A Sunday Confession

I've got a confession to make. And I am not quite sure where to begin. It feels kind of like ripping off a band-aid. The kind that has been stuck there for awhile and you know it's going to sting but you just gotta do it anyway. 

I've been extremely bitter lately. I've been a bitch. I've been a bitter bitch. 

There. I've said {written?} it. 

And I am not really sure how it got to this point. This point where I am ungracious {read: not really extending grace to people who are challenging to love}. I halfway joke about being "unchurched" but it's not really funny. 

And I have been so angry lately at the loud, outspoken people who think that demeaning people and shaming them will lead them to Jesus. {And I am having trouble myself living out this great commandment to love}

It's such a vicious cycle spinning around this fallen Eden of ours. 

This morning, though, I woke up with something in my eye. I couldn't see anything causing the irritation. But it burns and waters and just really hurts. {Okay, God, I will deal with my own specks before pointing out - even searching out - the logs in others' eyes}

I'm just a sinner, a dirty whore who's been forgiven, and longing for Eden. And trying, although I fail miserably sometimes, to love people along the way. 

And if I have failed to love you as I should, my dearest friends, please forgive me. This repentant heart of mine wants to, by grace, love better. 

 And this has resonated with me: "I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us." ~ Anne Lamott

Amen and amen. 

Love {without expectations}

I have been praying lately for the capacity to love. Just love. To love freely without expectation. To love like Jesus. To love others more than myself because it's the slightest expectation that can cause so much disappointment. Expectations are like toxic parts of our flesh vying to be fed, to be acknowledged.

I wanted today to be different. I didn't want to be disappointed. I prayed specifically that I could be content, even if my family didn't honor me on this day meant to celebrate mothers. So, even when I found out that my husband had sent texts to our boys days ago to ask them what they wanted to do for me, and nether of them responded, I was thankful that the waves of disappointment didn't come. Those waves have overwhelmed me in the past.

I got up early and put on make-up and a pretty dress. I drove to Trader Joe's for flowers. It had been a few months since I had visited Bernice, who never married or had a family of her own, and the other ladies who lived in the care facility next to church. I felt guilty for not visiting sooner. Feathered pink tulips in hand, I walked to the door. Miss Debbie, the caregiver who works on Sundays, hollered for me to come in. She was busy with one of the new residents, but soon came to the hallway where we chatted and she gave me updates on everyone.

Hilda, a sweet lady in her late 90's who always wanted the Bible read to her, had declined over the past few months. She was propped up in her bed and had just finished some oatmeal. I greeted her and reintroduced myself because she had no recollection of me this time. She held out her hand and I gently took hold of it. Her gray eyes reminded me of my grandmother's. She asked me where she was and I told her that she was at her home. She then said something that I wasn't prepared to hear. She said, with obvious pain, "No one wants me." I responded that of course that wasn't true. I reminded her of her daughters. Two of them, I think. But as I glanced at her dresser, I saw mother's day flowers that were already starting to wilt. She felt alone. She felt unloved.

And my heart broke into pieces and tears threatened to spill over as I desperately wanted her to know the truth. I leaned in closer, because I needed to know she could hear what I was about to choke out: "Hilda, remember when you told me you talked to God when you looked outside towards to trees? Well, God hears you. He loves you. He wants you. He knows when you're sad. And He promises to never leave us. So, you are always wanted and never alone."

I hoped her heart had heard. I hoped her weary soul could feel Jesus' embrace. Her eyes closed. She was still gripping my hand when she asked where she was going. I asked her if she had plans to go somewhere. When she answered that she didn't know, I knew what she needed to hear. "Heaven," I said reassuringly. "You're here now but heaven awaits you." Those words seemed to appease her. With her eyes still closed, she breathed deep, and let go of my hand.

As I walked to church, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of gratitude and sadness. Gratitude to God for loving us and redeeming us, but an aching for those who are hurting. For those who are broken. For those who have been (or are being) exploited. For all who feel worthless. For those who feel ashamed because of the abuse they've incurred. For those who feel like they don't belong. For the people we refuse to call our neighbors. Lord, have mercy.

Help me (us) to love the hurting, the broken, the exploited, the abused, the outcasts, and those deemed unlovable.

Amen.

Of Pain and Compassion

Pain. It comes in many forms and levels of intensity. I was thinking about the difference between physical pain and emotional pain. I ran across this quote from C.S. Lewis: “Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say “My tooth is aching” than to say “My heart is broken.” 

Right now, someone I am close to {who likes to keep things private - hence the anonymity} is in a lot of physical pain. It's intense. It has been over two weeks and the prescribed pain pills barely took the edge off. This has impacted every facet of his life. Once this passes, God willing, the memory of the pain will begin to fade. The same principle is true with the pain of child birth. It hurts a whole heck of a lot, but is soon forgotten. 

Emotional pain, however, can be so insidious. There are no visible scars, but the ramifications from these wounds can have such a profound impact. Emotional pain, much like physical pain, changes us. But instead of being temporary, these changes can be far-reaching because pain has a way of shaping us. How we are shaped by it can be positive or negative. It is so easy to let a seed of bitterness take root in our lives. Slowly, over time (and usually without realizing it), it becomes like an aggressive weed, choking out the beautiful all around it; marring the soul. 

And, because pain isn't pleasant, people cope with it differently. Alcohol. pills. food. poor relationship choices. shopping. and so on. Then there are Jesus' promises. I admit, that accepting them isn't always easy. Nor does it always feel tangible. In fact, there have been times where I viewed them as trite {God can bind up someone else's busted heart, but mine is still hemorrhaging}. But...

His response to our sin, our pain? The gruesome cross. 

I have learned that there is purpose in pain. I was reminded of this last week when a sweet friend had simply said, "It makes me sad when you are sad." It touched my heart and made me realize that without pain there could not be true empathy. And we don't have to have answers or remedies for those who are hurting, just compassion {the literal translation in Latin is to suffer with}. 

My challenge for us: Be courageous and look for ways to show compassion to those hurting this week. 

Of Regret and Joy

It's Sunday afternoon and sunshine spills onto the wood floor in symmetrical lines from the window blinds. And there are thin lines etched across my forehead that continue to trace the time like a map of bygone years.

I can handle wrinkles, and the fact the my eyes now crinkle when I smile, it's the regret that is so very hard to accept.

I used to be the "what if?" queen. I would spend wasted hours dwelling on all of the different scenarios and the possible outcomes that could have been.

The problem with what-ifs and could-have-beens is that they rob you. They rob you of precious time, and they rob you of any sliver of contentment. The realities of my life always paled in comparison to the scenarios I conjured up in my own head. I have learned the hard way and have become better {not perfect} at trying not to vicariously live through a fictitious life.

But, today, here I sit reflecting on my realities and the choices I have made.

Ultimately, I have come to realize a few things: our life here on this earth is finite. There is nothing I can do to change the past, however, there is grace to cover it. And every day is full of new possibilities and challenges. I can embrace them, or act victimized by them, remembering that easy was never promised. Things that are easy tend to be taken for granted, anyway. I have a purpose.

I may never be a published author, or a size 2, or a myriad of other things, but the joy really is in the journey. Joy in the everyday. Even the hard-joy of regret and learning from mistakes and learning to easily forgive {including forgiving myself}. And loving along the way.

If I can demonstrate the sacrificial love of Jesus to those I come in contact with from strangers to my closest family and friends, then I will have, by grace, accomplished the greatest of all ambitions and there won't be any room for what-ifs or regret.

Real {imperfect}

I have been sitting here for some time. I can hear the clanking of the dryer over the music being piped in through my earbuds. Pondering, per usual, as I pick the chipping polish from my nails.

And why do we tend to want things that look polished and perfect? Maybe it's easier to pretend, to portray that everything is perfectly fine. And we do such a disservice to one another when we don our Sunday best, our plastered smiles, and the response, "couldn't be more blessed."

But maybe, just maybe, it's understandably the only response considered amid the perfectly straight pew rows, filled with perfectly acceptable people, surrounded by perfectly clean windows, and an alter with perfectly arranged flowers and shiny communion trays.

And it just isn't real. I wonder how much room we leave for the workings of grace in our lives when we are so busy convincing others {even Jesus himself} that we are perfectly fine.

There is something freeing about acknowledging imperfection and just being real.

Jesus was real. Jesus always got right to the heart of the manner. Jesus came for the broken.

And my communion doesn't come from stale wafers and perfectly portioned cups of wine. No, it is more like the bleeding woman who touched Jesus' hem. I will take the broken cup and bread crumbs. I know I would hemorrhage without Him.

In Which I Fly Above the Storm

It was dark. It was four in the morning. The rows of tall, straight trees flashed by in the hi-beams. Rain fell heavy and the sky rebelled against the darkness with flashes of lightning that caused my tired eyes to squint and strain.

It was quite a storm {at least to this California girl}. I was heading to the airport. The last thing I wanted to do was get on an airplane during a thunderstorm. But it was time to come home. I had the most amazing time with one of my dearest friends. Being with her and being away was such a balm to my soul.

I boarded the small jet {so small that my seat was by itself}. I closed my eyes. I prayed for the pilot and the flight. I prayed for the family I just left. I prayed for the one - my own - to which I was returning. I turned on the playlist with my hymns and I leaned in close to the promises.

And after a few moments, a brightness illuminated through my closed eyelids. I was caught off guard to see sun shining in through the windows on the opposite side of the plane. I opened my window. We had reached an altitude higher than the storm. The storm was below. The sun above. And the sky was blanketed in a carpet of clouds. This picture from the dirty window doesn't begin to do it justice.

It was magnificent. My throat caught. It was like the shore of heaven. Never-ending. With swirling clouds and gleaming silver and pink hues.

And below was the storm. And life is full of storms. Sometimes I feel as if I am trapped in the various downpours. Sometimes, I forget that the sun still shines.

Then what? We keep on. Even when all we have is a two word prayer, or none at all. Even when we feel like we are going through the motions. Even when we curse in frustration. Even when we doubt.

We write it on our hearts {and on index cards}. We tattoo it on our wrists. We do whatever it takes to always point to Him. To the Son. To remember, always, that we are never alone, even when we feel alone.

I returned to overcast skies {literally and figuratively}. It wouldn't have been my choice much like boarding that plane, but I am doing my best to keep my focus where it belongs. And that is all I can do for now.

Struggling to Love the Bride

It's Sunday around Noon. Normally, I would just be arriving home from church. Last week, I walked by myself around the corner to a service held in the Masonic lodge. Today, I had planned on walking past the lodge to a Baptist church across the street, but couldn't muster enough emotional energy to do so.

It's Sunday past Noon, and I am home. I am wearing pink pajama bottoms with penguins on them and a school t-shirt. I still have bed head and have not painted anything on my face to make myself more presentable.

Yep, it's the Sabbath. And I have iTunes and Spotify and Pandora. I can listen to hymns, gospel songs, contemporary worship music, even Mumford & Sons for that matter.

It's the Sabbath and I have the Internet. I can watch live services around the city, the country, around the world for that matter. I can pick my topic, pick my denomination.

Churches have become the new e-tailers. I will be the first to say that there is something missing with that formula and that something is face-to-face community. What's missing is the meeting together (Heb. 10:25). Matthew Henry had this to say on the topic:

The communion of saints is a great help and privilege, and a good means of steadiness and perseverance; hereby their hearts and hands are mutually strengthened. To exhort one another, to exhort ourselves and each other, to warn ourselves and one another of the sin and danger of backsliding, to put ourselves and our fellow-christians in mind of our duty, of our failures and corruptions, to watch over one another, and be jealous of ourselves and one another with a godly jealousy. This, managed with a true gospel spirit, would be the best and most cordial friendship.  

But what if you don't receive exhortation? What if no one knew you and could even decipher if you were backsliding? What if no one watched over you?

So, I look to other ways in which I do have community. I have accountability with one or two. I have a Bible study with a sister. I can tell of my sins. I attempt to encourage those around me. I attempt to love with Christ's love.

It's just that...

I am really struggling with is loving the Bride. And I know the Bride consists of the broken {including me}. It's not that. It's when she maintains her virtue while clothing herself in harlotry. It's the church of the convenient, the congregants that turn a blind eye in favor of the status quo, in favor of the two hours every Sunday that make themselves feel good. It's the gospel of hate that the world sees preached outside the sacred, stained glass walls by careless words and deeds. It's those who would irrevocably and callously condemn people to hell while waiting three hours for a chicken sandwich only to later go home and watch Internet porn. It's those that would mock the alcoholic on the freeway off ramp and then throw back a few too many while watching the big game {yet God loves them all}. It's all of the ways in which we aren't teachable. It's all of the ways in which we exclude those that are different. It's when I hear the pain in my sister's words because after working with the youth for many months at her church, she finds herself the focus of a witch hunt because of her personal conviction not to pledge her allegiance to a flag.

It's all the ways we have tried to make Jesus like us. To make it all easier to swallow, we have tried to make Jesus into someone who would prescribe to our programs, our political views, and someone who would sit idly by in the pew next to us. Nondescript, not radical.

And it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. As I have been trying to read through the Bible, I have been praying.  I have really wanted to focus on what Jesus said. What Jesus taught. The real Jesus. The real Son of God. How Jesus lived and loved.

And He loved His Bride. And He died for her. And I am inextricably a part of her. So, I look to the Bridegroom. I have been praying to fall in love more with Him, and with His Bride as well. I have been praying for Jesus to bind up all of the wounds I have received by her in His name.

Even in taking that small step, I can feel hope swell.

And grace abounds.