© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Hungry
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from the State of Indiana or any irate Hoosiers who think I’m making fun of the state. The fact that Indiana has a 3 to 1 pig-to-person ratio, in the pigs’ favor, was one of the very things that drew me to move there in the first place.
In August of 1992, I moved from New Jersey to Indiana to go to college. In 2000, I moved from Indiana to my present location in Tennessee. In April, I had flown to Indiana to see an old friend graduate from college. The time on the plane gave me a lot of time for reflection. I remember looking out the window of the plane as we approached Indianapolis. The time was well after 11 p.m. and the intrusion of the city lights into the night sky had me mesmerized. I would liken it to a giant spider web up against slate, with each strand of the web set ablaze to emanate the loveliest amber glow. I did not find my first impression of the Hoosier State almost twenty years ago nearly as enchanting, but then again, I am thankfully not the same person. I came to Indiana fresh out of high school, an arrogant, know-it-all, snot-nosed, bratty girl. After eight years of letting God work out many of the kinks in my character, I am happy to say I am now the arrogant, know-it-all, snot-nosed, bratty woman my readers see today. *grin* In all seriousness, though, on this recent visit, I was reminded of two very important lessons God taught me during the eight years I had lived there, lessons I work to keep at the forefront of my mind.
The Lesson of the Lentils (Sacrificing Future Blessing for Immediate Gratification)
The Bible is full of stories about those who gave up on God’s Plan for their lives because they didn’t want to wait. Genesis 25 tells the story of how Esau sold his birthright as firstborn son to his younger brother Jacob in exchange a bowl of lentil soup. Several generations later, the Israelites, after they had left slavery and bondage in Egypt, grew restless in the desert and despised the journey which God had planned for them. They forgot that they were God’s chosen people. They forgot all the wonderful miracles God had done in their midst. They despised the Promised Land—their birthright, if you will—because the journey to get there was harder than they initially thought. So they murmured to God and dared voice the idea that they were better off in Egypt.
The problem with impatience and unwillingness to wait on God’s promises is it condemns us to a life of the commonplace and tortuous and to mind-numbing drudgery. Esau’s desire for a regular meal made him forfeit the opportunity to be father of God’s peculiar people. The Israelites’ desire to have what they wanted to eat when they wanted to eat it cost them their legacy, their land, and their lives. They longed for the every day food they had grown accustomed to in Egypt instead of the supernatural sustenance God provided for them in the desert. Elisabeth Elliot said in her book Passion and Purity, “Through affairs of the heart, God uncovers our true intentions: '...whether or not it was in your heart to keep his commandments. He humbled you and made you hungry; then he fed you on manna...' But it was not manna the people wanted. It was leeks and onions and garlic. It was meat and bread, wine and oil--ordinary food.” Leeks. Onions. Garlic. Meat. Bread. Wine. Oil. Lentils.
Why did Esau and the Israelites forsake so much in exchange for so little? They all claimed they did so because they were starving. How many times do we say “I’m starving” when we’re really not? How many times do we make a matter of instant gratification the end of the world when it’s not? Would Esau really have died if he hadn’t eaten that bowl of soup? Will we really die if we don’t have sex right now, instead of waiting for the time and context in which God says sex is the most satisfying? Will our whole world really come crashing down on us if we don’t “make something happen” when God has told us to wait concerning the matter?
New Jersey was my lentil stew; New Jersey was also my Egypt, the place I would’ve gladly stayed because to live in slavery seemed easier than waiting and walking all the time it would’ve taken to get to the Promised Land. I could’ve let immediate gratification prevent me from obtaining long-term holiness and maturity; the pleasure of the latter two would sustain me long after the savorings of a quick meal, which would’ve fed my body but killed my spirit.
Valley Girl (Sacrificing God’s Calling for Fear of Suffering)
I hated Indiana. My first three months there were quite miserable. I could only find fault with my surroundings. One of the things I hated most about it was how flat it was. I was situated in the river valleys of Allen County, Indiana, and I longed for the mountains in New Jersey, which I loved to drive up every chance I got. My bad attitude about where God had placed me continued until I went back to New Jersey for Thanksgiving. I can’t say that New Jersey was a different place, but I had become a different person. During that week, I remembered very clearly all the reasons I had left New Jersey in the first place. Being back in Egypt, in the presence of Pharaoh and his slave drivers, reminded me that even the most foreign and strange of territories, like the corn fields of Indiana, was better than being demoted again to a slave.
When God told me that I would be in Indiana long term, I asked him why. He said I needed to be broken. He said I had many wounds in me, wounds that were like infected splinters all over my body. He said He was going to remove all those splinters in me one by one, and Indiana was the place to do it.
That was hard. The bareness of the landscape did not help. Then one day, I read a story in the Bible I had never seen before. In 1 Kings 20, the Israelites are attacked by the Syrians, but quickly defeat them. The Syrians tell their king, “Israel’s God is a god of the hills. That is why, since we fought them in the hills, they defeated us. However, if we fight them in the plains, surely we will defeat them.” Then God sent a messenger to the Israelites and told them, “Because the Syrians say I am a God of the hills but not a God of the valleys, when they attack you again, I will surely defeat them.”
I had learned to trust God in the hills of New Jersey, where all was familiar and simple to me. I had not learned to trust God in the plains of Indiana, where I did not have a grip on anything. God had to prove to me that He was God in my life everywhere, in the easy places and the difficult.
One day after a period of particularly rough testing, I was driving through the plains and along the edge of one of the many Indiana river valleys. I commented to myself how flat it was in the valley. God said to me, “Yes. You are here in the valley because this is where the really fertile soil is.”
The view is pretty and comforting from the mountaintops. However, the air is also thinner, and it is harder for life to grow. The valley, the flat places, is where the earth is richest, and can foster growth the easiest. At the time, I didn’t need a picture-postcard view of the world. I needed to fall into the ground like a grain of wheat and die so that I could be brought to eternal, abundant life.
So, these were the lessons of the lentils and the valley girl. When I went to visit Indiana a few weeks ago, I was coming from a different kind of Egypt, another bowl of lentil soup, something God had been telling me to give up for a long time. I had exaggerated my hunger. The temptation to stay in Egypt was overwhelming. Leaving that Egypt felt like death. I remembered, though, that I am called to pick up my Cross and die to myself every day. I remembered, too, that the death in the fertile soil of the valley beyond the Red Sea is always in exchange for a deeper, abiding, greater life in Him.
In the other Egypt, too, I felt it. I felt the cracks of the whips of Pharaoh’s taskmasters on my back, making their insatiable demands and offering me nothing in return except a life of slavery. I felt torn between the familiarity, but drudgery, of Egypt, and the valley, which God once again was asking me to cross. I come from a long line of compromisers, ones who fear the valley and the pruning it demands of its residents. Jesus reminded me, though, that I have been redeemed from the fruitless way of living passed down to me by my forefathers, not with corruptible things, such as silver and gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, and if I chose to stay in Egypt, to live only once, but die twice, then I was essentially acting as if Christ died for nothing.
I did not start my initial exodus from Egypt alone. The number of pilgrims gets smaller and smaller all the time, though. Some never crossed the Red Sea. Some have crossed many times, but always run back due to fear. Some are still wandering the desert, because they’re so hung up on the lack of lentils they are missing the glory and wonder of the manna, as well as the privilege of being hand-fed by God. Still others have reached the Promised Land, but in their minds and hearts have never left Egypt.
Two things I have learned in Indiana were to not only go for the Promised Land, but to embrace the purification process in the time I spend journeying to the Promised Land. The Israelites despised God’s promises out of fear and a desire to be like the heathen nations around them. Esau forsook his birthright for a bowl of soup. However, I am not a daughter of Esau. I am a daughter of Jacob. He wasn’t afraid to embrace God’s promises. He wasn’t afraid to wrestle with God in order to gain a new name and a new heart. As for me? Well, I want to be just like my dad.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Bloodhound by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Humbled
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from Old Testament scholars accusing me of dissing Leviticus. On the contrary, my hope is to increase its reader traffic and finally give the book the street cred it deserves.
Most Christians and Jews I know read through the Bible/Tanakh each year. My close cronies and I usually dread when we happen up on the Book of Leviticus. The book is a bit of a cross between an annotated legal code and a horror novel. There are nonstop rules, codes, and statutes, along with exceptions to the aforementioned. For those who have never read it, nor have plans to, let me try to replicate some of the themes in a modern fashion to give you an idea of the overall theme of Leviticus’s contents:
“If man steals his neighbor’s Sony PSP, the man shall be required to compensate his neighbor sevenfold. If he stole the PSP on the Sabbath, he shall repay his neighbor fourteen fold. If he stole the PSP on a holy or feast day, he shall repay his neighbor a hundredfold. If it was a holy or feast day AND the Sabbath, the man shall have his right hand cut off, but he can keep all his money. However, if the man stole his neighbor’s PSP by accident (it fell into his grain sack while he visited his neighbor, and no one saw it), he shall run to the nearest city of refuge, where he will be safe until he can stand before the High Gaming Priest. Then, whether he stole the PSP by accident or on purpose, he shall sacrifice a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets. If he cannot afford a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets, he may instead offer a Beanie Baby. If he cannot afford a Beanie Baby, he may offer an apple pie, topped with Cool Whip. Also, if a man steals his neighbor’s Nintendo DS, no punishment will befall him, as he has saved his neighbor from an inferior handheld gaming experience.”
And that’s the gist of it. Some peruse the third installment of the works of Moses and see nothing more than an antiquated rulebook of a theocratic society with no relevance to today’s world. When I got around to Leviticus in my yearly Bible reading this year, I expected I would feel the same way about Leviticus as I always had: I would be overwhelmed by the ancient legal mumbo-jumbo and freaked out by the stories in which God rolled out the death penalty for just about everything, and in grand fashion (not unlike the State of Texas today). This go around was different, however. Very different.
As I read each scheduled section for each day, I was reminded, as always, of the extremely tedious nature of the book. For the first time, however, I finally made its connection with the tedious nature of sin. Our rebellion against God and our transgressions from His Law always have consequences much more involved and far-reaching than we realize when we choose to sin. Although God fully and freely grants us forgiveness the moment we offer to Him total and sincere repentance, the repercussions of our actions more often than not have consequences that we must still contend with long after the fact. The procedures for righting wrongs in Leviticus are long, involved, and cumbersome. Maybe one of the whole points of having the whole thing written down for us to read even today is so we would see, in light of the procedure to set things right when we sin, that it is just better not to sin in the first place.
One day I was reading a certain passage in Leviticus that talked about various animal sacrifices. My dog Bruno was sitting at my feet. I love Bruno very much. He is not just a pet, he is a companion. I thought for a moment what it would’ve been like if I lived in the times of Leviticus. What if I had sinned and had to sacrifice Bruno in order to be forgiven by God? I pictured myself having to go to the tabernacle. I imagined having to turn Bruno over to the priest. I envisioned the look of terror on my poor pooch’s face as he was led to the altar against his will, looking back at me as if to ask why I had betrayed him in such a fashion. A flood of anguish came over me as I hugged my dog as tightly as I could, realizing maybe for the first time the cost of sin is never paid only by the person who commits it. (Now, let’s be realistic here, before anyone reports me to PETA, I would never sacrifice my poor, unsuspecting canine. He’s not kosher, for starters. Second, in light of Bruno’s own sins, God would require me to be sacrificed for Bruno’s sins before he would ever be accepted as a sacrifice for mine. I mean, Bruno’s crimes against the neighbors’ shrubs and the Nashville critter population ALONE—but I digress.)
In all seriousness, though, it is startling to think about the amount of blood required to atone for sins in Leviticus when it was all woefully insufficient to take away or forgive sins in the first place. Not only was the blood of animals powerless to forgive sin, it offered no assistance to prevent those who made the offerings from sinning in the future. Hebrews 10 says it all: “But [as it is] these sacrifices annually bring a fresh remembrance of sins [to be atoned for], because the blood of bulls and goats is powerless to take sins away[. . .] [in accordance with this will [of God], we have been made holy (consecrated and sanctified) through the offering made once for all of the body of Jesus Christ (the Anointed One).”
When I read Leviticus now, it makes me very happy. As I read within its pages the vast scope of the consequences of sin, I am reminded of the even greater significance and thoroughness of Jesus’s blood, a better (and final) sacrifice in that it not only atones for all sin for all time, it gives me the power to walk in mercy and obedience, which God said is more desirous to Him than the blood and fat of animals anyway. I am grateful for that perfect, complete offering of the Lamb of God. And, although he couldn’t tell you in so many words, so is Bruno.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Humbled
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from Old Testament scholars accusing me of dissing Leviticus. On the contrary, my hope is to increase its reader traffic and finally give the book the street cred it deserves.
Most Christians and Jews I know read through the Bible/Tanakh each year. My close cronies and I usually dread when we happen up on the Book of Leviticus. The book is a bit of a cross between an annotated legal code and a horror novel. There are nonstop rules, codes, and statutes, along with exceptions to the aforementioned. For those who have never read it, nor have plans to, let me try to replicate some of the themes in a modern fashion to give you an idea of the overall theme of Leviticus’s contents:
“If man steals his neighbor’s Sony PSP, the man shall be required to compensate his neighbor sevenfold. If he stole the PSP on the Sabbath, he shall repay his neighbor fourteen fold. If he stole the PSP on a holy or feast day, he shall repay his neighbor a hundredfold. If it was a holy or feast day AND the Sabbath, the man shall have his right hand cut off, but he can keep all his money. However, if the man stole his neighbor’s PSP by accident (it fell into his grain sack while he visited his neighbor, and no one saw it), he shall run to the nearest city of refuge, where he will be safe until he can stand before the High Gaming Priest. Then, whether he stole the PSP by accident or on purpose, he shall sacrifice a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets. If he cannot afford a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets, he may instead offer a Beanie Baby. If he cannot afford a Beanie Baby, he may offer an apple pie, topped with Cool Whip. Also, if a man steals his neighbor’s Nintendo DS, no punishment will befall him, as he has saved his neighbor from an inferior handheld gaming experience.”
And that’s the gist of it. Some peruse the third installment of the works of Moses and see nothing more than an antiquated rulebook of a theocratic society with no relevance to today’s world. When I got around to Leviticus in my yearly Bible reading this year, I expected I would feel the same way about Leviticus as I always had: I would be overwhelmed by the ancient legal mumbo-jumbo and freaked out by the stories in which God rolled out the death penalty for just about everything, and in grand fashion (not unlike the State of Texas today). This go around was different, however. Very different.
As I read each scheduled section for each day, I was reminded, as always, of the extremely tedious nature of the book. For the first time, however, I finally made its connection with the tedious nature of sin. Our rebellion against God and our transgressions from His Law always have consequences much more involved and far-reaching than we realize when we choose to sin. Although God fully and freely grants us forgiveness the moment we offer to Him total and sincere repentance, the repercussions of our actions more often than not have consequences that we must still contend with long after the fact. The procedures for righting wrongs in Leviticus are long, involved, and cumbersome. Maybe one of the whole points of having the whole thing written down for us to read even today is so we would see, in light of the procedure to set things right when we sin, that it is just better not to sin in the first place.
One day I was reading a certain passage in Leviticus that talked about various animal sacrifices. My dog Bruno was sitting at my feet. I love Bruno very much. He is not just a pet, he is a companion. I thought for a moment what it would’ve been like if I lived in the times of Leviticus. What if I had sinned and had to sacrifice Bruno in order to be forgiven by God? I pictured myself having to go to the tabernacle. I imagined having to turn Bruno over to the priest. I envisioned the look of terror on my poor pooch’s face as he was led to the altar against his will, looking back at me as if to ask why I had betrayed him in such a fashion. A flood of anguish came over me as I hugged my dog as tightly as I could, realizing maybe for the first time the cost of sin is never paid only by the person who commits it. (Now, let’s be realistic here, before anyone reports me to PETA, I would never sacrifice my poor, unsuspecting canine. He’s not kosher, for starters. Second, in light of Bruno’s own sins, God would require me to be sacrificed for Bruno’s sins before he would ever be accepted as a sacrifice for mine. I mean, Bruno’s crimes against the neighbors’ shrubs and the Nashville critter population ALONE—but I digress.)
In all seriousness, though, it is startling to think about the amount of blood required to atone for sins in Leviticus when it was all woefully insufficient to take away or forgive sins in the first place. Not only was the blood of animals powerless to forgive sin, it offered no assistance to prevent those who made the offerings from sinning in the future. Hebrews 10 says it all: “But [as it is] these sacrifices annually bring a fresh remembrance of sins [to be atoned for], because the blood of bulls and goats is powerless to take sins away[. . .] [in accordance with this will [of God], we have been made holy (consecrated and sanctified) through the offering made once for all of the body of Jesus Christ (the Anointed One).”
When I read Leviticus now, it makes me very happy. As I read within its pages the vast scope of the consequences of sin, I am reminded of the even greater significance and thoroughness of Jesus’s blood, a better (and final) sacrifice in that it not only atones for all sin for all time, it gives me the power to walk in mercy and obedience, which God said is more desirous to Him than the blood and fat of animals anyway. I am grateful for that perfect, complete offering of the Lamb of God. And, although he couldn’t tell you in so many words, so is Bruno.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Year of You and Me, Part 4 by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Fearless. Refreshingly So.
DISCLAIMERS: 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. Yes, I have an active imagination. Is that so bad? It makes for good reading, and it keeps me out of the bars at night.
Dear Sharon,
It is a good thing I didn’t get your letter until after you were already gone, because I am sorry to say I might have tried to talk you out of it. That would have been very wrong, letting my desire to see you override your need to be obedient with the utmost haste. So, I am waiting for you with all the patience I can muster, and God is making up the rest, which is a lot, because I have very little when it comes to waiting to see you.
When I got your letter, my mind began to race. “What is it that she needs to do? Why does she need to go away? Why can’t she include me in it? When I find out the particulars, will I like what I find?” I took it all to prayer, however, and God assured me that all was well, this was indeed something He asked you to do alone, and that it was my responsibility to pray for you and stand in the gap for you.
I know you will be free. I know God will meet you with His strength as you meet Him with your obedience. I know all that, but that does not stop me from worrying. I worry because I want to protect you. I worry because I am not there to be strong for you. I’m not worried about you because I think you will fail the task; as I’ve told you before, you are much stronger than you think you are, mostly because you are so honest with your weaknesses before God, which always allows Him to make His strength perfect in them. Mostly, I am worried simply because I blew it so badly being there for you in the past. God dealt with me very strongly about how hard I was on you, and now that I am ready to make good on that, I can’t even physically be there for you for something for which I know you need a lot of strength. I am still learning to trust that God will protect all who concern me.
I have been re-reading the works of Jim and Elisabeth Elliot. Their relationship reminds me so much of ours. They were so different and seemed like such an unlikely couple. However, they had a much rougher go of than we have had in many ways. The not knowing if they were to marry at all, let alone marry each other. Then having to wait five years to be together, and having so many obstacles come in the way during the wait. I came across a letter he wrote to her. She had written to him about a creepy man who hit on her on a public bus while they were separated and how much it scared her. Jim’s letter encapsulates what I feel right now better than I could:
“September 27, 1952—I found myself tearing into small stumps and cutting [the trees and brush] out with one hack, thinking about it on the airstrip a few days ago. And reading it again today, I found the little ball muscles at the jaw bulge and my teeth clench hard as I pictured it. I am afraid there would have been a scene for sure if I had been on hand, Bett—so it is probably better that I wasn’t along, although it probably wouldn’t have happened had I been. But what devils me is that he evidently rides the bus line frequently, and it may happen any old day again. It would be maddening but for the trust that I have in God for you. Time and again I have committed the very matter to Him, knowing better and fearing more male passions than yourself. And I am thankful that you are all that you are for such cases, that I can trust you, even if the man isn’t ugly next time, and that such things find you, though disgusted and a little afraid, firm and resolutely resistant. And I know that He who has so far preserved us for each other will yet do so, Bett, and for the endurance, make the realization so much the sweeter.”
I trust you, Sharon. I trust you because you trust in God for everything. I trust you because of your honesty. I trust you because you trust me the way you do. That is why I can be at peace while I wait a little longer for you than I had hoped, because neither God nor you have given me cause to think otherwise.
There are just a few things I want to say. First of all, I don’t want you to feel ashamed because of how hard you had to struggle to overcome the fears in your life. Do not confuse feeling afraid with being fearful. Satan will stir up our emotions and make us think because we feel afraid, we have already failed the task and disappointed God. Being fearful is letting those feelings keep us from being obedient. Courage is not the absence of fear but perseverance in spite of it. Be mindful, too, that not all fear is ever abolished all at once, at least not for most people. When God told the Israelites to posses the Promised Land, they couldn’t do it all at once. They did it one portion at a time, growing in strength and determination with each successive conquest.
Next, I want you to know that I see the beauty and glory of God in you. From what you’ve told me, and also from what you haven’t, I know it is a struggle for you to see those things in yourself. I can’t say it to you often enough, though. You are lovely. I love the way your face lights up when God has revealed something special to you, particularly if His revelation caught you off guard. The way your eyelids get heavy because you’ve poured yourself out serving someone in need. How you’re not afraid to correct me when I need it, and how you’ve humbly born correction from me in return. The way your love for me, trust in me, submission to me, and forgiveness of my failings have been a constant reminder that the whole of God’s work in and calling on my life are greater than the sum of my shortcomings.
I will be waiting anxiously and prayerfully for your return. When the time comes, and it can’t arrive too soon, I will take you in my arms, bury my face in your neck, and breathe you in until my lungs explode. Do not be afraid as you obey what God has commanded. While apart a little longer, I will be praying on my end, staying on my face before the throne, because you are mine, and you are a joy and a thrill to cover with prayer, and, as you told me, you are so worth it.
Love,
BKR
Mood: Fearless. Refreshingly So.
DISCLAIMERS: 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. Yes, I have an active imagination. Is that so bad? It makes for good reading, and it keeps me out of the bars at night.
Dear Sharon,
It is a good thing I didn’t get your letter until after you were already gone, because I am sorry to say I might have tried to talk you out of it. That would have been very wrong, letting my desire to see you override your need to be obedient with the utmost haste. So, I am waiting for you with all the patience I can muster, and God is making up the rest, which is a lot, because I have very little when it comes to waiting to see you.
When I got your letter, my mind began to race. “What is it that she needs to do? Why does she need to go away? Why can’t she include me in it? When I find out the particulars, will I like what I find?” I took it all to prayer, however, and God assured me that all was well, this was indeed something He asked you to do alone, and that it was my responsibility to pray for you and stand in the gap for you.
I know you will be free. I know God will meet you with His strength as you meet Him with your obedience. I know all that, but that does not stop me from worrying. I worry because I want to protect you. I worry because I am not there to be strong for you. I’m not worried about you because I think you will fail the task; as I’ve told you before, you are much stronger than you think you are, mostly because you are so honest with your weaknesses before God, which always allows Him to make His strength perfect in them. Mostly, I am worried simply because I blew it so badly being there for you in the past. God dealt with me very strongly about how hard I was on you, and now that I am ready to make good on that, I can’t even physically be there for you for something for which I know you need a lot of strength. I am still learning to trust that God will protect all who concern me.
I have been re-reading the works of Jim and Elisabeth Elliot. Their relationship reminds me so much of ours. They were so different and seemed like such an unlikely couple. However, they had a much rougher go of than we have had in many ways. The not knowing if they were to marry at all, let alone marry each other. Then having to wait five years to be together, and having so many obstacles come in the way during the wait. I came across a letter he wrote to her. She had written to him about a creepy man who hit on her on a public bus while they were separated and how much it scared her. Jim’s letter encapsulates what I feel right now better than I could:
“September 27, 1952—I found myself tearing into small stumps and cutting [the trees and brush] out with one hack, thinking about it on the airstrip a few days ago. And reading it again today, I found the little ball muscles at the jaw bulge and my teeth clench hard as I pictured it. I am afraid there would have been a scene for sure if I had been on hand, Bett—so it is probably better that I wasn’t along, although it probably wouldn’t have happened had I been. But what devils me is that he evidently rides the bus line frequently, and it may happen any old day again. It would be maddening but for the trust that I have in God for you. Time and again I have committed the very matter to Him, knowing better and fearing more male passions than yourself. And I am thankful that you are all that you are for such cases, that I can trust you, even if the man isn’t ugly next time, and that such things find you, though disgusted and a little afraid, firm and resolutely resistant. And I know that He who has so far preserved us for each other will yet do so, Bett, and for the endurance, make the realization so much the sweeter.”
I trust you, Sharon. I trust you because you trust in God for everything. I trust you because of your honesty. I trust you because you trust me the way you do. That is why I can be at peace while I wait a little longer for you than I had hoped, because neither God nor you have given me cause to think otherwise.
There are just a few things I want to say. First of all, I don’t want you to feel ashamed because of how hard you had to struggle to overcome the fears in your life. Do not confuse feeling afraid with being fearful. Satan will stir up our emotions and make us think because we feel afraid, we have already failed the task and disappointed God. Being fearful is letting those feelings keep us from being obedient. Courage is not the absence of fear but perseverance in spite of it. Be mindful, too, that not all fear is ever abolished all at once, at least not for most people. When God told the Israelites to posses the Promised Land, they couldn’t do it all at once. They did it one portion at a time, growing in strength and determination with each successive conquest.
Next, I want you to know that I see the beauty and glory of God in you. From what you’ve told me, and also from what you haven’t, I know it is a struggle for you to see those things in yourself. I can’t say it to you often enough, though. You are lovely. I love the way your face lights up when God has revealed something special to you, particularly if His revelation caught you off guard. The way your eyelids get heavy because you’ve poured yourself out serving someone in need. How you’re not afraid to correct me when I need it, and how you’ve humbly born correction from me in return. The way your love for me, trust in me, submission to me, and forgiveness of my failings have been a constant reminder that the whole of God’s work in and calling on my life are greater than the sum of my shortcomings.
I will be waiting anxiously and prayerfully for your return. When the time comes, and it can’t arrive too soon, I will take you in my arms, bury my face in your neck, and breathe you in until my lungs explode. Do not be afraid as you obey what God has commanded. While apart a little longer, I will be praying on my end, staying on my face before the throne, because you are mine, and you are a joy and a thrill to cover with prayer, and, as you told me, you are so worth it.
Love,
BKR
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Year of You and Me, Part 3 by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Hopefully Romantic
DISCLAIMERS: 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. Just please don’t tell my landlord this may be a work of fiction. He told me the Landlady and he want to turn my apartment into a rec room for Landbaby when he turns 16 in 13 years, so I must get married by then, or my landlord will shoot me. Tennesseans subscribe to a very distinct brand of tough love.
Dear BKR,
I read your letter. Then read it again. Then a third time. Then I put it under my pillow so I could absorb it by osmosis while I slept. (Just kidding. You and I both know I don’t sleep…much).
In all seriousness, there is something I have to tell you. I know we’ve gone a year apart, and we’ve been obedient to what God told us, but I must do something before I can see you again. I will be gone for a few weeks, and then, I promise, I will come back to you.
There is something in my life I have not surrendered to God. I have made excuses, tried to rationalize it, but I have learned the hard way that when it comes to following God, He does not allow for backup plans or escape routes. As you have said to me so many times before, obedience must be full and immediate to even deserve the word.
I have not been obedient in this regard. I have wanted to go to the Promised Land while still keeping a foot in Egypt, just in case. At its core, it is a fundamental fear and distrust in His goodness, in His heart towards me, that I must have contingencies in place should His love for me waiver, His will for my life be thwarted, or His arm somehow get shortened.
Fear is an effective, yet death-dealing long-term motivator. I am sorry to report that I have let fear, in its various modes and manifestations, be more of a guiding force in my life than God Who, by His Perfect Love, one of the ways in which He defines Himself, has promised to cast out all fear.
Over the summer, as I tried very hard to process all that had passed between us, I began to see a new counselor. I shared with her many of my insecurities about being a godly woman. She asked me a very pointed question: what did I think the Bible said being a godly woman looked like? What popped into my head was not what I had expected. I told her, “Being at rest.” I recalled much of what the writer of Proverbs 31 and the Apostle Peter said about godly wives. She smiles at the future. Her heart rests in her husband. She is a true daughter of Sarah if she does what is right and doesn’t give way to fear.
I have not known how to rest. I have not been able to quiet my mind. The Word says I am to take my thoughts captive, but instead, I have let my thoughts take me captive. I have suffered the “paralysis of analysis,” which stems directly from fear.
Several weeks ago, I went through one of the worst bouts of insomnia I can remember. I went 72 hours without being able to sleep. As I asked God what was happening, and why none of the things I was doing to be able to sleep worked, it dawned on me that the sleeplessness in my body was a reflection of the restlessness in my spirit.
I have to make the steps necessary to see these fears broken. If my heart cannot rest in God, it cannot rest in you, either. My ancestors were never able to enter the rest of the Promised Land because, in their hearts and minds, their fears had them still bound in Egypt. The agony and exhaustion of staying enslaved has finally overcome the fear of the unknown. What I know now, though, is that it only unknown to me, not to God. And I know that God’s plans for me, whatever they may be, are always for my good and for His glory, so I needn’t worry about the particulars of how it’ll come to pass. I want to love and serve you from a heart full of faith and trust in the Husband of Whom you are a reflection.
Pray for me, as I get myself ready. God has promised me rest. God has proclaimed that Canaan is mine. However, I must still cross the Jordan. I must still make the effort to posses the land. His calling is so worth the obstacles I must overcome. You are so worth it.
Love,
Sharon
Mood: Hopefully Romantic
DISCLAIMERS: 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. Just please don’t tell my landlord this may be a work of fiction. He told me the Landlady and he want to turn my apartment into a rec room for Landbaby when he turns 16 in 13 years, so I must get married by then, or my landlord will shoot me. Tennesseans subscribe to a very distinct brand of tough love.
Dear BKR,
I read your letter. Then read it again. Then a third time. Then I put it under my pillow so I could absorb it by osmosis while I slept. (Just kidding. You and I both know I don’t sleep…much).
In all seriousness, there is something I have to tell you. I know we’ve gone a year apart, and we’ve been obedient to what God told us, but I must do something before I can see you again. I will be gone for a few weeks, and then, I promise, I will come back to you.
There is something in my life I have not surrendered to God. I have made excuses, tried to rationalize it, but I have learned the hard way that when it comes to following God, He does not allow for backup plans or escape routes. As you have said to me so many times before, obedience must be full and immediate to even deserve the word.
I have not been obedient in this regard. I have wanted to go to the Promised Land while still keeping a foot in Egypt, just in case. At its core, it is a fundamental fear and distrust in His goodness, in His heart towards me, that I must have contingencies in place should His love for me waiver, His will for my life be thwarted, or His arm somehow get shortened.
Fear is an effective, yet death-dealing long-term motivator. I am sorry to report that I have let fear, in its various modes and manifestations, be more of a guiding force in my life than God Who, by His Perfect Love, one of the ways in which He defines Himself, has promised to cast out all fear.
Over the summer, as I tried very hard to process all that had passed between us, I began to see a new counselor. I shared with her many of my insecurities about being a godly woman. She asked me a very pointed question: what did I think the Bible said being a godly woman looked like? What popped into my head was not what I had expected. I told her, “Being at rest.” I recalled much of what the writer of Proverbs 31 and the Apostle Peter said about godly wives. She smiles at the future. Her heart rests in her husband. She is a true daughter of Sarah if she does what is right and doesn’t give way to fear.
I have not known how to rest. I have not been able to quiet my mind. The Word says I am to take my thoughts captive, but instead, I have let my thoughts take me captive. I have suffered the “paralysis of analysis,” which stems directly from fear.
Several weeks ago, I went through one of the worst bouts of insomnia I can remember. I went 72 hours without being able to sleep. As I asked God what was happening, and why none of the things I was doing to be able to sleep worked, it dawned on me that the sleeplessness in my body was a reflection of the restlessness in my spirit.
I have to make the steps necessary to see these fears broken. If my heart cannot rest in God, it cannot rest in you, either. My ancestors were never able to enter the rest of the Promised Land because, in their hearts and minds, their fears had them still bound in Egypt. The agony and exhaustion of staying enslaved has finally overcome the fear of the unknown. What I know now, though, is that it only unknown to me, not to God. And I know that God’s plans for me, whatever they may be, are always for my good and for His glory, so I needn’t worry about the particulars of how it’ll come to pass. I want to love and serve you from a heart full of faith and trust in the Husband of Whom you are a reflection.
Pray for me, as I get myself ready. God has promised me rest. God has proclaimed that Canaan is mine. However, I must still cross the Jordan. I must still make the effort to posses the land. His calling is so worth the obstacles I must overcome. You are so worth it.
Love,
Sharon
Friday, May 20, 2011
Mystic Rythms by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Rush(ed)
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from any irate Rush fans. If Neil Peart, the band’s lyricist, is kind enough to leave his songs open to the listener’s interpretation, then so should all of you.
I began 2011 in a most joyful and unexpected manner: a kiss shared with a handsome gentleman (and I don’t mean my dog, Bruno, either). The last time I had a New Year’s kiss was New Year’s of 2000, and I think that was only because we were all so grateful the over-hyped Y2K apocalypse had failed to materialize. Needless to say, I had envisioned this year going much differently than it has, not just in the aforementioned kissing department, but also with a number of other things. Allow me to explain.
In December, as I prayed about what God wanted me to do in the coming year, I felt that getting in shape was to be a top priority. I enlisted some help from a trainer, who advised me, among other things, to use an elliptical machine. Since part of God’s provision was a free health club membership, I knew this was something I must do. However, I had not done well with going to the gym in the past, mostly because my health had not been up to it, nor did I like the repetition of the routines, which bored me to tears. I felt very strongly, though, as the New Year approached, that God really wanted me to press through with the new fitness regimen, and I thought this time around, it would be different, which it was. However, it wasn’t in the way I expected.
The New Year, along with the new exercise routine, brought some unexpected opportunities and challenges. I had a relapse with an ongoing health problem. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had stopped responding to the medication I had been taking for the last 18 months, and tests from my doctor would later prove to be inaccurate. I felt horribly weak and “foggy” in my thinking all the time. Several dear friends began to experience life-altering circumstances, which God asked me to help them walk through. A new business venture I felt called to embark on got off to a very rocky start. God brought some seekers into my life into whom I have poured a lot of myself. And in keeping with tradition, I lost an aunt I loved greatly and a dear friend within two weeks of one another. Life was once again full of triumphs and tragedies, with the tragedies, as usual, hitting all at once. As happy as I was to serve my friends and be Jesus to those who do not know Him, in many ways, I felt as if I was ministering from an empty vessel. Feeling emotionally and physically drained, the last thing I wanted to do was go to the gym and get on the elliptical machine every day. But because I felt so strongly that I needed to follow through with what I felt was God’s leading me to do, I went anyway. Turns out I got more than I bargained for on that one.
My first time on the elliptical machine, I spent 30 minutes, and when I got off, I collapsed. My legs became the consistency of whipped cream, except not as firm. I resolved, however, I would remain undaunted, and even if I didn’t accomplish anything else in the day, I would get on the elliptical.
About two weeks into it, my workouts took on a different tone, mostly because I got a new cell phone that had an mp3 player built in, allowing me to listen to music and sermons as I exercised. As I would crank the praise tunes, the workout room turned into the Throne Room, and as I pushed myself more and more physically to the tune of the goodness of God, the term “sacrifice of praise” took on new meaning. What I noticed most, though, was how I was paying more attention to the beats and cadences of everything around me. It began with the “whoosh, whoosh” of the elliptical pedals as they rise and fall on the wheel. What had begun as annoying pulse turned into an enchanting lilt.
Pressing into the New Year, and putting my hands to so many different ploughs, my time on the elliptical proved to be a prayerful, praise-ful refuge, and the meter of the machine’s movements continued to provide me with an unusual and mysterious reminder of God’s presence.
The year after I graduated high school, a friend of mine introduced me to the band Rush. As a band, Rush is loved and respected the world over for its lyrics and musicianship. Their drummer, Neil Peart, is certainly no exception. Many of their songs will go through multiple complex time signature changes, which, in the hands of lesser musicians, would sound like a desperate cacophony. However, they have pulled off these intricate rhythmic arrangements time and again in the duration of their almost four decades together as a band, and the beauty of the cohesiveness of such mind-blowingly diverse rhythms presented in the course of a single song never ceases to amaze me.
One night in recent days, I broke out a Rush CD. It had been a whirlwind of a day: the completion of my fireplace project, a minor car accident, news of my friend’s death, and an intense evening of ministry with a dear friend who needed to be talked down from the proverbial ledge. I listened to one of my favorite Rush songs, entitled “Mystic Rhythms.” When I heard the song, I felt that pull and that presence that, over the last few months, had become so familiar and soothing to me. Some of the percussion in the song reminded me of the rhythms of the elliptical machine. I thought back to the advent of 2011, and the sweet kiss that had filled me with hope. Then my mind regressed even further to my last boyfriend. One of my favorite memories of him was when we would stay up late to talk, and in those late night hours, when at times I felt frustrated, sad, or simply restless, he would pull me close to him, put my head to his chest, and I would listen to the smooth, steady beat of his heart. The sweet memory of a heart that at one time beat for me. The haunting, intrusive-yet-inviting syncopations of Neil Peart’s words and percussion. The almost tangible sensation and sounds of the elliptical circling under my feet. I was overwhelmed.
At that moment, I realized why something like the sound of an exercise machine, a noise which, a year ago, would’ve driven me crazy, had become for me a life line: the steady up and down pulse was an echo of the heartbeat of God. That heart which beats surely and steadily. That heart which beats in every season of my life, and no matter how complex, erratic, and out of control the rhythms of my life seem, that heart is ever vigilant to drive those syncopations into harmony with His, making my life a sweet, joyful song that shows the beautiful music is His doing and not mine.
Change is on the horizon for me. New ministry opportunities, both informal and organized, are opening. God is asking me to do something without telling me the purpose or the outcome. As I stand at the precipice, make preparations, and set my face to the wind, I hear that lovely rhythm in my spirit, reminding me that in the symphony of my life, the Lover of my soul is the Conductor, keeping perfect time, and resolving every downbeat.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!!
Mood: Rush(ed)
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from any irate Rush fans. If Neil Peart, the band’s lyricist, is kind enough to leave his songs open to the listener’s interpretation, then so should all of you.
I began 2011 in a most joyful and unexpected manner: a kiss shared with a handsome gentleman (and I don’t mean my dog, Bruno, either). The last time I had a New Year’s kiss was New Year’s of 2000, and I think that was only because we were all so grateful the over-hyped Y2K apocalypse had failed to materialize. Needless to say, I had envisioned this year going much differently than it has, not just in the aforementioned kissing department, but also with a number of other things. Allow me to explain.
In December, as I prayed about what God wanted me to do in the coming year, I felt that getting in shape was to be a top priority. I enlisted some help from a trainer, who advised me, among other things, to use an elliptical machine. Since part of God’s provision was a free health club membership, I knew this was something I must do. However, I had not done well with going to the gym in the past, mostly because my health had not been up to it, nor did I like the repetition of the routines, which bored me to tears. I felt very strongly, though, as the New Year approached, that God really wanted me to press through with the new fitness regimen, and I thought this time around, it would be different, which it was. However, it wasn’t in the way I expected.
The New Year, along with the new exercise routine, brought some unexpected opportunities and challenges. I had a relapse with an ongoing health problem. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I had stopped responding to the medication I had been taking for the last 18 months, and tests from my doctor would later prove to be inaccurate. I felt horribly weak and “foggy” in my thinking all the time. Several dear friends began to experience life-altering circumstances, which God asked me to help them walk through. A new business venture I felt called to embark on got off to a very rocky start. God brought some seekers into my life into whom I have poured a lot of myself. And in keeping with tradition, I lost an aunt I loved greatly and a dear friend within two weeks of one another. Life was once again full of triumphs and tragedies, with the tragedies, as usual, hitting all at once. As happy as I was to serve my friends and be Jesus to those who do not know Him, in many ways, I felt as if I was ministering from an empty vessel. Feeling emotionally and physically drained, the last thing I wanted to do was go to the gym and get on the elliptical machine every day. But because I felt so strongly that I needed to follow through with what I felt was God’s leading me to do, I went anyway. Turns out I got more than I bargained for on that one.
My first time on the elliptical machine, I spent 30 minutes, and when I got off, I collapsed. My legs became the consistency of whipped cream, except not as firm. I resolved, however, I would remain undaunted, and even if I didn’t accomplish anything else in the day, I would get on the elliptical.
About two weeks into it, my workouts took on a different tone, mostly because I got a new cell phone that had an mp3 player built in, allowing me to listen to music and sermons as I exercised. As I would crank the praise tunes, the workout room turned into the Throne Room, and as I pushed myself more and more physically to the tune of the goodness of God, the term “sacrifice of praise” took on new meaning. What I noticed most, though, was how I was paying more attention to the beats and cadences of everything around me. It began with the “whoosh, whoosh” of the elliptical pedals as they rise and fall on the wheel. What had begun as annoying pulse turned into an enchanting lilt.
Pressing into the New Year, and putting my hands to so many different ploughs, my time on the elliptical proved to be a prayerful, praise-ful refuge, and the meter of the machine’s movements continued to provide me with an unusual and mysterious reminder of God’s presence.
The year after I graduated high school, a friend of mine introduced me to the band Rush. As a band, Rush is loved and respected the world over for its lyrics and musicianship. Their drummer, Neil Peart, is certainly no exception. Many of their songs will go through multiple complex time signature changes, which, in the hands of lesser musicians, would sound like a desperate cacophony. However, they have pulled off these intricate rhythmic arrangements time and again in the duration of their almost four decades together as a band, and the beauty of the cohesiveness of such mind-blowingly diverse rhythms presented in the course of a single song never ceases to amaze me.
One night in recent days, I broke out a Rush CD. It had been a whirlwind of a day: the completion of my fireplace project, a minor car accident, news of my friend’s death, and an intense evening of ministry with a dear friend who needed to be talked down from the proverbial ledge. I listened to one of my favorite Rush songs, entitled “Mystic Rhythms.” When I heard the song, I felt that pull and that presence that, over the last few months, had become so familiar and soothing to me. Some of the percussion in the song reminded me of the rhythms of the elliptical machine. I thought back to the advent of 2011, and the sweet kiss that had filled me with hope. Then my mind regressed even further to my last boyfriend. One of my favorite memories of him was when we would stay up late to talk, and in those late night hours, when at times I felt frustrated, sad, or simply restless, he would pull me close to him, put my head to his chest, and I would listen to the smooth, steady beat of his heart. The sweet memory of a heart that at one time beat for me. The haunting, intrusive-yet-inviting syncopations of Neil Peart’s words and percussion. The almost tangible sensation and sounds of the elliptical circling under my feet. I was overwhelmed.
At that moment, I realized why something like the sound of an exercise machine, a noise which, a year ago, would’ve driven me crazy, had become for me a life line: the steady up and down pulse was an echo of the heartbeat of God. That heart which beats surely and steadily. That heart which beats in every season of my life, and no matter how complex, erratic, and out of control the rhythms of my life seem, that heart is ever vigilant to drive those syncopations into harmony with His, making my life a sweet, joyful song that shows the beautiful music is His doing and not mine.
Change is on the horizon for me. New ministry opportunities, both informal and organized, are opening. God is asking me to do something without telling me the purpose or the outcome. As I stand at the precipice, make preparations, and set my face to the wind, I hear that lovely rhythm in my spirit, reminding me that in the symphony of my life, the Lover of my soul is the Conductor, keeping perfect time, and resolving every downbeat.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!!
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Getting in the Way by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Sober
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from the Department of Transportation or any kind of Motorist Safety Groups. Just to be on the safe side, however, I will state now: please do not attempt any vehicle stunts such as described in this blog unless you are a professional (or from New Jersey).
Wednesday, March 18, 2009, 9:25 PM. I was sitting at a red light at the end of an exit ramp off the interstate waiting to turn on to the road on which my job was located. As was my ritual when heading to work, I stared at the clock on my radio, hoping that if I focused all my mental energy on the clock, I could turn back time. As I once again engaged in this always-fruitless endeavor, I heard a crash. I looked up and saw a black pickup truck flying to the right of me, a large wheel coming straight towards me, and a Jeep Wrangler, spinning and flying, heading for the front driver’s side of my car. Even though the collision did not cause my air bag to deploy, I was convinced my car would not be drivable. A three-ring circus of law enforcement, emergency medical crews, wreckers, frantic phone calls, and emotional statements ensued. After about 30 minutes, my neck and back began to stiffen up, and I knew a trip to the emergency room was inevitable.
I waited patiently as the police and EMTs attended to one of the passengers in the Jeep who was very seriously injured. My eyes kept getting drawn to the small ditch on the right of the exit ramp, where the force of the Jeep hitting me could’ve easily sent me. The wrecker crew had to detach the Jeep from my car before they could assess the damage to mine; they were finding it difficult. One of the wrecker drivers asked me to try to start my car and see if I could back up. To my surprise, I could do both, and doing so allowed them to extricate the Jeep and get it hooked up to the wrecker. I then pulled my car to the side, got out, and walked to the front to examine what I was sure was going to be a giant eyesore. Instead, all I found was a cracked headlight and a dent in the front driver’s side quarter panel.
“I don’t understand,” I said to the wrecker driver and police officer who had walked up next to me. “Shouldn’t there be more damage?”
“A lot more,” the wrecker driver replied.
“You’re blessed, ma’am,” the cop chimed into the discussion.
“I guess I am,” I responded.
I drove myself to the hospital. The diagnosis was nothing serious: some whiplash. I missed a week of work and had to go to physical therapy for five weeks.
It’s been two years since the accident, and nothing has been settled. Although the police and all insurance companies involved agree that the accident was not my fault, they are bickering over who was at fault. Both the Jeep driver and the pickup truck driver claim they had the right of way at the intersection. In the meantime, I have still not seen anything for my lost wages, damage to my car, or medical expenses I paid out of my pocket. I was summoned to be deposed last week in order to go on record with my version of what happened. I set out that morning with a chip on my shoulder and a bad attitude, hoping the day would end with resolution and possible compensation. What I got instead was badly needed perspective.
First of all, my GPS went fakakta, so I had trouble finding my way downtown to the attorney’s office where the deposition was being held. Upon arriving, I made my way into the building’s adjoining parking garage. I won’t elaborate too much on why it took me almost 30 minutes to park my car and make it out of the garage, except to say I hope the crack smoked by the engineers who designed the parking garage was worth it. When I got to the attorney’s office, I found out that not only was I scheduled to be deposed, but the driver of the pickup truck, the driver of the Jeep, and one of her passengers were also supposed to be in attendance. The pickup truck driver never showed, which was bad, because everyone more or less believes he is the one at fault. This, of course, means that if his insurance company can’t get him to cooperate, I might have to wait to get compensation until Jesus comes back…or longer. Another problem is the driver of the Jeep and her passenger couldn’t even agree on whether they were trying to enter the interstate or if they had just exited the interstate when the collision occurred. As I sat and listened to the Jeep people give their statements and the three attorneys do their attorneying, I felt my blood pressure begin to spike, until one of the lawyers said, “The force of the pickup truck hitting the Jeep took off its wheel and sent it into Miss Lurie’s car. In fact, if her car had not been there to stop the Jeep, it would’ve rolled, and everyone in the Jeep could’ve been killed.”
The revelation gnawed at me for the next few days, sending me into loud, obnoxious crying fits. I pray all the time for God to use me, to make a difference in people’s lives, and to do things that will matter for eternity. I see now that my vision of being God’s instrument was very narrow. I was the only thing between that Jeep and a roll down into a ditch, which might’ve meant death. The driver of the Jeep was only 17 at the time, and her passenger is a wife and mother of four. I suffered a little pain and a little inconvenience. In return, a girl gets to become a woman and a young family is spared the pain of having its heart ripped out.
With the season of Passover and Easter upon us, I thought of how I was the flying, spinning, rolling out of control Jeep, and the Cross was the barricade between me and the pit of Hell that enabled me to pass over from death to eternal life. On that March evening two years ago, I got in the way, so total strangers could have another two years. On an August evening 24 years ago, Jesus got in my way so I could have life without end. I pray I will keep His Example before me daily, and get in the way of those who don’t know Him more often.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Sober
DISCLAIMERS: 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 don’t want to hear from the Department of Transportation or any kind of Motorist Safety Groups. Just to be on the safe side, however, I will state now: please do not attempt any vehicle stunts such as described in this blog unless you are a professional (or from New Jersey).
Wednesday, March 18, 2009, 9:25 PM. I was sitting at a red light at the end of an exit ramp off the interstate waiting to turn on to the road on which my job was located. As was my ritual when heading to work, I stared at the clock on my radio, hoping that if I focused all my mental energy on the clock, I could turn back time. As I once again engaged in this always-fruitless endeavor, I heard a crash. I looked up and saw a black pickup truck flying to the right of me, a large wheel coming straight towards me, and a Jeep Wrangler, spinning and flying, heading for the front driver’s side of my car. Even though the collision did not cause my air bag to deploy, I was convinced my car would not be drivable. A three-ring circus of law enforcement, emergency medical crews, wreckers, frantic phone calls, and emotional statements ensued. After about 30 minutes, my neck and back began to stiffen up, and I knew a trip to the emergency room was inevitable.
I waited patiently as the police and EMTs attended to one of the passengers in the Jeep who was very seriously injured. My eyes kept getting drawn to the small ditch on the right of the exit ramp, where the force of the Jeep hitting me could’ve easily sent me. The wrecker crew had to detach the Jeep from my car before they could assess the damage to mine; they were finding it difficult. One of the wrecker drivers asked me to try to start my car and see if I could back up. To my surprise, I could do both, and doing so allowed them to extricate the Jeep and get it hooked up to the wrecker. I then pulled my car to the side, got out, and walked to the front to examine what I was sure was going to be a giant eyesore. Instead, all I found was a cracked headlight and a dent in the front driver’s side quarter panel.
“I don’t understand,” I said to the wrecker driver and police officer who had walked up next to me. “Shouldn’t there be more damage?”
“A lot more,” the wrecker driver replied.
“You’re blessed, ma’am,” the cop chimed into the discussion.
“I guess I am,” I responded.
I drove myself to the hospital. The diagnosis was nothing serious: some whiplash. I missed a week of work and had to go to physical therapy for five weeks.
It’s been two years since the accident, and nothing has been settled. Although the police and all insurance companies involved agree that the accident was not my fault, they are bickering over who was at fault. Both the Jeep driver and the pickup truck driver claim they had the right of way at the intersection. In the meantime, I have still not seen anything for my lost wages, damage to my car, or medical expenses I paid out of my pocket. I was summoned to be deposed last week in order to go on record with my version of what happened. I set out that morning with a chip on my shoulder and a bad attitude, hoping the day would end with resolution and possible compensation. What I got instead was badly needed perspective.
First of all, my GPS went fakakta, so I had trouble finding my way downtown to the attorney’s office where the deposition was being held. Upon arriving, I made my way into the building’s adjoining parking garage. I won’t elaborate too much on why it took me almost 30 minutes to park my car and make it out of the garage, except to say I hope the crack smoked by the engineers who designed the parking garage was worth it. When I got to the attorney’s office, I found out that not only was I scheduled to be deposed, but the driver of the pickup truck, the driver of the Jeep, and one of her passengers were also supposed to be in attendance. The pickup truck driver never showed, which was bad, because everyone more or less believes he is the one at fault. This, of course, means that if his insurance company can’t get him to cooperate, I might have to wait to get compensation until Jesus comes back…or longer. Another problem is the driver of the Jeep and her passenger couldn’t even agree on whether they were trying to enter the interstate or if they had just exited the interstate when the collision occurred. As I sat and listened to the Jeep people give their statements and the three attorneys do their attorneying, I felt my blood pressure begin to spike, until one of the lawyers said, “The force of the pickup truck hitting the Jeep took off its wheel and sent it into Miss Lurie’s car. In fact, if her car had not been there to stop the Jeep, it would’ve rolled, and everyone in the Jeep could’ve been killed.”
The revelation gnawed at me for the next few days, sending me into loud, obnoxious crying fits. I pray all the time for God to use me, to make a difference in people’s lives, and to do things that will matter for eternity. I see now that my vision of being God’s instrument was very narrow. I was the only thing between that Jeep and a roll down into a ditch, which might’ve meant death. The driver of the Jeep was only 17 at the time, and her passenger is a wife and mother of four. I suffered a little pain and a little inconvenience. In return, a girl gets to become a woman and a young family is spared the pain of having its heart ripped out.
With the season of Passover and Easter upon us, I thought of how I was the flying, spinning, rolling out of control Jeep, and the Cross was the barricade between me and the pit of Hell that enabled me to pass over from death to eternal life. On that March evening two years ago, I got in the way, so total strangers could have another two years. On an August evening 24 years ago, Jesus got in my way so I could have life without end. I pray I will keep His Example before me daily, and get in the way of those who don’t know Him more often.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
The Quake by Sharon Lurie
© 2010 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Historic
DISCLAIMERS: 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 any complaints from any country musicians. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just trying to help my readers have good taste in music.
I despise country music. It’s not so much a style thing as it is a matter of principle. The way I see it, country music encourages inbreeding and illiteracy, and when I hear it, I can’t help but envision people marrying their siblings and drinking whiskey with cupped hands out of big wooden barrels. Just kidding, of course. Well, maybe not totally kidding.
My first encounter with country music was at the age of 18. I had moved from New Jersey to Indiana to go to college. A co-worker at my part-time job, a very sullen and melancholy girl, invited me to her house after work. I had wondered why she was depressed all the time, and after 20 minutes in her living room, I knew why. The music she played on her stereo the twangiest, most joy-zapping music I had ever had the displeasure of hearing. I finally looked at her and said, “This is why you’re bummed out all the time! Stop listening to this stuff! I’ve only been here 20 minutes and I want to jump in front of a semi! Put on some pop or Gospel! Heck, I’d even be happy if you turned on some gangster rap so you could get a little fight in you!”
My experiences with country music have only gotten worse since then. I might even go so far as to say that it is not God’s will for me to like country. I have many friends who tell me I just heard some bad stuff, that most of it is quite moral and upbeat, etc., but every time I say I will give it a chance and then turn on the radio, the country song I hear is either woefully depressing and downbeat or it’s describing some sort of activity punishable by stoning under ancient Jewish law. For example, after a recent lecture from a close friend about the virtues of country music, I decided once again to give it a chance. So, while at the gym, I turned on the country music video channel, and the name of the first song I saw was “White Trash with Money.” Like I said, I don’t think it’s God’s will for me to like country. So, when my friend Charlotte came to visit and asked if we could check out The Ryman Auditorium, nicknamed “The Mother Church of Country Music,” being the good hostess I am, I obliged and braced myself to have my ears assailed. I was cut to the heart instead.
Charlotte wanted pictures inside and outside the building. As I took a few pictures of the side facing Fifth Avenue North, I noticed a white inscription towards the top: Union Gospel Tabernacle 1892. I was intrigued, because I’d not before heard the building referred to as such. I was anxious to get inside and investigate the matter further.
After we paid our admission for the tour, we sat down to a short informational video about the history of the Ryman. Sure enough, the building had started out with the name “Union Gospel Tabernacle.” Thomas Ryman, a riverboat captain and saloon owner in Nashville, was upset because evangelist Samuel Porter Jones was in town, preaching repentance and the evils of strong drink. On May 10, 1885, Ryman went to one of Jones’s revival meetings in order to heckle the preacher. Instead, he came to faith in Jesus Christ and decided to build a revival hall for Jones, which would, according to the video, “make the sinners quake.” Indeed, the architectural design of the tabernacle is just as impressive as its spiritual and musical history. Ryman wanted the tabernacle to have the best acoustics possible so that Jones could preach to the greatest number of people without worrying about not being heard. The acoustics at the tabernacle are better than those of Carnegie Hall and are second only to those in the Mormon Tabernacle.
The tabernacle opened its doors officially in 1892, hosting some of the greatest evangelists of the day and seeing multitudes get saved. Following Ryman’s death in 1904, the building was renamed the Ryman Auditorium, and soon became the showcase of bluegrass, the forerunner to modern country music. Over the years, the building has hosted all sorts of musical talent and programs, including the famous Grand Ole Opry. The Ryman still serves as a musical and performance venue, but during the day, it serves as a museum that chronicles the history of country, bluegrass, and musical comedy. Even though I’m not a fan of country, I found all the history fascinating.
One little display on the bottom floor in the back of the pews caught my eye. In it were souvenirs and tokens from the various evangelists who had preached at the Ryman, as well as a chronology of the spiritual beginnings of the building. My mind began to race, and I wondered how the building went from being an evangelistic hall to a musical venue. I wondered if this was what Thomas Ryman and Samuel Porter Jones envisioned when the doors first opened. Captain Ryman wanted a place for people to come to feel the overwhelming presence and power of the Holy Spirit, the quake, if you will. What started as a vision for a gateway to Heaven is now just a museum that tells the story of great things that used to happen in the past but are now since forgotten.
My thoughts drifted to my arrival in Nashville ten years earlier. God had told me to move, that He wanted to use me to reach the lost through music, writing, film, etc., and I was all gung-ho. I was ripe for the challenge, empowered for the journey, and anxious to be an instrument through which He would work. Fast forward a decade, and in my place I saw a woman who was cynical, critical, bereft of all imagination about how God works, and too tired to try any more.
So many people come to Nashville with aspirations of becoming the next big thing in Christian (or country) music. We get all pumped up, excited to do music ministry and ready to endure persecution for the sake of the Gospel. In my tenure here, however, I have met too many who have abandoned all music ministry aspirations, and even more who have abandoned their relationship with God altogether. The circumstances that cause us to veer off course vary, but the heart issues are usually the same: disappointment with God and/or disappointment with people.
Over the years, I’ve swapped stories with others who find themselves not doing what they originally thought they were supposed to in Music City, and discussed the reasons why we gave up on our dreams, callings, or whatever name we assign them. For some, it was simply impatience with waiting for doors to open up. For others, it was the inability to support themselves on musical ventures. One co-worker told me the story of a song she wrote, and of the musical collaborator who took that song, sold it, and didn’t give her any credit for it, and my co-worker hasn’t done anything of a musical nature since. Another friend spoke of the hurt she felt while doing background vocals for a Christian artist, only to have the checks for her work bounce, and the artist never made good on them. Still, for others, it was the criticism received not from unbelievers, but fellow Christians who tell them their music or writing lacks any redemptive quality, or that they need to just “get a real job.” For me, it was seeing those who were talented but completely lacking in spiritual maturity placed in the spotlight, even though the way they lived their lives was a stumbling block to those they were meant to reach. It was the discouragement that I wanted to play anywhere, including jails and homeless shelters, but often couldn’t get any of my fellow Christian musicians to go to those places with me because they too often seemed only concerned to play somewhere they would be “noticed.”
Most people, myself included, had no idea the Ryman had any kind of spiritual beginnings or was anything other than a music hall. I’ve been here ten years now, and most everyone I know has no idea that I sing or write songs. How do we get so off course, not just from our musical dreams, but from what we once believed so strongly was our calling from God? My visit to the Ryman brought up an even more important question, however. For some people, it’s not just that they have abandoned what they once thought their ministry calling was, but they have abandoned their relationship with God altogether and now live a life devoid of joy and meaning. It is bad enough to forsake one’s vision, but even worse to forsake the One who gave us that vision, and called us first and foremost not to be His minister, but to be His Bride and His worshipper. For too many people, we have not only left our first calling, we have, as the Church at Ephesus, left our first love. It is a scary thing to find myself years down the road telling myself, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” It is far scarier when I hear myself say “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I thought about my own journey, what I believed God said to me when I first moved here, and what He was saying to me now. How I was willing to endure persecution for the sake of the Gospel, but got blindsided because I didn’t expect the persecution to come in such clandestine fashion, from places I did not expect, people and places that should have been friendly to the Gospel. How I confused fickle, unstable man for changeless, immutable God. How Jesus said that no servant is greater than his master, and if I was to follow Him, I would at some point encounter the same trials and hardships He did. How God never called me to make a name for myself in Christian music, but called me to endeavor to make His Name a praise on Earth. These visions and ministries may start with what God places inside of us, but they’re never supposed to end there. Oh, how far had I strayed. Oh, how unrecognizable as a truly devoted disciple I had become.
Everyone who buys a tour of the Ryman is allowed to sing on the stage. Of course, Charlotte wanted to do it and make a recording to show her family. I thought, “Well, I may not get this opportunity again either, so I’ll make a recording of my own.”
With my phone’s video camera running, I took the stage and, because it seemed appropriate, sang “Revive Us, Again.” As I sang the song, all of a sudden, there it was. The quake. There were lots of sinners at the Ryman that day, and I couldn’t say with any certainty whether they felt it, but I certainly did. It wasn’t because I was impressed with delusions of my musical and vocal prowess. It was because of the Audience of One to Whom I sang, and the enormity and solemnity of the request I made to Him. “God, please revive me again! Bring me back to the purpose for which You brought me to Nashville, and which You saved me from my sin. It’s not about me. It’s about You. I have to decrease and You must be the One to increase. You are most glorified when my will and my flesh are crucified. I have lost my joy, my passion to serve, and my burning to see souls saved. Please revive me. Remind who I am and from whence I came.”
God gives us visions and calls us to different things, but it’s up to Him how and when those visions and callings are fulfilled. Just because He gives us a vision, doesn’t mean we can hold on to it and manipulate it to make it work out the way we want. Taking the reigns in such fashion is where we begin to lose the vision, our fellowship with God, and certainty of whom we really are. Most people in the Bible didn’t see the results of their labor in the LORD in their lifetime, but their legacies of devotion and faithfulness still inspire and transform people today. We often even pray, “God, such and such will be worth it if only one person gets saved.” However, not even that should be our motivation. Obedience and devotion to God are worth it simply because the One Who asks the obedience and devotion from us is worthy to receive them, and our willingness to give those things immediately and fully bring Him joy. In the end, it is God doing most of the work, doing the writing of the story of our lives, and speaking through us. At the most, we can say we let ourselves be His mouthpiece, and that is the way it should be.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Historic
DISCLAIMERS: 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 any complaints from any country musicians. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just trying to help my readers have good taste in music.
I despise country music. It’s not so much a style thing as it is a matter of principle. The way I see it, country music encourages inbreeding and illiteracy, and when I hear it, I can’t help but envision people marrying their siblings and drinking whiskey with cupped hands out of big wooden barrels. Just kidding, of course. Well, maybe not totally kidding.
My first encounter with country music was at the age of 18. I had moved from New Jersey to Indiana to go to college. A co-worker at my part-time job, a very sullen and melancholy girl, invited me to her house after work. I had wondered why she was depressed all the time, and after 20 minutes in her living room, I knew why. The music she played on her stereo the twangiest, most joy-zapping music I had ever had the displeasure of hearing. I finally looked at her and said, “This is why you’re bummed out all the time! Stop listening to this stuff! I’ve only been here 20 minutes and I want to jump in front of a semi! Put on some pop or Gospel! Heck, I’d even be happy if you turned on some gangster rap so you could get a little fight in you!”
My experiences with country music have only gotten worse since then. I might even go so far as to say that it is not God’s will for me to like country. I have many friends who tell me I just heard some bad stuff, that most of it is quite moral and upbeat, etc., but every time I say I will give it a chance and then turn on the radio, the country song I hear is either woefully depressing and downbeat or it’s describing some sort of activity punishable by stoning under ancient Jewish law. For example, after a recent lecture from a close friend about the virtues of country music, I decided once again to give it a chance. So, while at the gym, I turned on the country music video channel, and the name of the first song I saw was “White Trash with Money.” Like I said, I don’t think it’s God’s will for me to like country. So, when my friend Charlotte came to visit and asked if we could check out The Ryman Auditorium, nicknamed “The Mother Church of Country Music,” being the good hostess I am, I obliged and braced myself to have my ears assailed. I was cut to the heart instead.
Charlotte wanted pictures inside and outside the building. As I took a few pictures of the side facing Fifth Avenue North, I noticed a white inscription towards the top: Union Gospel Tabernacle 1892. I was intrigued, because I’d not before heard the building referred to as such. I was anxious to get inside and investigate the matter further.
After we paid our admission for the tour, we sat down to a short informational video about the history of the Ryman. Sure enough, the building had started out with the name “Union Gospel Tabernacle.” Thomas Ryman, a riverboat captain and saloon owner in Nashville, was upset because evangelist Samuel Porter Jones was in town, preaching repentance and the evils of strong drink. On May 10, 1885, Ryman went to one of Jones’s revival meetings in order to heckle the preacher. Instead, he came to faith in Jesus Christ and decided to build a revival hall for Jones, which would, according to the video, “make the sinners quake.” Indeed, the architectural design of the tabernacle is just as impressive as its spiritual and musical history. Ryman wanted the tabernacle to have the best acoustics possible so that Jones could preach to the greatest number of people without worrying about not being heard. The acoustics at the tabernacle are better than those of Carnegie Hall and are second only to those in the Mormon Tabernacle.
The tabernacle opened its doors officially in 1892, hosting some of the greatest evangelists of the day and seeing multitudes get saved. Following Ryman’s death in 1904, the building was renamed the Ryman Auditorium, and soon became the showcase of bluegrass, the forerunner to modern country music. Over the years, the building has hosted all sorts of musical talent and programs, including the famous Grand Ole Opry. The Ryman still serves as a musical and performance venue, but during the day, it serves as a museum that chronicles the history of country, bluegrass, and musical comedy. Even though I’m not a fan of country, I found all the history fascinating.
One little display on the bottom floor in the back of the pews caught my eye. In it were souvenirs and tokens from the various evangelists who had preached at the Ryman, as well as a chronology of the spiritual beginnings of the building. My mind began to race, and I wondered how the building went from being an evangelistic hall to a musical venue. I wondered if this was what Thomas Ryman and Samuel Porter Jones envisioned when the doors first opened. Captain Ryman wanted a place for people to come to feel the overwhelming presence and power of the Holy Spirit, the quake, if you will. What started as a vision for a gateway to Heaven is now just a museum that tells the story of great things that used to happen in the past but are now since forgotten.
My thoughts drifted to my arrival in Nashville ten years earlier. God had told me to move, that He wanted to use me to reach the lost through music, writing, film, etc., and I was all gung-ho. I was ripe for the challenge, empowered for the journey, and anxious to be an instrument through which He would work. Fast forward a decade, and in my place I saw a woman who was cynical, critical, bereft of all imagination about how God works, and too tired to try any more.
So many people come to Nashville with aspirations of becoming the next big thing in Christian (or country) music. We get all pumped up, excited to do music ministry and ready to endure persecution for the sake of the Gospel. In my tenure here, however, I have met too many who have abandoned all music ministry aspirations, and even more who have abandoned their relationship with God altogether. The circumstances that cause us to veer off course vary, but the heart issues are usually the same: disappointment with God and/or disappointment with people.
Over the years, I’ve swapped stories with others who find themselves not doing what they originally thought they were supposed to in Music City, and discussed the reasons why we gave up on our dreams, callings, or whatever name we assign them. For some, it was simply impatience with waiting for doors to open up. For others, it was the inability to support themselves on musical ventures. One co-worker told me the story of a song she wrote, and of the musical collaborator who took that song, sold it, and didn’t give her any credit for it, and my co-worker hasn’t done anything of a musical nature since. Another friend spoke of the hurt she felt while doing background vocals for a Christian artist, only to have the checks for her work bounce, and the artist never made good on them. Still, for others, it was the criticism received not from unbelievers, but fellow Christians who tell them their music or writing lacks any redemptive quality, or that they need to just “get a real job.” For me, it was seeing those who were talented but completely lacking in spiritual maturity placed in the spotlight, even though the way they lived their lives was a stumbling block to those they were meant to reach. It was the discouragement that I wanted to play anywhere, including jails and homeless shelters, but often couldn’t get any of my fellow Christian musicians to go to those places with me because they too often seemed only concerned to play somewhere they would be “noticed.”
Most people, myself included, had no idea the Ryman had any kind of spiritual beginnings or was anything other than a music hall. I’ve been here ten years now, and most everyone I know has no idea that I sing or write songs. How do we get so off course, not just from our musical dreams, but from what we once believed so strongly was our calling from God? My visit to the Ryman brought up an even more important question, however. For some people, it’s not just that they have abandoned what they once thought their ministry calling was, but they have abandoned their relationship with God altogether and now live a life devoid of joy and meaning. It is bad enough to forsake one’s vision, but even worse to forsake the One who gave us that vision, and called us first and foremost not to be His minister, but to be His Bride and His worshipper. For too many people, we have not only left our first calling, we have, as the Church at Ephesus, left our first love. It is a scary thing to find myself years down the road telling myself, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” It is far scarier when I hear myself say “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I thought about my own journey, what I believed God said to me when I first moved here, and what He was saying to me now. How I was willing to endure persecution for the sake of the Gospel, but got blindsided because I didn’t expect the persecution to come in such clandestine fashion, from places I did not expect, people and places that should have been friendly to the Gospel. How I confused fickle, unstable man for changeless, immutable God. How Jesus said that no servant is greater than his master, and if I was to follow Him, I would at some point encounter the same trials and hardships He did. How God never called me to make a name for myself in Christian music, but called me to endeavor to make His Name a praise on Earth. These visions and ministries may start with what God places inside of us, but they’re never supposed to end there. Oh, how far had I strayed. Oh, how unrecognizable as a truly devoted disciple I had become.
Everyone who buys a tour of the Ryman is allowed to sing on the stage. Of course, Charlotte wanted to do it and make a recording to show her family. I thought, “Well, I may not get this opportunity again either, so I’ll make a recording of my own.”
With my phone’s video camera running, I took the stage and, because it seemed appropriate, sang “Revive Us, Again.” As I sang the song, all of a sudden, there it was. The quake. There were lots of sinners at the Ryman that day, and I couldn’t say with any certainty whether they felt it, but I certainly did. It wasn’t because I was impressed with delusions of my musical and vocal prowess. It was because of the Audience of One to Whom I sang, and the enormity and solemnity of the request I made to Him. “God, please revive me again! Bring me back to the purpose for which You brought me to Nashville, and which You saved me from my sin. It’s not about me. It’s about You. I have to decrease and You must be the One to increase. You are most glorified when my will and my flesh are crucified. I have lost my joy, my passion to serve, and my burning to see souls saved. Please revive me. Remind who I am and from whence I came.”
God gives us visions and calls us to different things, but it’s up to Him how and when those visions and callings are fulfilled. Just because He gives us a vision, doesn’t mean we can hold on to it and manipulate it to make it work out the way we want. Taking the reigns in such fashion is where we begin to lose the vision, our fellowship with God, and certainty of whom we really are. Most people in the Bible didn’t see the results of their labor in the LORD in their lifetime, but their legacies of devotion and faithfulness still inspire and transform people today. We often even pray, “God, such and such will be worth it if only one person gets saved.” However, not even that should be our motivation. Obedience and devotion to God are worth it simply because the One Who asks the obedience and devotion from us is worthy to receive them, and our willingness to give those things immediately and fully bring Him joy. In the end, it is God doing most of the work, doing the writing of the story of our lives, and speaking through us. At the most, we can say we let ourselves be His mouthpiece, and that is the way it should be.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
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