Tim Horton's: I'm putting you on notice. That's right. I'm calling you out. Right here.
Drawing the line in the proverbial sand. Or snow.
We have a lot of snow around here.
But you would know that. Because you're Canadian.
This "Roll up the Rim" contest? Pure. Garbage.
My issues? One, I need to bring around my own hack saw to get to your secret message hidden in the rim of the cup. Yes. I get it. It's creative to put it in the rim and it gives you such a cute contest title.
But it sucks.
I'm not a muscle man. I do not compete in body building contests. I've never pulled a bus with my teeth or climbed a mountain. I can't fly through walls(I can't really fly anywhere) and I can't shoot spiderweb out of my hands. Evidently, that disqualifies me from being able to see if I've won a lousy cup of coffee because I cannot physically rip apart my cup to divulge these secrets.
Trevor says "use your teeth." So now you not only want me to expend the last tiny smidgen of energy I have remaining in my body to "roll up the rim" (a cute synonym for torture, really) but you want me to hand over the last dangling thread of dignity I have as well?
Ok. But if I don't win after this, I'm punching someone in the face. Or at least threatening to. Which I find myself doing way too much.
I ask of you, what about people with no teeth? Or debilitating arthritis? Or weak thumbs? How will they join in the merriment of the game?
When I finally summon enough super human strength in my thumbs (I have strong thumbs. They're wiry. I've never lost a best-of-five thumb war tournament. ever.) to rip apart my empty cup of coffee (and in the process spilling the dregs all over my fine woolen coat) I'm assaulted with a constant "please play again."
No. I will not play again. I appreciate your effort to be polite, but I still see you as a bunch of jerks, Tim Horton's. I have never won. never. ever. ever.
I'm convinced that in all of Canada, Tim Horton's actually gives out a meager 57 prizes a year. 32 free coffees, 12 muffins, and 13 doughnuts. Shameful. Have you no conscience, Timmy's?
http://www.rolluptherimtowin.com/en/prizes.php
You're dead to me. So I'm going to head over to the nearest kitschy coffee shop with the name that rhymes and pay four dollars more for a coffee just so I don't have to put up with your nonsensical antics any longer. I'll see you in March. Or Wednesday when I meet my friend there for coffee. But I'll get an Iced Capp so I don't have to deal with the crazy nonsense.
P.S.- the candy bits on your Lemon Raspberry Bloom doughnuts get caught in my teeth.
So we have officially entered "imaginary friend" territory. We got our passports stamped and everything. Completely legitimate. If there were an imaginary friend territory, I wonder what their slogan would be? Like, "Welcome to Texas, the Lone Star State." Or "Welcome to Ohio. At least you're not in Michigan." or "Welcome to Canada, where the ketchup is sweeter." (It is sweeter here. Weird.) I bet it would be something like this:
"Welcome to Imaginary Friend Territory, where your kids will use fabricated people to manipulate you into giving them two treats instead of one."
Or, "Imaginary Friend Land- where your child will insult your parenting skills by comparing you to his imaginary friend's made-up mother!"
Or maybe "Imaginary Friend Land- create your very own scapegoat today!"
Seriously. How do kids know to have imaginary friends? Where does this come from?
I remember when imaginary friends were wholesome. The worst crime you would commit with your imaginary friend was staying up too late hiding under the sheets reading The Babysitter's Club books by flashlight. Now kids use their iphones for flashlights. And Kindles instead of books.
Now imaginary friends are incendiary juvenile delinquents stirring up trouble wherever they go. Planting seeds of rebellion in the hearts of children across the globe. It's a dangerous game, my friend. Play wisely.
Aidan is abusing his power with this whole imaginary friend game. I am convinced that he is very deliberately using his imaginary friend to wage psychological warfare.
Think I'm overreacting?
Nay. Not in the slightest.
Let's get started with the basics.
His name is Tent. Yep, Tent.
When Trevor and I originally questioned Tent's origins, Aidan quickly informed us that he was Silver's older brother (Silver is Aidan's baby he got when Ainsley was born- I guess this confirms Aidan's knack for coming up with Hollywood-esque children names). Dang. He got us there. This kid's a genius. He's tugging on the heartstrings. Now Tent is practically family, so we've got to let him stay.
A few days later Tent's still hanging around. I tell Aidan that Tent's family probably misses him and he should be making his way home. Cue guilt trip. Apparently Tent's family's home is so small that Tent has nowhere to sleep. He does let me know that they have a camper (Like Randy and Cheryl, he adds). But it's too cold outside to sleep in a camper. Oh the irony of a family with a kid named Tent that owns a camper.
Tent can stay. For now.
The power goes to their heads. All of a sudden Aidan and Tent are getting cocky. I start hearing little tidbits about Tent's parents sprinkled throughout daily conversation. Tent's mom, Goggy (pronounced Go-gee)and his dad, Frank (How did he get off so easy?) are turning into everything that Aidan wishes Trevor and I were.
Apparently Frank has a brand new truck (Aidan's been wanting Trevor to get a truck for a while now). I'm starting to question him as a father if he owns a house so small that his kid has no place to sleep yet he drives a big fancy truck. And he drops off all kinds of wonderful things that I won't let Aidan have: from a playground in the back yard to chicken nuggets from McDonald's to a bag of cookies. I'm starting to wonder if "Frank" is involved in the mafia and has been assigned to a witness protection program in the great Canadian North. Now the weird names are starting to make sense.
As I was sewing today, Aidan informed me that Tent's mom let him sew with her. Riiight. Here four year-old son, why don't you come join me? Come sit at this whirring monstrosity of wheels, pedals and crevices that you can get your tiny fingers stuck in. Come frolic around my table full of sharp needles, scissors and seam rippers.
Tent's mom lets him do this. And Tent's mom never makes HIM clean up. And Tent's mom...
Tent's mom is crazy. And obviously has no boundaries.
The funny thing about Tent is he's the sweetest boy. According to Aidan he does all the right things. He loves to eat all of the foods that Aidan hates and he's very polite. Every time he comes over he brings snacks with him. They're not real of course, but it's the thought that counts.
This whole situation made me think about the fact that we all create a little bit of a false reality in our own lives. Hopefully not to the extent of making up friends who aren't real, but it's still there. It's kind of like a defense mechanism. We build walls of little lies all around us to protect ourselves from the reality of who we are.
Maybe I'm the only one who does this, but I'm pretty sure I'm not.
I like to think I'm selfless and giving, but I'm actually pretty selfish.
I like to think I'm compassionate and merciful, but I can actually be rather judgemental.
I like to think I'm quick to forgive, but sometimes I find myself holding onto bitterness.
I like to think I'm like Jesus, but sometimes I realize I'm more like a pharisee.
The more I get to "know" Tent, the more I realize how much I pretend, too.
How different is the real me from who I'm pretending to be?
Bedtime is my favorite time of day. Trevor and I have such a routine down that we could do it in our sleep (sometimes I think we actually do). Ainsley has a bath, she gets dressed and I feed her and snuggle her to sleep while Aidan has his bath. I put Ainsley to bed, and Daddy reads Aidan stories and it's his bedtime.
The only hitch is that sometimes I really miss putting Aidan to bed. Don't get me wrong; there's nothing that fills my heart with love more than seeing my big manly husband using a stuffed animal as a pillow curled up on the twin bed next to my (not so) tiny boy. But I miss those days that when it came time for sleep, only Mommy's lullabies would suffice.
He's getting so big so fast. When people warned me that he would grow so quickly they never gave me any solution to keep it from happening. As he gets older he picks up the subtle cues society throws in his direction and adjusts accordingly. I stopped singing to him at bedtime because as he ages he gets embarrassed easily.
Where did he learn to be ashamed? It made me think of a chapter I read in Jon Acuff's book, Stuff Christians Like. He told the story of his little girl feeling silly and he likened it to Genesis 3, where God asks Adam and Eve "Who told you that you were naked?" (Read the blog post from the link- it's awesome).
It breaks my heart that Aidan's freedom from shame has been tainted. So, to keep him from feeling silly, I stopped singing. Thankfully cuddles from Mommy are still on the list of approved activities. Tonight I sneaked in his room after Daddy tucked him in for the night. I hopped in his bed and snuggled with him while I told him how much I loved him. Today was a rough day for him and I wanted to encourage him and affirm to him that my love for him was unchanging.
We lay there for a while talking about Bible stories and whose birthdays are coming up (one of his favorite subjects) when he asked me to sing a song. I tried to hide my excitement as I asked him what song he wanted me to sing. He answered "the one about the boat." I started a rousing rendition of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. The most beautiful thing happened when I repeated the song. He joined in with me.
Unbidden tears slid down my cheek when he asked me to sing another song. And another. Together we joyfully sang all of his favorites: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Jesus Loves Me, Father Abraham, The Lord's Army, Pharaoh Pharaoh, and My Redeemer Lives. I thought about how I used to skip verses to the songs so they would go faster and I could head to bed sooner. This time I drew them out as long as I could.
In that minute my little boy was my little boy again. He didn't have to be afraid of what anyone would think of him singing silly songs with his Mommy. He didn't have to worry about feeling ashamed. His heart was open, pure, and beautiful. I wasn't anxious to let the moment end.
I wonder if God sees us that way. Desperate to show us His father's heart, while we're afraid to admit that we need the arms of a father. Desperate to soothe our fears, to give us His peace. Desperate to let us know that His love for us is unchanging.
I'm a typical girl. If I created a list of things I wanted to change about myself written out on Wal-Mart receipt tape, I'm pretty darn sure it could wrap around the world a time or two. In the top five of spurned attributes would be my giant baby fingers.
I know. It's an oxymoron. Like jumbo shrimp. Giant baby fingers. Basically, I look like I should be a hand model for "Honey, I blew up the kids." (remember that classic? Not as good as the original.) It looks like I have the hands of a seven month old blown up to reach a normal adult sized-mitt.
I have "pillowy" fingers that look like I should be playing patty cake or making mud pies. I look at my daughters hands and can't figure out if she has my hands, or just normal baby hands. Only time will tell.
As a GBHS sufferer, (giant baby hands syndrome) I used to cringe when we took those special photos at school. Did anyone else's school do that? We had the normal school yearbook photos at the beginning of the year. Then, in the spring, they busted out the freestyle photo sessions.
It was like, "Yeah, we're the same Lifetouch that does your yearbook photos, but we're going to pretend like we're some boutique-photographer and throw some scenery in the picture so we can charge you way more money for this ridiculous additional optional photo shoot. If we do it in the spring, maybe you'll have forgotten that you already paid us $57.43 for some crappy pictures of your kid making a cross-eyed look while sneering at the camera in the fall."
Then they throw you in front of a backdrop where it looks like you've been photo shopped into a field of bluebonnets. (We're in Texas. Texans can't say no to bluebonnets. They're legendary. When I was a kid, I was taught that if you stepped on or mowed over a bluebonnet it meant jail time.)
Then they get you to lean on some "authentic" looking mailbox (Meaning it looks like it's had a nasty run in with a baseball bat or two). Now you're a sweet Texas girl standing on a dirt road near a field of bluebonnets waiting for the school bus.
(Feel free to interchange one of your own "optional photos" memories in here. Perhaps you participated in the classic late 80's-early 90's "splattered paint and ladder" photo shoot. Go ahead and admit it. We've all been there. Perhaps your school went with a classic Ionic column to lean against or maybe they went the academic route with a fancy bookcase. To each his own.)
Ok, so your placement is correct. Now they want you to ball your hand up in a fist and lean your chin against it just so. Nuh uh. There ain't no way we're getting my giant baby hands in this shot. I'll do the chin-down-then-tilt-the-head-to-an-unnatural-position. I'll do whatever you want. As long as my hands aren't in the shot.
Fine. If you insist. But you have been warned. You've just guaranteed certain doom for your chances of getting my parents to order these photos.
The only thing that made me less self conscious of my hands is my wedding ring. I adore my wedding ring. It obviously holds a lot of emotional significance to me. And it's sparkly. And I tell myself that it makes my hands look more grown up. Well, at least my left hand. My right hand still looks like it belongs in grade school *cough three stone anniversary ring *cough.
A couple of weeks ago I noticed that one of the prongs holding the diamond on my engagement ring had broken off. My diamond was feeling pretty wiggly. And I was feeling pretty nervous. If my diamond fell out, we wouldn't be able to replace it any time soon. Plus, it's special. Trevor picked it out for me. I don't want another diamond.
So, I put the diamond away until I could get it fixed. But my hand felt empty. And it reverted back to it's giant baby ways. So I tried wearing a different ring. First, I put on my class ring from high school. Not what I was looking for. The only other rings I have are costume jewelry (that I never wear) but I figured I'd give them a try.
One had a huge pink stone in it. I felt like J-Lo when she was engaged to Ben Affleck. By the end of the day my finger was green. Eew. Subsequent tries with the other rings bore the same results. This is not working.
I haven't taken my ring to get fixed yet. Sometimes when I'm in my room I'll slide it on my finger for a few minutes and it fits like an old friend. I sigh from relief and relish the feeling. Then it's time to take it off again.
People are broken daily. We become hurt and wounded by our circumstances and the people around us. The worst kind of pain is that caused by someone who is your brother in Christ. Or when your pastor makes a mistake and lets you down. When someone you trust didn't have your back like you thought. The kind of pain that causes a weight in your chest, making your mind reel and your breaths sharp and shallow. The kind of pain that makes you think, "How do I recover from this?"
So you slip the ring off. The covenant you've made with Your God. Such an easy action for such a drastic measure. Your whole understanding of who He is and who you are has been rocked from its foundation. And the church definitely isn't turning out to be what you thought it was. This is dangerous. Better slip off the ring before you lose it completely. Put it in a dark dusty drawer where it will be safe from harm.
The void the missing ring has caused screams out to you, betraying your insecurity and emptiness. You quiet the noises by slipping on another ring. What can give me peace? What can give me contentment? Just until I get things fixed. Just until life is in a better place.
The replacements do nothing but leave you tarnished. They bear witness to the futility of filling our lives with substitutes. At the beginning they look big and bright, but they leave you rotten.
You sneak up to your room and slide open the drawer without a sound. You reach in and grab your faithful ring and slip it on. The sound of relief escapes your lips. The covenant is secure. This is comfort. This is love. This is peace. What is broken can be restored. The authentic. Won't leave you tarnished.
Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a right spirit within me.
Do not banish me from your presence, and don't take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me again the joy of your salvation, and make me willing to obey you.
Psalms 51:10-12
In his kindness God called you to his eternal glory by means of Jesus Christ. After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation.
1 Peter 5:10
I like football. Heck, I love football. Some of my favorite memories revolve around the game.
When I was little, my dad and I would run home from church to watch Warren Moon lead the Houston Oilers on Sunday afternoons.
When I made it to junior high, I would spend friday nights at the football stadium with my older brother and sister cheering on our high school team.
In high school I played in the marching band and never missed a football game. I screamed until I was hoarse as my school's team beat Ben Roethlisberger's team for the league championship (also the last game of his Senior year). Legen. dary.
I remember watching the Ohio State Buckeyes beat Miami in triple overtime (and McGahee's awful injury) to win the BCS championship in 2002. We lived in Ohio at the time, and as soon as they won you could hear people yelling outside and car horns honking everywhere. It was pretty cool.
Go Buckeyes! (except you, Maurice Clarett. You're a jerk.)
When I was first married I would watch college football on Saturday mornings while Trevor was at work. I remember when I witnessed Tyrone Prothro make this crazy catch:
I called Trevor at work to tell him about it because I was so in awe and had no one to share my joy with.
I wept tears of joy as Vince Young casually ran in the winning touchdown of the 2006 Rose Bowl. Where you at, Reggie Bush? One of the best football games of all time. Hook 'em horns.
I called my dad constantly for updates during the Boise State/Oklahoma game from my hospital room a day after giving birth to Aidan. I knew that game would be the stuff legends were made of. The one game I will regret missing the most.
I sat eating a Dunn's hamburger in my Quality Inn motel room in Montreal, Quebec the day Texas lost to Texas Tech (2008). Screaming at the TV didn't seem to help Colt McCoy improve at all. It broke my heart. President Obama was also elected while we were in Montreal, but I was much more concerned about the Longhorns' loss.
A piece of me died when Troy Smith, Tedd Ginn Jr, and Co. got wiped out by Chris Leak for the 2007 championship. And again in 2008 when they lost to LSU.
I still cry whenever I watch the marching band do script Ohio. Beautiful.
Because of Jim Tressel, sweater vests now make sense.
Because of Larry Fitzgerald, I once again believe that wide receivers aren't required to be jerks (here's looking at you Randy Moss, Ochocinco, and Terrell Owens).
Because of Emmitt Smith I know some football players can dance.
Because of Kurt Warner, I know not all football players can dance.
I. love. football.
One thing I like more than football is talking about football (obviously). When I moved to Canada, I realized that very few up people up here share my interest. (And the CFL does not count.)When I find out that someone likes football, I cling onto them like white on rice. We will discuss football everytime I see them. Every time.
I'm proud to say that today I set a new record. I actually used football as a lengthy illustration during the sermon. Sure it probably would have gone over better in a church located in the SEC region, but I worked with what I had. It went something like this:
We were talking about how the health of a church depends on the spiritual health of its members. A personal relationship with Jesus outside of church is necessary to be spiritually healthy and mature. I sheepishly raised my hand and asked my husband if I could interject. If he knew what was coming, he probably would have said no.
"So, I kind of love football, and I thought of a good example that might explain what we're talking about a little better."
I saw the panic in his eyes and hurried on before he could stop me.
"I was just thinking of the athletes that play professional football. They have team practices they go to so they can learn the plays and work on playing together as a team. That's like going to church. We come together and learn how to be effective together as a team. It's the time that we gain the knowledge we need to complete our goals."
Trevor's not looking as panicked now. I'm not done yet.
"But the athletes also do a ton of training outside of their regular practices. They do drills, strength training, eat healthy, and other things to ensure their body is in peak condition. If they did nothing but the typical practice, they'd know the plays, but they wouldn't have the strength to complete them."
The angels rejoice. Heaven opened up and shone its light down on me (in my imagination, my angels always sing Vivaldi's Gloria). I've done it! I've come up with a way to talk about football and Jesus at the same time!
Trevor: "Thanks, Elizabeth..."
Me: "Um, I'm not done yet. I can do this all day. So the pastor is like the quarterback. Let's say Michael Vick. Just kidding. Aaron Rodgers. He's good looking and hasn't killed any dogs. And now he has a Super Bowl ring.
The quarterback is the most vulnerable player on the team (besides the kicker. But who cares, really?) He's busy scanning the field looking for an open man. He doesn't see that 300 pound linebacker barreling towards him on his blind side. He's got to have a strong offensive line to protect him. Otherwise he's going down. Loss of yards. One heck of a concussion.
That's not good for anybody. We've got to look out for each other. Depend on each other. Protect each other."
We've got to be bulked up, ready to play.
Now, this is coming from a Pastor's kid/wife/associate pastor/whatever you want to call me. I've seen people I love get worn down and beaten up from life in ministry. Heck. I feel that way myself sometimes.
Love your pastor. Support your pastor. Protect your pastor. They go through a lot. They have the weight of the world on their shoulders. You may not see it, but chances are they're pretty stressed. They've taken on a difficult job that makes them uber vulnerable. Cover their back. You'll never know how much it will mean to them.
It will be to your benefit, too. A pastor who feels the support of their church can lead them to great things in Christ.
So, evaluate your spiritual health. Where are you at? Are you one of the bulky offensive linemen ready to get at 'em, or are you out of shape, wheezing on the sidelines?
I wrote a post a while back featuring crazy things my son has said. He's had a couple of doozies since then, and I thought I'd share one in particular. Maybe I'll make this a series. I'll call it "A Few Words from Aidan."
I love Valentine's Day, and if Trevor didn't mind our whole house would be decked out in cheap dollar store decorations. But I'll have to settle for a heart on our front door. Not just any heart, mind you. It's made up of that weird metallic-plastic stuff... you know... like someone cut it out of the inside of a potato chip bag. It's shiny and fluffy and pretty fantastic.
When we came home from grocery shopping yesterday, the heart was lying dejectedly on the front porch, fallen from it's perch. (It's my fault, really. I can't figure out how to hang anything on our door, so I loosened the bottom screw on our house number and used that as a hook. If you close the door a wee bit too hard it comes tumbling down. Not the most trusty of hanging methods.)
Aidan was horrified at the sight and wanted answers.
"No!! The heart was knocked over!! Who did it?"
Thinking he wanted an answer I started, "Well, honey..."
Only to be interrupted by a quick, "The birds did it. I bet they did." (We have a lot of Ravens in our town during the winter. They are everywhere. Makes me think of Poe.)
My little conspiracy theorist continued: "The birds did it because they hate valentine's day. But they like other holidays, like Christmas and birthdays. They just hate valentine's day."
I'm picturing these vindictive birds flying wantonly around town wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting populace's valentine's decorations. Very Poe-esque, indeed.
Sometimes I chastise Aidan for a mistake he's made and I immediately regret it. I look at my little boy and see his downcast eyes, the color rising in his cheeks and I envisage ways to reverse the damage I've caused.
I can clearly read the shame and embarrassment that's written across his face, and it breaks my heart. I'm the one who made him feel that way. I caused his shame.
I'm frustrated that I treated him the way I did; flying off the handle and berating him for such a small misstep. I'm also frustrated that sometimes I go days without leaving our house and the walls start feeling like they're closing in around me. My existence is solely necessary for chores like folding laundry, cooking dinner, and sweeping the perpetually-dirty kitchen floor three times a day. The days are long and every sentence uttered by my little boy grates against me like fingernails on a chalkboard. Every toy I trip over makes my blood boil and little bit hotter.
I beat myself up for losing my temper. What kind of mom treats their kids this way? I'm supposed to be disciplining him out of grace, not anger or frustration.
I'm overwhelmed because I've got too many irons in the fire and I don't have a handle on one of them. When I tally my successes and failures, one column is noticeably fuller than the other. I'm losing at my own game, and every day I find myself slipping further behind.
My house isn't clean. The church work isn't done. The bills need to be paid. Paperwork needs filled out. Children need to be fed, clothed, cleaned up after, loved. And I've failed at all of it.
I lay in bed at night and wonder what I accomplished that day. What should I have accomplished that day? I dream of a week to myself- not to take a vacation somewhere beautiful, but to spend focused on my work that needs done so that I can be caught up.
I feel ashamed of my lack of control over the situation. I feel guilty for being such a screw up. I convince myself that any idiot with half a brain could handle what I need to do. What's so wrong with me?
Another day passes and doesn't live up to my great expectations. I begrudgingly trudge up the stairs to help Trevor put the kids to bed. I slather lotion all over Aidan to protect him from the winter's dryness before he jumps into his jammies. He picks the books he wants to read, and Daddy reads the story of David (Aidan's favorite). My little booger jumps into bed and I snuggle with him in the dark while we talk about what lies ahead when dawn breaks in the morning.
As Aidan drifts off to sleep I lean over and kiss him goodnight. He looks up to me with heavy eyelids and whispers "Thanks for staying with me while Daddy's at work, Mommy."
Maybe I'm not such a bad mom after all.
A good parent will model the way they treat their children after how God treats us. Does God discipline us? yes. Does He condemn us and humiliate us because of our sin? no.
I know the difference in Aidan's face between humiliation and repentance.
There's a difference between condemnation and conviction.
Thank God that He offers correction to us as we grow in Him. Thank God that He doesn't condemn us in our sin and leave us with no hope.
God did not send his Son into the world to condemn it, but to save it.
John 3:17
So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.
Romans 8:1
Condemnation is hopeless. It's a scarlet letter labeling one as a failure. It's self-hatred.
Conviction is the realization of wrong. It brings correction. It brings us to repentance. It provides hope and a solution.
Condemnation says "the wages of sin is death" and it stops right there.
Conviction continues, "but the free gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord." (Rom 6:23) There's hope in God's discipline.
And have you entirely forgotten the encouraging words God spoke to you, his children? He said, "My child, don't ignore it when the Lord disciplines you, and don't be discouraged when he corrects you.
For the Lord disciplines those he loves, and he punishes those he accepts as his children."
As you endure this divine discipline, remember that God is treating you as his own children. Who ever heard of a child who was never disciplined?
If God doesn't discipline you as he does all of his children, it means that you are illegitimate and are not really his children after all.
Since we respect our earthly fathers who disciplined us, should we not all the more cheerfully submit to the discipline of our heavenly Father and live forever?
For our earthly fathers disciplined us for a few years, doing the best they knew how. But God's discipline is always right and good for us because it means we will share in his holiness.
No discipline is enjoyable while it is happening--it is painful! But afterward there will be a quiet harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way.
Hebrews 12:5-11
Evaluate your situation. Are you living a hopeless life trudging through the mire of condemnation? Or are you allowing God to speak to your heart and bring you to repentance in the areas of your life that need change?
I'm going to work harder at allowing the Holy Spirit to work in me making the necessary changes. I'm going to try to let go of the self-hatred that ties me down and start living.
I'm going to focus on reaping the "quiet harvest of right living" that comes with accepting the loving discipline of the Father.
Sitting in the garden. Planted firmly on my tush between the rows of lettuce and green beans. Each hand crammed full of vegetables that would soon become my afternoon snack.
The heat and humidity of the summer day was oppressive as the sun beat down on my dark blonde hair. Later that night I would have sun burn lines on my scalp bearing witness to where my hair was parted. My pudgy cheeks would be tinged red and a new crop of light freckles would sprout up underneath the coloring.
The heat and the moisture in the air encouraged the ground to release the scent of rich earth. The gentle smells and sounds of the oak and pine trees swayed towards me in the breeze.
I could hear grasshoppers buzzing in the brush. A woodpecker was drilling into a nearby tree. Big, fat, black sugar ants crawled over my toes stained brown with dirt. Shoes never found a place on my feet when it was warm out.
I was free. I was alive.
I would sing. At the top of my lungs. I would pretend that I could speak Spanish. I would get lost in make believe worlds where I was always the heroine. I would be Laura Ingalls pioneering on the Great Plains. A Native American princess who tanned hides and lived in a teepee. A famous figure skater competing in the Olympics.
I could be anything. Do anything.
Sometimes I would just sit on my little wooden swing drawing figure eights with my toes in the dust. Or maybe I would putter around in the garden. Sometimes my mom would let me plant one of my own. It had strawberries and marigolds. One time I tried to plant Bluebonnets, but I planted them right under my swing so they never came up.
I spent a lot of time talking to God then. I know it sounds strange that a little girl would talk to God often, but He was my friend. I liked talking to Him and imagined Him up in heaven listening to me. I liked re-telling the Bible stories I learned about in Sunday School with my own grossly exaggerated flair. I had a little tape recorder I would use to tape myself preaching sermons.
Jesus meant everything to me. Dad was the youth pastor at our church, so I would go to services with him. I would pray and sing right along with the teenagers like I was one of them. I believed God could do anything. One October our dog was hit by a car and was killed. My siblings and I spent a good amount of time praying together for our dog to come back to life. When it didn't happen, we threw her one heck of a funeral service. We didn't question God or doubt him at all.
That was before I was broken.
Before the seeds of doubt weaseled their way into my heart.
Before I was fed the lies that made me question who I was.
When did it happen? Which rocks that were hurled finally hit the target and wounded my tender heart?
What makes a little girl break?
I never doubted God. Never turned my back on Him. I never stopped loving Him.
But I wondered if He stopped loving me.
I felt like I was in one of those movie scenes where the child is separated from his parents. As the little one is carried away he turns back and reaches out with everything he has in the direction of the one he loves. But the force is too powerful to resist. The ones who are carrying him away are too strong to break free.
It was like a storm came and ripped me right out of the foundation in which I was planted, hurling me through the air with abandon.
I felt like something heavy had landed on my chest. My soul was weary, my feet felt heavy, and God seemed so far away.
How did God evolve in my mind from the loving Father to a brutal Judge? The years passed by and I grew increasingly aware that my reaches for righteousness were falling miserably short.
In my mind, I couldn't reach Him. As hard as I tried I couldn't be who I thought I needed to be to receive His love.
I beat myself up until my bruised, dejected spirit couldn't take anymore.
Then the miraculous happened.
God's love came to me.
Everywhere I turned I was exposed to God's great love.
He spared no expense pouring it out over me.
He came to me. And claimed me as His own.
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are Mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, Nor shall the flame scorch you.
For I am the LORD your God, The Holy One of Israel, your Savior."
Isaiah 43:1-3
We are broken. abused. disappointed. discouraged. disheartened. hopeless.
But there is a Redeemer. The One who knit you together in your mother's womb. The One who knows every intricate detail about you, but still loves you with an indescribable love.
My sister, brother, and I are quick to admit that we had nerd-like tendencies as children. We loved to play school. Tom and Amanda were two years older than me, so they took great satisfaction in teaching me everything they knew from their studies. It put me at a pretty good advantage in school. It also helped me be awesome at Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego.
Oh, the age where kids' shows were both cool and educational. Where a capella vocal groups were welcomed with open arms. Where kids' game show contestants wore awesome blazers or matching jumpsuits,
climbed apparatus that looked like a McDonald's play place on crack, and got slime dumped all over their heads. Back when kids actually knew where the countries in Africa were located, and not because they "googled" it.
The good old days.
I have to admit, I was a fan of all of these shows. They were some quality material. But there was one show that stood head and shoulders above the rest.
Carmen Sandiego.
Bad Guys (and girls).
Bad hair.
Bad cartoons.
Really bad puns.
Totally awesome.
Hit it, Rockapella.
I admit, I was doing some very necessary research for this post and got caught up for quite a while watching vintage WITWICS video on youtube. I'm telling you. This show should be on the air today. I would watch it faithfully. I can't get enough.
A couple of the videos I watched were of kids winning the legendary Africa map. If there were ever a totally legitimate usage of the word epic, it would be reserved for the winning of the Africa map.
You know what I mean. You're watching the show, eating your after school snack of cheetos and chocolate milk, and you see the poor sap in braces who made it to the final round hold that plastic phone to his ear as the criminal who's now behind bars tells him "look for Carmen in Africa." The kid tries not to look devastated, but defeat is written all over his face. No one celebrates getting Africa. "Phew. I'm relieved I got Africa. Here I was worried I'd get something hard like North America. Or Europe."
You at home are in shock. You raise your hands to your cheeks to gasp in sheer horror and leave an orange cheesy smear across your face. But you don't even notice. Why? Because Africa is on the line. Who cares about processed cheese slime on your face when Africa is at stake?
Cue Rockapella. "where do you wanna go? whoa-oa. Think about it!"
The kid writes down in the secret leather portfolio all of his hopes and dreams for his trip with one parent. Just one. The other one will have to pay his/her own way. This isn't The Price is Right. It better be good. He had to defeat Africa to win this trip. I hope he picks some really cool place. He won't pick a lame place, right?
Then something amazing happens. It's like magic right before your eyes. Some people will remember the day the Berlin wall fell. Others, the Kennedy assassination. If you're really old, Pearl Harbor. I'll remember the day Africa was defeated.
Arizona. I have nothing against Arizona. But, Arizona? At least he didn't say New Jersey. Or Iowa. Something like that. Arizona's pretty cool, but I remember watching a kid who actually chose to go to Kentucky for his prize. Unless you're really into baseball bats, horse racing or Corvettes, move along. Nothing to see here.
That's what I call winning big and shooting low for your prize. That's like winning the showcase round of the Price is Right and saying "You know what, keep your brand new car. I'll just take that china set I won and could you validate my parking?" If I win Africa, I want to go to Africa. Ride me some elephants or something cool like that.
A lot of times we do that in our own lives. I've been thinking about the greatness and goodness of God lately. God is so great and mighty, yet He's good enough to allow us to have full access to Him.
But do we take advantage of it? Or are we satisfied with New Jersey?
"It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased."
— C.S. Lewis (Weight of Glory and Other Addresses)
How are we missing this? How do we become so blinded that we can't see what God is offering to us? We aren't even aware of what we're losing out on.
I collected great sums of silver and gold, the treasure of many kings and provinces. I hired wonderful singers, both men and women, and had many beautiful concubines. I had everything a man could desire!
So I became greater than any of the kings who ruled in Jerusalem before me. And with it all, I remained clear-eyed so that I could evaluate all these things.
Anything I wanted, I took. I did not restrain myself from any joy. I even found great pleasure in hard work, an additional reward for all my labors.
But as I looked at everything I had worked so hard to accomplish, it was all so meaningless. It was like chasing the wind. There was nothing really worthwhile anywhere.
Ecclesiastes 2:8-11
Whom have I in heaven but you? I desire you more than anything on earth.
Psalm 73:25
