulfuric acid to bathe Bruno in order to get rid of the skunk smell. I offered to help her. I’d never given a dog a bath before, so I was going to learn something. Now, Bruno has a thick fur coat, so it took a lot of water to get him totally wet. After the garden hose was turned off, I looked at Bruno and discovered, to my dismay, that I could see Bruno’s ribs and his spine! He was woefully skinny, so much so that he almost resembled a greyhound! Why in the world was he so thin?
I made an appointment with the vet right away. When Bruno was weighed, the vet said he was 18 pounds underweight!
“Bruno’s only 62 lbs. He needs to weigh around 80. How much food is he getting?” the vet asked.
“The owners give him four cups a day,” I answered.
“Oh, that’s not enough. For a dog Bruno’s size, he needs to have at least five cups a day. No wonder he’s skin and bones.”
“So, the reason he tries stealing my food and eating skunks and escaping from the yard is because he’s been hungry?”
“Yes.”
I never felt so guilty in my life. Why hadn’t I noticed all those months? I was Michael Vick, only cuter.
I sprang into action. I stocked up on all the necessary doggy meds, then went to the store and bought gourmet puppy chow, which the vet said would fatten up Bruno. When I told the owners what the vet had said, they felt awful, because they’d only been feeding Bruno according to the previous vet’s instructions.
After only a week of feeding Bruno according to the vet’s instructions, it’s as if he’s a new dog. He’s calmed down tremendously. At the end of that week, I looked at Bruno as he lay curled up at the foot of my bed, and the Lord began to speak to me.
“Sharon, you looked at Bruno with compassion. And when you saw that he was hungry, your solution for him wasn’t to tell him, ‘Well, just stop being hungry.’ You got him the food that he needed so he could be well again. That’s what I do for you.”
You see, I had been very much like Bruno. I had a serious problem: I had an emptiness inside me that I couldn’t fill on my own. It made me do crazy things, and because of that, most people wrote me off as being some kind of defective. But God looked down and saw past my junk to my need and filled that hole and healed that gaping wound inside me, knowing that once I got what I needed, most of that mess that was my life would take care of itself.
We’re all screwed up, and sometimes it’s not even really anyone’s fault. My landlords weren’t intentionally starving Bruno. They were doing what they thought was the right thing. We get so hurt in life because of the best of intentions and those we go to for help sometimes can’t see past our mess on the outside to the hollowness on the inside. Then there are those who, when we tell them we’re hungry, tell us to stop being hungry, or when we’re hurting, tell us to stop feeling.
What a great God we have. Not only does He see our need, He looks on us with compassion and meets us on the deepest level imaginable so that we can truly be satisfied, for He knows that holiness and purpose start when our innermost beings are completely consumed by His passion for us. C.S. Lewis said, “God doesn't love us because we're good. He makes us good because He loves us.”
Bruno knows I fought for him and I am giving him what he needs for a long and happy life. Now he never leaves my side. Yes, he still mistakes the kitchen trash can for the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, and he still has bouts with wanderlust. When he ran out this last time, though, he didn’t go far, and when he saw me go after him, he came right to me. I know God fought for me and believed in me when no one else would. It only takes one very great God to believe in me. When I fully trust that, He changes me, and then those around me begin to see the value that He saw all along. Yes, God did all that, and I will never leave His Side!
THE END
Milk!!!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Tooty-Fruity
© 2009 David’s Harp and Pen
Mood: Contemplative
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any agricultural groups or apple growers. I didn’t invent the laws of nature. I am merely obliged to obey them.
*All Scripture is quoted from The Amplified Bible
When I was eight, I wrote a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the time I was eighteen. Even though I was young, I had a very definite idea in my head of what it meant to be successful: I should be independently wealthy, start a successful career as an international supermodel, and marry Han Solo (yes, that’s right. Han Solo. Please remember I was only eight.). By the time I reached 12, however, I realized my vision of success would be more difficult to attain than I thought. First of all, the child labor laws in the State of New Jersey wouldn’t allow me to get a real job until I was at least 14, and at the interest rates at the time, there was no way the money I saved would break the million dollar point by the time was I was 18. Secondly, to my horror, the school nurse, during those torturous annual school weigh-ins, told me I would never again weigh below 100 pounds. So much for super modeling. Finally, the news leaked that Han Solo had “boldly gone where no man had gone before” with Princess Leia both on screen and off screen. I would have to find success another way.
At age 13, I became a Christian, and so my goals and ideas about the future naturally changed. As I began to run in different circles, my vernacular began to change, too. I no longer ate. I “fellowshipped,” for example. Kids my age didn’t date. They “went to youth group,” or, if they were a little on the naughty side, “had devotions together.” When it came to what one accomplished in life, it was no longer “being successful,” but “being fruitful.” Therefore, as I had changed, so did my list of what my life would look like when I became an adult: I would go to a Christian college and graduate by age 21, become a Christian rock star by age 22, helm a multi-million dollar ministry by age 23, and end world hunger by age 24.
Fast forward to age 29. My college education was ship wrecked, so to speak, so no degree, nor multimillion-dollar Christian ministry. No career in the Christian music world because, I was told, I was not little, cute, and perky, which has been popular for far too long if you ask me. As for world hunger, I had a hard enough time in my efforts to end my own hunger. (I used to have a Coke bottle change bank at my door with a little sign that read, “Please contribute to The Feed the Sharon Fund, because my life would be a terrible thing to waste.) What made matters worse was I had developed severe arthritis in my both my hands and wrists, so I wasn’t even able to find anything that remotely resembled gainful employment at the time.
One Sunday morning, as I frustratedly pondered my lack of productivity, I thought to myself, “I’ll get a job as a driver of some sort. Yes, that’s it! I can drive a cab or be a courier. I may have two bad hands, but I’ve still got two good feet, right?”
No sooner had the thought materialized in my head then the inevitable happened. I walked to my front door to fetch the Sunday paper and rammed my left foot full force into the titanium and concrete doorpost. I spent the next four weeks hobbling around with a foot the color of a pomegranate while wearing one of those platform medical boots that looked like a fashion reject from the 70s.
I had reached a breaking point. I was almost 30 years old and felt I had nothing to show for it. Worse yet, I felt that I had failed God somehow. I whined and cried to Him, “God, I have never been less fruitful, or functional, in my entire life. I’m doing absolutely nothing for You. You must think I’m a big fat loser, like that fig tree that doesn’t grow figs.”
God responded, “Sharon, a fruitful apple tree doesn’t have full-grown edible apples on it all year round. Those seasons during which the apples aren’t there, though, are just as important to the life of the tree as the seasons when the apples are.”
I must say, this revelation was mind-blowing, especially given the consideration that I was, at the time, a type-A, driven sort of person who needed to see things happen in front of her face all the time in order to be convinced of their existence. It was then that I was reminded of a familiar Scripture, except now God was speaking to me through it in a new way:
Psalm 1:1-3 –“BLESSED (HAPPY, fortunate, prosperous, and enviable) is the man who walks and lives not in the counsel of the ungodly [following their advice, their plans and purposes], nor stands [submissive and inactive] in the path where sinners walk, nor sits down [to relax and rest] where the scornful [and the mockers] gather. But his delight and desire are in the law of the Lord, and on His law (the precepts, the instructions, the teachings of God) he habitually meditates (ponders and studies) by day and by night. And he shall be like a tree firmly planted [and tended] by the streams of water, ready to bring forth its fruit in its season; its leaf also shall not fade or wither; and everything he does shall prosper [and come to maturity].” (emphasis added)
“Bring forth its fruit in its season”? That didn’t make sense to me. I had walked with God long enough, though, to know that when what I read matches what I hear, it’s a sure bet that it’s God speaking. So, what was God trying to tell me about the fruitful season? I decided to do some research about the seasons in the life of an apple tree, and this is what I found:
WINTER-since nothing much is going on, the orchardist, as he’s called, will dedicate the colder months to the task of pruning. He carefully chooses limbs and branches to be cut off, which thus allows more sunlight to be absorbed by the tree so that in warmer times bigger, better, and more flavorful fruit will be produced. The pruning process for the apple tree is mirrored by Christ’s Words in John 15:1-3 : “I AM the True Vine, and My Father is the Vinedresser. Any branch in Me that does not bear fruit [that stops bearing] He cuts away (trims off, takes away); and He cleanses and repeatedly prunes every branch that continues to bear fruit, to make it bear more and richer and more excellent fruit. You are cleansed and pruned already, because of the word which I have given you [the teachings I have discussed with you].”
Now, if apple trees had feelings, the amputation process and the resulting emotions probably wouldn’t be high on their list of favorites. We as children of God don’t like those times of pruning and refinement, either. However, these times are absolutely vital to the trees’, and to our future fruitfulness. God wants to remove anything from our lives that keeps us from producing, because we’re not only the Work of His Hands, we’re His children. In Hebrews 12:5-11, it reads, “My son, do not think lightly or scorn to submit to the correction and discipline of the Lord, nor lose courage and give up and faint when you are reproved or corrected by Him; For the Lord corrects and disciplines everyone whom He loves, and He punishes, even scourges, every son whom He accepts and welcomes to His heart and cherishes…For the time being no discipline brings joy, but seems grievous and painful; but afterwards it yields a peaceable fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it [a harvest of fruit which consists in righteousness--in conformity to God's will in purpose, thought, and action, resulting in right living and right standing with God].”
Pay special attention to the agricultural language in these passages and how they tie in with Psalm 1. Pruning and discipline are ongoing things, but sometimes we experiences definite seasons when they are the focus. Notice, though, that these times aren’t only for the betterment of what we produce for God’s Kingdom, but the good things they produce in US: joy, gladness, the peaceable fruit of righteousness, and ultimately, maturity.
SPRING-The buds on the tree start to grow noticeably. The buds will eventually bloom into flowers, which will finally give way to fruit. Something curious about spring is how it is the culmination of the winter pruning. Oftentimes, the dead limbs and branches cut from the tree during the cold are left where they lay. In spring, that same dead brush is then mulched and worked into the soil around the orchard to serve as fertilizer. The very things that would’ve been lifeless for the trees in one form are now the catalyst for growth in another. How much is that like our walk with God. When we let Him take from us those hurts, those idols, those distractions, all those things which keep the light of His Word and the life of His Spirit from maturing us, He transforms those things into agents of change and for our good. In Jeremiah 31:40, Jeremiah says, “And the whole valley [Hinnom] of the dead bodies and [the hill] of the ashes [long dumped there from the temple sacrifices], and all the fields as far as the brook Kidron, to the corner of the Horse Gate toward the east, shall be holy to the Lord. It [the city] shall not be plucked up or overthrown any more to the end of the age.” Everything fully surrendered to God, whatever it is, He will metamorphize for His Glory.
SUMMER-With the opening of the biggest and best blossoms, the apple trees are buzzing with activity. One main sign of the season is pollination. Bees are brought in from local beekeepers to cross-pollinate the trees because the desired fruit can only be attained by multiple varieties of pollen. Oh, how we need that input from our fellow “trees”: our brothers and sisters in Christ, our leaders, and those who have gone on before us but still pour into us through their legacy. The author of Hebrews, in chapter 10, verses 24 and 25, reiterates this point: “And let us consider and give attentive, continuous care to watching over one another, studying how we may stir up (stimulate and incite) to love and helpful deeds and noble activities, not forsaking or neglecting to assemble together [as believers], as is the habit of some people, but admonishing (warning, urging, and encouraging) one another, and all the more faithfully as you see the day approaching.”
FALL-Harvest time has finally come. Because of the delicacy of most apples and their propensity to bruise, they must be picked by hand. The orchardist will hire workers from all over to come and help with the harvest. Isn’t it nice that we’re not in this process alone? Our fruitfulness is a concerted effort on the part of the entire Body of Christ, always under the watchful eye of the Vine keeper who is with us always and has groomed and pruned us to be holy, mature, and complete! And even when we finally see the fruits of our labor, when we are mature, we are promised the loving, tender care of our Father, who hand-shapes us into vessels used for His honor, just as Isaiah says so eloquently in chapter 64, verse 18: “Yet, O Lord, You are our Father; we are the clay, and You our Potter, and we all are the work of Your hand.”
I now have an editor. For the sake of his privacy, he requests I merely refer to him as Peter. Peter is truly a Godsend to my writing and to me. However, he is way too intelligent and scholarly for MY own good. One day we were discussing God’s Will in our lives, and I said that I needed to be writing, and since I was not writing, I was like a leaf-blower that didn’t blow leaves. In other words, I was not being productive or fruitful. He disagreed, but not about my similarity to a leaf-blower. He said he believed that the only thing all of us are born to do is worship God (and all that entails), and the rest isn’t quite the crisis others and myself were making it out to be. A heated discussion ensued, and by heated, I mean Peter used a lot of really big and colorful words and I, though I tried to make some sort of case, was left uncharacteristically speechless and in great pain from just having my toes stepped on and steamrolled. The truth of the matter was, we had both hit a sore spot. However, Peter was right. I am in a winter-type season. I am being pruned and I don’t like the way it feels as it happens. Another unpleasantry is that there are all sorts of voices out there that would say to me that because I do not have a successful writing career, I am not a Christian rock star, etc., that I am wasting time or falling behind or not being fruitful. If I look at it, though, like God looks at the apple tree, there is no room for condemnation, because my “fruit” is the glorification of God, and anything I do to that end, provided it is done from a heart of worship, whether it be writing, waiting tables, cooking for my single male friends, or rescuing a very naughty dog (see Proverbs 12:10), is pleasing and valuable to God. Not only that, but each season is purposeful and absolutely necessary to growing visible and harvestable fruit. So, I will not spurn this season, but embrace it as given and orchestrated by God. The truth is, whether one believes or not they are “born to write/act/sing/twirl flaming batons/fill in the blank,” we will wear more than one hat in our lifetime. Worshipping God means doing all things set before us as if we’re doing them for Him, which we are. Paul drives this point home in Ephesians 2:10 and Colossians 3:17: “For we are God's [own] handiwork (His workmanship), recreated in Christ Jesus, [born anew] that we may do those good works which God predestined (planned beforehand) for us [taking paths which He prepared ahead of time], that we should walk in them [living the good life which He prearranged and made ready for us to live]...And whatever you do [no matter what it is] in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus and in [dependence upon] His Person, giving praise to God the Father through Him.”
God wants us to be fruitful, but we must be faithful to do the things to which He’s called us. I’m not just talking about individual visions; I’m talking about the basic things He assigns to everyone in His Word, such as loving Him with everything, loving our neighbor, etc. We make fruit bearing a lot harder than it should be because we try to do the things only God can do and put on God what we should be doing for ourselves. Paul says in 1 Corinthians 3, “I planted, Apollos watered, but God [all the while] was making it grow and [He] gave the increase. So neither he who plants is anything nor he who waters, but [only] God Who makes it grow and become greater. He who plants and he who waters are equal (one in aim, of the same importance and esteem), yet each shall receive his own reward (wages), according to his own labor. For we are fellow workmen (joint promoters, laborers together) with and for God; you are God's garden and vineyard and field under cultivation, [you are] God's building.” I am guilty of trying to make things grow, which is clearly God’s job, while neglecting the planting and watering, which are clearly my responsibility.
I personally have never seen any fruit tree moan, groan, or strain as it goes through the fruit-bearing process. However, most of my life I have looked at being fruitful for God not like the apple tree producing fruit but more like a woman giving birth. From all the videos I’ve seen of childbirth, there’s nothing peaceful about it, only pain and exasperation, not to mention some spouts of sheer lunacy. If I were indeed a spiritually pregnant woman, I would sound something like this:
“God, this thing You planted in me is never going to happen! I strain and push and nada, nothing, zilch, bupkis! I swear God, if You ever try to do anything through me again…oh crap! Where’s my epidural?”
I want to be that fruitful tree and do only what I’m supposed to do, for it is God in me Who wills and works His Good Pleasure in me.
I will close with this. Even in the dead of winter, when the apple tree shows no signs of life and can only try to survive, there will always be one bud on one branch, a foreshadowing of a harvest that is to come. Even in the winters of my life, I have the Holy Spirit, the Presence of God Himself within me, and He reminds me that though I may sow in tears, I will reap in joy, and it will be a bumper crop!
Take heart, my fellow apple trees, for He Who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it, for He Who called you IS faithful…and fruitful.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
Mood: Contemplative
DISCLAIMER
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any agricultural groups or apple growers. I didn’t invent the laws of nature. I am merely obliged to obey them.
*All Scripture is quoted from The Amplified Bible
When I was eight, I wrote a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the time I was eighteen. Even though I was young, I had a very definite idea in my head of what it meant to be successful: I should be independently wealthy, start a successful career as an international supermodel, and marry Han Solo (yes, that’s right. Han Solo. Please remember I was only eight.). By the time I reached 12, however, I realized my vision of success would be more difficult to attain than I thought. First of all, the child labor laws in the State of New Jersey wouldn’t allow me to get a real job until I was at least 14, and at the interest rates at the time, there was no way the money I saved would break the million dollar point by the time was I was 18. Secondly, to my horror, the school nurse, during those torturous annual school weigh-ins, told me I would never again weigh below 100 pounds. So much for super modeling. Finally, the news leaked that Han Solo had “boldly gone where no man had gone before” with Princess Leia both on screen and off screen. I would have to find success another way.
At age 13, I became a Christian, and so my goals and ideas about the future naturally changed. As I began to run in different circles, my vernacular began to change, too. I no longer ate. I “fellowshipped,” for example. Kids my age didn’t date. They “went to youth group,” or, if they were a little on the naughty side, “had devotions together.” When it came to what one accomplished in life, it was no longer “being successful,” but “being fruitful.” Therefore, as I had changed, so did my list of what my life would look like when I became an adult: I would go to a Christian college and graduate by age 21, become a Christian rock star by age 22, helm a multi-million dollar ministry by age 23, and end world hunger by age 24.
Fast forward to age 29. My college education was ship wrecked, so to speak, so no degree, nor multimillion-dollar Christian ministry. No career in the Christian music world because, I was told, I was not little, cute, and perky, which has been popular for far too long if you ask me. As for world hunger, I had a hard enough time in my efforts to end my own hunger. (I used to have a Coke bottle change bank at my door with a little sign that read, “Please contribute to The Feed the Sharon Fund, because my life would be a terrible thing to waste.) What made matters worse was I had developed severe arthritis in my both my hands and wrists, so I wasn’t even able to find anything that remotely resembled gainful employment at the time.
One Sunday morning, as I frustratedly pondered my lack of productivity, I thought to myself, “I’ll get a job as a driver of some sort. Yes, that’s it! I can drive a cab or be a courier. I may have two bad hands, but I’ve still got two good feet, right?”
No sooner had the thought materialized in my head then the inevitable happened. I walked to my front door to fetch the Sunday paper and rammed my left foot full force into the titanium and concrete doorpost. I spent the next four weeks hobbling around with a foot the color of a pomegranate while wearing one of those platform medical boots that looked like a fashion reject from the 70s.
I had reached a breaking point. I was almost 30 years old and felt I had nothing to show for it. Worse yet, I felt that I had failed God somehow. I whined and cried to Him, “God, I have never been less fruitful, or functional, in my entire life. I’m doing absolutely nothing for You. You must think I’m a big fat loser, like that fig tree that doesn’t grow figs.”
God responded, “Sharon, a fruitful apple tree doesn’t have full-grown edible apples on it all year round. Those seasons during which the apples aren’t there, though, are just as important to the life of the tree as the seasons when the apples are.”
I must say, this revelation was mind-blowing, especially given the consideration that I was, at the time, a type-A, driven sort of person who needed to see things happen in front of her face all the time in order to be convinced of their existence. It was then that I was reminded of a familiar Scripture, except now God was speaking to me through it in a new way:
Psalm 1:1-3 –“BLESSED (HAPPY, fortunate, prosperous, and enviable) is the man who walks and lives not in the counsel of the ungodly [following their advice, their plans and purposes], nor stands [submissive and inactive] in the path where sinners walk, nor sits down [to relax and rest] where the scornful [and the mockers] gather. But his delight and desire are in the law of the Lord, and on His law (the precepts, the instructions, the teachings of God) he habitually meditates (ponders and studies) by day and by night. And he shall be like a tree firmly planted [and tended] by the streams of water, ready to bring forth its fruit in its season; its leaf also shall not fade or wither; and everything he does shall prosper [and come to maturity].” (emphasis added)
“Bring forth its fruit in its season”? That didn’t make sense to me. I had walked with God long enough, though, to know that when what I read matches what I hear, it’s a sure bet that it’s God speaking. So, what was God trying to tell me about the fruitful season? I decided to do some research about the seasons in the life of an apple tree, and this is what I found:
WINTER-since nothing much is going on, the orchardist, as he’s called, will dedicate the colder months to the task of pruning. He carefully chooses limbs and branches to be cut off, which thus allows more sunlight to be absorbed by the tree so that in warmer times bigger, better, and more flavorful fruit will be produced. The pruning process for the apple tree is mirrored by Christ’s Words in John 15:1-3 : “I AM the True Vine, and My Father is the Vinedresser. Any branch in Me that does not bear fruit [that stops bearing] He cuts away (trims off, takes away); and He cleanses and repeatedly prunes every branch that continues to bear fruit, to make it bear more and richer and more excellent fruit. You are cleansed and pruned already, because of the word which I have given you [the teachings I have discussed with you].”
Now, if apple trees had feelings, the amputation process and the resulting emotions probably wouldn’t be high on their list of favorites. We as children of God don’t like those times of pruning and refinement, either. However, these times are absolutely vital to the trees’, and to our future fruitfulness. God wants to remove anything from our lives that keeps us from producing, because we’re not only the Work of His Hands, we’re His children. In Hebrews 12:5-11, it reads, “My son, do not think lightly or scorn to submit to the correction and discipline of the Lord, nor lose courage and give up and faint when you are reproved or corrected by Him; For the Lord corrects and disciplines everyone whom He loves, and He punishes, even scourges, every son whom He accepts and welcomes to His heart and cherishes…For the time being no discipline brings joy, but seems grievous and painful; but afterwards it yields a peaceable fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it [a harvest of fruit which consists in righteousness--in conformity to God's will in purpose, thought, and action, resulting in right living and right standing with God].”
Pay special attention to the agricultural language in these passages and how they tie in with Psalm 1. Pruning and discipline are ongoing things, but sometimes we experiences definite seasons when they are the focus. Notice, though, that these times aren’t only for the betterment of what we produce for God’s Kingdom, but the good things they produce in US: joy, gladness, the peaceable fruit of righteousness, and ultimately, maturity.
SPRING-The buds on the tree start to grow noticeably. The buds will eventually bloom into flowers, which will finally give way to fruit. Something curious about spring is how it is the culmination of the winter pruning. Oftentimes, the dead limbs and branches cut from the tree during the cold are left where they lay. In spring, that same dead brush is then mulched and worked into the soil around the orchard to serve as fertilizer. The very things that would’ve been lifeless for the trees in one form are now the catalyst for growth in another. How much is that like our walk with God. When we let Him take from us those hurts, those idols, those distractions, all those things which keep the light of His Word and the life of His Spirit from maturing us, He transforms those things into agents of change and for our good. In Jeremiah 31:40, Jeremiah says, “And the whole valley [Hinnom] of the dead bodies and [the hill] of the ashes [long dumped there from the temple sacrifices], and all the fields as far as the brook Kidron, to the corner of the Horse Gate toward the east, shall be holy to the Lord. It [the city] shall not be plucked up or overthrown any more to the end of the age.” Everything fully surrendered to God, whatever it is, He will metamorphize for His Glory.
SUMMER-With the opening of the biggest and best blossoms, the apple trees are buzzing with activity. One main sign of the season is pollination. Bees are brought in from local beekeepers to cross-pollinate the trees because the desired fruit can only be attained by multiple varieties of pollen. Oh, how we need that input from our fellow “trees”: our brothers and sisters in Christ, our leaders, and those who have gone on before us but still pour into us through their legacy. The author of Hebrews, in chapter 10, verses 24 and 25, reiterates this point: “And let us consider and give attentive, continuous care to watching over one another, studying how we may stir up (stimulate and incite) to love and helpful deeds and noble activities, not forsaking or neglecting to assemble together [as believers], as is the habit of some people, but admonishing (warning, urging, and encouraging) one another, and all the more faithfully as you see the day approaching.”
FALL-Harvest time has finally come. Because of the delicacy of most apples and their propensity to bruise, they must be picked by hand. The orchardist will hire workers from all over to come and help with the harvest. Isn’t it nice that we’re not in this process alone? Our fruitfulness is a concerted effort on the part of the entire Body of Christ, always under the watchful eye of the Vine keeper who is with us always and has groomed and pruned us to be holy, mature, and complete! And even when we finally see the fruits of our labor, when we are mature, we are promised the loving, tender care of our Father, who hand-shapes us into vessels used for His honor, just as Isaiah says so eloquently in chapter 64, verse 18: “Yet, O Lord, You are our Father; we are the clay, and You our Potter, and we all are the work of Your hand.”
I now have an editor. For the sake of his privacy, he requests I merely refer to him as Peter. Peter is truly a Godsend to my writing and to me. However, he is way too intelligent and scholarly for MY own good. One day we were discussing God’s Will in our lives, and I said that I needed to be writing, and since I was not writing, I was like a leaf-blower that didn’t blow leaves. In other words, I was not being productive or fruitful. He disagreed, but not about my similarity to a leaf-blower. He said he believed that the only thing all of us are born to do is worship God (and all that entails), and the rest isn’t quite the crisis others and myself were making it out to be. A heated discussion ensued, and by heated, I mean Peter used a lot of really big and colorful words and I, though I tried to make some sort of case, was left uncharacteristically speechless and in great pain from just having my toes stepped on and steamrolled. The truth of the matter was, we had both hit a sore spot. However, Peter was right. I am in a winter-type season. I am being pruned and I don’t like the way it feels as it happens. Another unpleasantry is that there are all sorts of voices out there that would say to me that because I do not have a successful writing career, I am not a Christian rock star, etc., that I am wasting time or falling behind or not being fruitful. If I look at it, though, like God looks at the apple tree, there is no room for condemnation, because my “fruit” is the glorification of God, and anything I do to that end, provided it is done from a heart of worship, whether it be writing, waiting tables, cooking for my single male friends, or rescuing a very naughty dog (see Proverbs 12:10), is pleasing and valuable to God. Not only that, but each season is purposeful and absolutely necessary to growing visible and harvestable fruit. So, I will not spurn this season, but embrace it as given and orchestrated by God. The truth is, whether one believes or not they are “born to write/act/sing/twirl flaming batons/fill in the blank,” we will wear more than one hat in our lifetime. Worshipping God means doing all things set before us as if we’re doing them for Him, which we are. Paul drives this point home in Ephesians 2:10 and Colossians 3:17: “For we are God's [own] handiwork (His workmanship), recreated in Christ Jesus, [born anew] that we may do those good works which God predestined (planned beforehand) for us [taking paths which He prepared ahead of time], that we should walk in them [living the good life which He prearranged and made ready for us to live]...And whatever you do [no matter what it is] in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus and in [dependence upon] His Person, giving praise to God the Father through Him.”
God wants us to be fruitful, but we must be faithful to do the things to which He’s called us. I’m not just talking about individual visions; I’m talking about the basic things He assigns to everyone in His Word, such as loving Him with everything, loving our neighbor, etc. We make fruit bearing a lot harder than it should be because we try to do the things only God can do and put on God what we should be doing for ourselves. Paul says in 1 Corinthians 3, “I planted, Apollos watered, but God [all the while] was making it grow and [He] gave the increase. So neither he who plants is anything nor he who waters, but [only] God Who makes it grow and become greater. He who plants and he who waters are equal (one in aim, of the same importance and esteem), yet each shall receive his own reward (wages), according to his own labor. For we are fellow workmen (joint promoters, laborers together) with and for God; you are God's garden and vineyard and field under cultivation, [you are] God's building.” I am guilty of trying to make things grow, which is clearly God’s job, while neglecting the planting and watering, which are clearly my responsibility.
I personally have never seen any fruit tree moan, groan, or strain as it goes through the fruit-bearing process. However, most of my life I have looked at being fruitful for God not like the apple tree producing fruit but more like a woman giving birth. From all the videos I’ve seen of childbirth, there’s nothing peaceful about it, only pain and exasperation, not to mention some spouts of sheer lunacy. If I were indeed a spiritually pregnant woman, I would sound something like this:
“God, this thing You planted in me is never going to happen! I strain and push and nada, nothing, zilch, bupkis! I swear God, if You ever try to do anything through me again…oh crap! Where’s my epidural?”
I want to be that fruitful tree and do only what I’m supposed to do, for it is God in me Who wills and works His Good Pleasure in me.
I will close with this. Even in the dead of winter, when the apple tree shows no signs of life and can only try to survive, there will always be one bud on one branch, a foreshadowing of a harvest that is to come. Even in the winters of my life, I have the Holy Spirit, the Presence of God Himself within me, and He reminds me that though I may sow in tears, I will reap in joy, and it will be a bumper crop!
Take heart, my fellow apple trees, for He Who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it, for He Who called you IS faithful…and fruitful.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Thing of Beauty by Sharon Lurie
Mood: Mostly Serious, but Still Laced with Enough of the Quirk Factor to Keep It Interesting
DISCLAIMER…
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any women’s ministries telling me how I’ve set back womankind thousands of years. As we used to say when I was a teenager, “If we stepped on your toes, come up for prayer for your toes to be healed.” All names have been changed to protect the innocent from harm and the guilty from embarrassment. PLEASE NOTE: I am in no way referring to women’s leadership or activities at my home church.
I stopped attending women’s retreats years’ ago. First of all, they’re usually really expensive. Secondly, I always found the men’s retreats much more appealing. For instance, the men usually go someplace outdoors where they commune with nature, whereas the women go to some overpriced hotel located next to an even more overpriced shopping mall. The food on the men’s menu consists of pancakes and sausage and steak and mashed potatoes, while the women eat sandwiches consisting of the following: cardboard (for bread), chicken mixed with grapes, berries, and twigs, then slathered in yogurt. I’m sorry, but the only time chicken and fruit should go together in the same dish is if it’s sweet and sour chicken at P.F. Chang’s.
Okay, there are other reasons that I don’t go. More important ones. I guess it could be said that I’m not the average Christian female, and more often than not, attending these meetings not only serve to NOT encourage me to get in touch with my feminine side, but by the time they’re over, I feel the urge to get genetic testing to see if one set of my X chromosomes has had single leg amputations.
What I’m trying to say is, no matter how much we Christian woman shout “special just as we are,” subconsciously, we all revert to judging one’s Christian femaleness by a certain passage of Scripture. And we all KNOW which passage to which I’m referring: Proverbs 31 (New International Version, commentary by me)…
So, is it now clear why I can’t handle any more of this “encouragement?” Maybe it’s just the frustration talking, because in all the years I’ve been a Christian woman, I’ve never felt like the bar was anywhere close to me reaching it. I’ve been told more often where I’ve fallen short in these things than where I’ve succeeded.
I mean, I’m not totally undomesticated. I love to cook, and I cook well, but I’m not a housekeeper. When I’ve said in the past that I’m not good at it and have to have someone do my cleaning for me, I get a reaction akin to if I said to a lady with kids, “Do you really need that third child? Because I could really use the extra tax deduction.” And my meal plans revolve solely around what food I have coupons for, not what happens to be trendy at the moment. I like getting dolled up, too, but not always. It would be nice, also, if there were concrete definitions of what “girly” and “modest” were. I can think of many times I’ve worn things that were cute and feminine in one woman’s eyes, only to be found flashy and immodest in another’s. Nor does it help that clothing styles and trends change so quickly that by the time I can afford the latest style, it’s already outdated and being declared a “fashion don’t” in Cosmo. We Christian ladies say it’s only what’s on the inside that counts, but let me show up to church one Sunday wearing pigtails, ripped jeans, and a John Deere tee shirt, and before the service is over, some well-meaning sister in Christ will declare, “Oh Sharon, you’ve really let yourself go!”
So, I decided recently that life is too short to spend trying to live up to impossible expectations. And besides, it takes enough of my time to deflect discouragement from the world, Satan, HGTV, and E! about my womanhood to have to deal with it when I go to church, too. Therefore, can we all agree that we’re all unique and have our place and focus on what God is REALLY calling us to as Christian woman?
Uh-oh! If it’s not all the external stuff like cooking, cleaning, fashion, then what is it? (Please, don’t think less of me because I have a cleaning lady! So does my pastor’s wife, and isn’t it more important that I make my mashed potatoes from scratch?) I mean, even though we are all different, there are certain things that apply to all women across the board. So, what are they? I’m so glad someone finally asked!
CHARACTER! More importantly, character that reflects our Savior. The world will remember our love and compassion long after they’ve forgotten our kick-butt-awesome chicken tetrazzini! In light of this revelation, I was able to read the dreaded aforementioned Bible passage with new eyes…
See, when I look at it that way now, not only does it seem not so bad, but it actually seems doable! I don’t wanna go through life being like Martha, who was so overwhelmed with the incidentals that she almost missed out where life’s greatest accomplishments are achieved and greatest fulfillment found; namely, in the company of Jesus!
In closing, I want to touch on part of Proverbs 31 and another passage in 1st Peter 3:6 as they relate to the character of Christian women.
In my vast experience with men, and it is vast, do you know what their number one complaint about women is, whether the men complaining are Christian or not? It’s not a woman’s cooking ability, fashion sense, cosmetic expertise or lack thereof, spending prowess, or even her intelligence. It’s fear! One thing a guy can’t stand is neediness, clinginess, moodiness, co-dependency, and neurotic impulsiveness (there’s a charming impulsiveness, mind you, and for those that disagree, DON’T JUDGE ME!). What are all these things based on? Fear! (or, in Guy-ese, the female state known as “psycho.”) Fear, on our parts as women, which can result only when we seek our identity as women in ungodly ways. Trust me, Ladies. Nothing will send a godly man screaming and running into the witness protection program faster!
I desire to be a thing of beauty in God’s eyes and in a godly man’s eyes. I know because of my identity in Christ that He sees me that way already. However, I still have a mind that needs to be renewed, and behavior that must be aligned to God’s Word on a daily basis. My prayer is that as I go to Him every moment of every day, that my walk will one day be as beautiful as my recreated spirit, and when I face undeserved criticism and an uncertain future, both will find me holding the Hand of my Savior for dear life and grinning from ear to ear.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
DISCLAIMER…
This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not hear from any women’s ministries telling me how I’ve set back womankind thousands of years. As we used to say when I was a teenager, “If we stepped on your toes, come up for prayer for your toes to be healed.” All names have been changed to protect the innocent from harm and the guilty from embarrassment. PLEASE NOTE: I am in no way referring to women’s leadership or activities at my home church.
I stopped attending women’s retreats years’ ago. First of all, they’re usually really expensive. Secondly, I always found the men’s retreats much more appealing. For instance, the men usually go someplace outdoors where they commune with nature, whereas the women go to some overpriced hotel located next to an even more overpriced shopping mall. The food on the men’s menu consists of pancakes and sausage and steak and mashed potatoes, while the women eat sandwiches consisting of the following: cardboard (for bread), chicken mixed with grapes, berries, and twigs, then slathered in yogurt. I’m sorry, but the only time chicken and fruit should go together in the same dish is if it’s sweet and sour chicken at P.F. Chang’s.
Okay, there are other reasons that I don’t go. More important ones. I guess it could be said that I’m not the average Christian female, and more often than not, attending these meetings not only serve to NOT encourage me to get in touch with my feminine side, but by the time they’re over, I feel the urge to get genetic testing to see if one set of my X chromosomes has had single leg amputations.
What I’m trying to say is, no matter how much we Christian woman shout “special just as we are,” subconsciously, we all revert to judging one’s Christian femaleness by a certain passage of Scripture. And we all KNOW which passage to which I’m referring: Proverbs 31 (New International Version, commentary by me)…
A wife of noble character who can find? (You can’t, unless you’re the retreat speaker. But this weekend only, you, too, can gain from her wisdom, and for the incredibly low price of $19.95, you’ll get a pink leather-bound Women’s Devotional Bible, zillionth edition, deluxe makeup kit, super spa hair care sampler, and an autographed copy of “You Can Be It All: My Secrets to Become Bible Barbie in 30 Minutes a Day”) She is worth far more than rubies. (Her jewelry collection has a retail value equivalent to the US National Deficit.) Her husband has full confidence in her (Did you hear that, ladies? So singleness is NOT an option.) and lacks nothing of value. (So, shopping at thrift stores and garage sales is a big no-no.) She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life. (She never, ever says the wrong thing around a member of the opposite sex.) She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands. (Must be proficient in knitting, crocheting, and needlepoint. Ugh!) She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar. (Must have worked through Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.”) She gets up while it is still dark (must be a morning person.); she provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls. (Must be Casanova in the kitchen.) She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard. (Must be master gardener and landscaper.) She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks. (Must work out every day at the gym but never sweat.) She sees that her trading is profitable, and her lamp does not go out at night. (So, she must be a morning person AND a night person. Double ugh!) In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers. (She uses all the time she saves from not sleeping to make her own clothes.) She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. (She cooks for all her single male friends who would otherwise be forced to subsist on a diet consisting entirely of Hardee’s.) When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet. (She and her family must wear all the designer labels, unless of course it’s something she’s sewn.) She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple. (Oh crap, she’s gotta make her own sheets and blankets, too!) Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. (She must snag husband who is politician, movie star, doctor, lawyer, CEO, or some combination thereof. How many of these men actually roam the earth?) She makes linen garments and sells them, and supplies the merchants with sashes. (So, not only must she be domestic goddess and beauty pageant winner, but barracuda in the business world, too. Triple ugh!) She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. (She has IQ in the quadruple digits.) She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. (She must have ESP, and God forbid she ever have downtime!) Her children arise and call her blessed (as if her plate wasn’t full enough, she must also be perfect mother in manner of Ma Ingalls.); her husband also, and he praises her: “Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” (And to top it all off, in case it wasn’t mentioned earlier, all women are in competition with one another.) Charm is deceptive (but necessary), and beauty is fleeting (but you must spend inordinate amounts of time and money to hold on to every shred possible, anyway); but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate. (And everyone must like you, or you’re doing something terribly, terribly wrong!)
So, is it now clear why I can’t handle any more of this “encouragement?” Maybe it’s just the frustration talking, because in all the years I’ve been a Christian woman, I’ve never felt like the bar was anywhere close to me reaching it. I’ve been told more often where I’ve fallen short in these things than where I’ve succeeded.
I mean, I’m not totally undomesticated. I love to cook, and I cook well, but I’m not a housekeeper. When I’ve said in the past that I’m not good at it and have to have someone do my cleaning for me, I get a reaction akin to if I said to a lady with kids, “Do you really need that third child? Because I could really use the extra tax deduction.” And my meal plans revolve solely around what food I have coupons for, not what happens to be trendy at the moment. I like getting dolled up, too, but not always. It would be nice, also, if there were concrete definitions of what “girly” and “modest” were. I can think of many times I’ve worn things that were cute and feminine in one woman’s eyes, only to be found flashy and immodest in another’s. Nor does it help that clothing styles and trends change so quickly that by the time I can afford the latest style, it’s already outdated and being declared a “fashion don’t” in Cosmo. We Christian ladies say it’s only what’s on the inside that counts, but let me show up to church one Sunday wearing pigtails, ripped jeans, and a John Deere tee shirt, and before the service is over, some well-meaning sister in Christ will declare, “Oh Sharon, you’ve really let yourself go!”
So, I decided recently that life is too short to spend trying to live up to impossible expectations. And besides, it takes enough of my time to deflect discouragement from the world, Satan, HGTV, and E! about my womanhood to have to deal with it when I go to church, too. Therefore, can we all agree that we’re all unique and have our place and focus on what God is REALLY calling us to as Christian woman?
Uh-oh! If it’s not all the external stuff like cooking, cleaning, fashion, then what is it? (Please, don’t think less of me because I have a cleaning lady! So does my pastor’s wife, and isn’t it more important that I make my mashed potatoes from scratch?) I mean, even though we are all different, there are certain things that apply to all women across the board. So, what are they? I’m so glad someone finally asked!
CHARACTER! More importantly, character that reflects our Savior. The world will remember our love and compassion long after they’ve forgotten our kick-butt-awesome chicken tetrazzini! In light of this revelation, I was able to read the dreaded aforementioned Bible passage with new eyes…
A wife of noble character who can find? (I can be one, and God will show me how.) She is worth far more than rubies. (My value is apparent to those who are looking through the right lenses.) Her husband has full confidence in her (The men in my life know they can trust me.) and lacks nothing of value. (I let God supply what I need, not what I think I need. In other words, I let Him bless me abundantly with the things that matter most.) She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life. (I am a blessing to those I love.) She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands. (I do whatever God sets before me with joy. And if joy’s not already there, I go humbly before God to receive joy for the task.) She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar. (I am resourceful.) She gets up while it is still dark (I make the most of my time, however long or short it may be); she provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls. (I put others above myself.) She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard. (I don’t do things on neurotic impulse and I minister out of my fullness with God, not out of lack.) She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks. (I let God fill me and prepare me each day for the tasks He sets before me.) She sees that her trading is profitable, and her lamp does not go out at night. (I am productive and fruitful in the things that God has called me to and ONLY those things.) In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers. (Okay, this one I’m still not sure about.) She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. (I am generous and have God’s heart for those in need.) When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet. (I prepare out of wisdom, not out of fear, not to make myself look good, but to make sure my loved ones have what they need.) She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple. (I’m not sure about this one, either.) Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. (I will keep the company and identify myself with those whose character is worthy of respect.) She makes linen garments and sells them, and supplies the merchants with sashes. (I will spend wisely so that with the money I save, I can be as much of a blessing to others as possible.) She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. (I will fill my heart with God’s Word, not the word of others, so that when I open my mouth, that which I’ve stored up comes out naturally.) She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. (I’ll have genuine concern and affection for those God has placed in my sphere and always make the most of my time.) Her children arise and call her blessed (I will live in a way that those who I invest in spiritually will say they’re better, not worse, for knowing me.); her husband also, and he praises her: “Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” (Like the parable of the talents, I will be praised not because of what I did in comparison to others, but because I did the best with what God has given me.) Charm is deceptive (Amen!), and beauty is fleeting (besides, doesn’t it say somewhere in Proverbs that gray hair and a little baby fat around the midsection is sexy?); but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate. (When my character is on track and I am fruitful as God defines fruitfulness, the people of God won’t be able to help but notice.)
See, when I look at it that way now, not only does it seem not so bad, but it actually seems doable! I don’t wanna go through life being like Martha, who was so overwhelmed with the incidentals that she almost missed out where life’s greatest accomplishments are achieved and greatest fulfillment found; namely, in the company of Jesus!
In closing, I want to touch on part of Proverbs 31 and another passage in 1st Peter 3:6 as they relate to the character of Christian women.
Proverbs 31:25b-She can laugh at the days to come.
1st Peter 3:6 [The Amplified Bible]- And you are now (Sarah’s) true daughters if you do right and let nothing terrify you [not giving way to hysterical fears or letting anxieties unnerve you].
In my vast experience with men, and it is vast, do you know what their number one complaint about women is, whether the men complaining are Christian or not? It’s not a woman’s cooking ability, fashion sense, cosmetic expertise or lack thereof, spending prowess, or even her intelligence. It’s fear! One thing a guy can’t stand is neediness, clinginess, moodiness, co-dependency, and neurotic impulsiveness (there’s a charming impulsiveness, mind you, and for those that disagree, DON’T JUDGE ME!). What are all these things based on? Fear! (or, in Guy-ese, the female state known as “psycho.”) Fear, on our parts as women, which can result only when we seek our identity as women in ungodly ways. Trust me, Ladies. Nothing will send a godly man screaming and running into the witness protection program faster!
I desire to be a thing of beauty in God’s eyes and in a godly man’s eyes. I know because of my identity in Christ that He sees me that way already. However, I still have a mind that needs to be renewed, and behavior that must be aligned to God’s Word on a daily basis. My prayer is that as I go to Him every moment of every day, that my walk will one day be as beautiful as my recreated spirit, and when I face undeserved criticism and an uncertain future, both will find me holding the Hand of my Savior for dear life and grinning from ear to ear.
The End
Milk!!!!!!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
For Men Only by Sharon Lurie
For Men Only
by Sharon Lurie
MOOD: Inquisitive
*This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not get any messages from certain male acquaintances who think I am in any way trying to defame men in general or them in particular. Stop the madness already! All names have been changed to protect the innocent from harm and the guilty from embarrassment. *
ATTENTION ALL READERS! This blog is directed at men only. Women, you may read, but please do not leave any public comments. If you want to comment, please send a private note or email.
“A guy and his girlfriend walk into a video rental store. The guy says to the clerk behind the counter, ‘My girlfriend and I can’t decide on a movie. Do you have anything where the guy talks about his feelings while he blows things up?’” Readers’ Digest
The last fourteen days have been a glorious illustration in the miscommunication of epic proportions between the sexes, both among friends and me personally. It still amazes me in this day and age how little we really understand each other, so I thought for this week’s blog I might take the opportunity to clear the air.
First of all, I think we as women owe you men an apology on several respects. We expect you to possess certain God-like attributes such as omnipotence, omnipresence, and omniscience, and too many times we hold you to standards to which we ladies are not willing to hold ourselves. That is wrong.
Another phenomenon in the world of male-female relationships is the disproportionate amount of information exchange. For example, there are approximately 12,897,247 encyclopedia-like volumes written about what women wish men knew about them, while there is only about ¾ of an inch written about what men wish women knew about them. Why? Is it because women are narcissistic by nature? Or maybe because all men are commitment-phobes at heart and think if they’re too transparent with women then untimely ensnarements are inevitable? Dare I say maybe both? Or neither?
In all honesty, I wonder. I wonder, for all the miscommunications and the endless drama that ensues, if there’s something deep down in all of us, whether male or female, that really ENJOYS the drama, enjoys the little emotional intrigues. Sure, it’s frustrating, but never boring. Maybe it all stems back to the Garden of Eden and the dang tree. When Adam and Eve received the knowledge of good and evil, they lost their ability to automatically see themselves and enjoy themselves as whole before God. Not only that, they opened themselves up to the possibilities that human affection may not always stem from selfless motives, and so along with the need to hide themselves from God, they felt the need to hide themselves from each other. Thus, games and emotional enmeshments took the place of real intimacy, and men and women stopped being real with each other, settling for the emotional highs and lows of relational drama instead of transparency. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just that it’s after 2 AM and I accidentally hit my head the day before. You can decide.
Therefore, in the name of transparency, I, representing the mature, emotionally healthy, free thinking single Christian woman (please keep all snickering down to a low roar), appeal to all mature, emotionally healthy, free thinking single Christian men…let’s talk! I will speak honestly about me, and you can then comment honestly about you.
First of all, I pledge from this moment forward, to be honest with you, and if I have a problem with you, I will speak about it to you first and only. I ask that you please return the favor. There’s nothing more frustrating then to have a man tell me what a great friend I am, I can call him any time, and he’s worried when he doesn’t hear from me, only to find out later from mutual guy friend, that he thinks me a pest, gets furious if I call during “24,” and prays I get amnesia so I’ll forget his phone number. We defer honesty in the name of not wanting to hurt someone’s feelings, but it hurts more to find out the truth from someone other than you. A mature woman can take your criticism. She may fault you for your timing and your delivery, but never your honesty.
So, while on the subject, I think it’s important to say, too, that while it’s important to not to withhold the truth about dislikes, one shouldn’t withhold the truth about likes, either. I’ve been faulted in times past for being too lavish with praise for those I care about, especially if it’s a man. However, I’d rather err on the side of letting you know you’re appreciated then risking you think I take you for granted. And I promise, if you let your appreciation of me be known, I will not get the wrong idea. I repeat, I will not get the wrong idea. Did I mention, too, that if you pay me a compliment, I WILL NOT GET THE WRONG IDEA?!
If, however, you do indeed want to let a certain woman in your life know you like her, please, please, PLEASE be straightforward, because acting otherwise will put your life in danger. Let me explain…in my vast personal experience with men, their greatest fear seems to be a girl thinking he likes her, even if he does, indeed, like her. Why is that? Why is it, if you do like a girl, you would rather risk her thinking you hate her and drive her away then just saying plainly, “I like you”? I will now summarize all my past interaction with men on such matters…
If you…hang out with me all the time, hug me whenever possible, do flirty things like hold my hand, breathe in my ear, or lick my face, if you tell me you don’t like sharing me with other guys, if you talk to me about what you want in a woman, if you bring me home to meet your parents, and if you tell me you’ve never had as much fun with anyone as you’ve had with me…then you are definitely NOT interested!
If you…avoid making eye contact with me, talk about other girls and ask my advice about them, if you purposely avoid returning phone calls or emails, if you go on and on about how you don’t think you’ll ever get over your ex, and especially if you discuss at length that you think God is calling you to lifelong singleness…then you want me and you want me bad!
And to those guilty of the latter, why, when you commit such flagrant emotional subterfuge, then finally admit your true feelings, make inane statements such as, “Oh, c’mon Sharon. You must’ve KNOWN all along how I really felt about you!” And what, I ask, should’ve tipped me off? When you showed me your charter membership card to the He Man Woman Hater’s Club or when you asked me to be listed as a character reference on your application to the monastery?
I write this blog more as an opportunity to build a bridge than anything else, so that you guys out there walking around in perpetual confusion can have a heads up for a change. So here goes…
A real woman worth having LOVES it if you do things like holding open doors, standing up when she enters and leaves a room. Personally speaking, I love it when a guy walks me to my car, especially if I don’t have to ask. I promise I will never take a feminazi stance about the matter, as long as you, from time to time, simply state you do it because you care, not because you doubt in any way, shape, or form that, left to my own devices, I could kick a guy’s butt if attacked.
In all seriousness, I grieve for the broken hearts I see around me because men and woman can’t seem to be honest with each other. Can we at least try? I will tell you honestly, that I’ll always be a little bit of a tomboy, and even though I’m all for a return to chivalry, it doesn’t mean I still don’t love to hang out with the guys and watch a good shoot-em-up, blow-em-up action flick over a rom-com, or go to the Middle Tennessee Gun Show over the Southern Women’s show any day; however, I am NOT one of the guys, and in all other matters, I will state plainly: whether you’re simply a bud, a fellow laborer in Kingdom work, or if you, whoever you may be, are indeed the companion of my future life, I, Sharon Lurie, 35-year-old single white female, am ready to be cherished.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
by Sharon Lurie
MOOD: Inquisitive
*This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I better not get any messages from certain male acquaintances who think I am in any way trying to defame men in general or them in particular. Stop the madness already! All names have been changed to protect the innocent from harm and the guilty from embarrassment. *
ATTENTION ALL READERS! This blog is directed at men only. Women, you may read, but please do not leave any public comments. If you want to comment, please send a private note or email.
“A guy and his girlfriend walk into a video rental store. The guy says to the clerk behind the counter, ‘My girlfriend and I can’t decide on a movie. Do you have anything where the guy talks about his feelings while he blows things up?’” Readers’ Digest
The last fourteen days have been a glorious illustration in the miscommunication of epic proportions between the sexes, both among friends and me personally. It still amazes me in this day and age how little we really understand each other, so I thought for this week’s blog I might take the opportunity to clear the air.
First of all, I think we as women owe you men an apology on several respects. We expect you to possess certain God-like attributes such as omnipotence, omnipresence, and omniscience, and too many times we hold you to standards to which we ladies are not willing to hold ourselves. That is wrong.
Another phenomenon in the world of male-female relationships is the disproportionate amount of information exchange. For example, there are approximately 12,897,247 encyclopedia-like volumes written about what women wish men knew about them, while there is only about ¾ of an inch written about what men wish women knew about them. Why? Is it because women are narcissistic by nature? Or maybe because all men are commitment-phobes at heart and think if they’re too transparent with women then untimely ensnarements are inevitable? Dare I say maybe both? Or neither?
In all honesty, I wonder. I wonder, for all the miscommunications and the endless drama that ensues, if there’s something deep down in all of us, whether male or female, that really ENJOYS the drama, enjoys the little emotional intrigues. Sure, it’s frustrating, but never boring. Maybe it all stems back to the Garden of Eden and the dang tree. When Adam and Eve received the knowledge of good and evil, they lost their ability to automatically see themselves and enjoy themselves as whole before God. Not only that, they opened themselves up to the possibilities that human affection may not always stem from selfless motives, and so along with the need to hide themselves from God, they felt the need to hide themselves from each other. Thus, games and emotional enmeshments took the place of real intimacy, and men and women stopped being real with each other, settling for the emotional highs and lows of relational drama instead of transparency. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just that it’s after 2 AM and I accidentally hit my head the day before. You can decide.
Therefore, in the name of transparency, I, representing the mature, emotionally healthy, free thinking single Christian woman (please keep all snickering down to a low roar), appeal to all mature, emotionally healthy, free thinking single Christian men…let’s talk! I will speak honestly about me, and you can then comment honestly about you.
First of all, I pledge from this moment forward, to be honest with you, and if I have a problem with you, I will speak about it to you first and only. I ask that you please return the favor. There’s nothing more frustrating then to have a man tell me what a great friend I am, I can call him any time, and he’s worried when he doesn’t hear from me, only to find out later from mutual guy friend, that he thinks me a pest, gets furious if I call during “24,” and prays I get amnesia so I’ll forget his phone number. We defer honesty in the name of not wanting to hurt someone’s feelings, but it hurts more to find out the truth from someone other than you. A mature woman can take your criticism. She may fault you for your timing and your delivery, but never your honesty.
So, while on the subject, I think it’s important to say, too, that while it’s important to not to withhold the truth about dislikes, one shouldn’t withhold the truth about likes, either. I’ve been faulted in times past for being too lavish with praise for those I care about, especially if it’s a man. However, I’d rather err on the side of letting you know you’re appreciated then risking you think I take you for granted. And I promise, if you let your appreciation of me be known, I will not get the wrong idea. I repeat, I will not get the wrong idea. Did I mention, too, that if you pay me a compliment, I WILL NOT GET THE WRONG IDEA?!
If, however, you do indeed want to let a certain woman in your life know you like her, please, please, PLEASE be straightforward, because acting otherwise will put your life in danger. Let me explain…in my vast personal experience with men, their greatest fear seems to be a girl thinking he likes her, even if he does, indeed, like her. Why is that? Why is it, if you do like a girl, you would rather risk her thinking you hate her and drive her away then just saying plainly, “I like you”? I will now summarize all my past interaction with men on such matters…
If you…hang out with me all the time, hug me whenever possible, do flirty things like hold my hand, breathe in my ear, or lick my face, if you tell me you don’t like sharing me with other guys, if you talk to me about what you want in a woman, if you bring me home to meet your parents, and if you tell me you’ve never had as much fun with anyone as you’ve had with me…then you are definitely NOT interested!
If you…avoid making eye contact with me, talk about other girls and ask my advice about them, if you purposely avoid returning phone calls or emails, if you go on and on about how you don’t think you’ll ever get over your ex, and especially if you discuss at length that you think God is calling you to lifelong singleness…then you want me and you want me bad!
And to those guilty of the latter, why, when you commit such flagrant emotional subterfuge, then finally admit your true feelings, make inane statements such as, “Oh, c’mon Sharon. You must’ve KNOWN all along how I really felt about you!” And what, I ask, should’ve tipped me off? When you showed me your charter membership card to the He Man Woman Hater’s Club or when you asked me to be listed as a character reference on your application to the monastery?
I write this blog more as an opportunity to build a bridge than anything else, so that you guys out there walking around in perpetual confusion can have a heads up for a change. So here goes…
A real woman worth having LOVES it if you do things like holding open doors, standing up when she enters and leaves a room. Personally speaking, I love it when a guy walks me to my car, especially if I don’t have to ask. I promise I will never take a feminazi stance about the matter, as long as you, from time to time, simply state you do it because you care, not because you doubt in any way, shape, or form that, left to my own devices, I could kick a guy’s butt if attacked.
In all seriousness, I grieve for the broken hearts I see around me because men and woman can’t seem to be honest with each other. Can we at least try? I will tell you honestly, that I’ll always be a little bit of a tomboy, and even though I’m all for a return to chivalry, it doesn’t mean I still don’t love to hang out with the guys and watch a good shoot-em-up, blow-em-up action flick over a rom-com, or go to the Middle Tennessee Gun Show over the Southern Women’s show any day; however, I am NOT one of the guys, and in all other matters, I will state plainly: whether you’re simply a bud, a fellow laborer in Kingdom work, or if you, whoever you may be, are indeed the companion of my future life, I, Sharon Lurie, 35-year-old single white female, am ready to be cherished.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
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