Striking Gold

I know this boy.  He's Ten.  He makes decisions with internal Scales of Justice and it seems as though he is immovable.  He cannot yet comprehend his wise Daddy's words, "what's fair is not always equal."  He's ours to raise and sometimes, for this "live and let live" woman, the work of teaching grace and love gets real hard.

How do you teach the value of social norms, traffic signals, and schedules while simultaneously teaching that people are more important than rules, that grace is when you don't get what you deserve, and that the greatest thing is love?

His temperament is a gift, it really is, this natural affinity for routines and ability to stick to what he believes in the face of pressure from other people.  I will be grateful for this one day.

For now though, we need a little softness, a little understanding and so, like a miner, I chip away at the rock that surrounds the treasure.  I search for the gold in the bedrock.  I test my own principles against his logic and his attempts to make sense of this life.

He's only Ten!  How will I have the words to make it through the next however many years?

The internet authority on everything, Wikipedia, estimates that to even bother mining gold, your location should yield one Troy ounce for every SIX TONS of rock.  You have to mine your way through six tons of rock to get an ounce.  Sigh.  That's a lot of work.

But I've got gold fever.

I've seen gold in them there hills and it only takes one glimpse.  I'm hooked.

You chip away and chip away and just when you begin to doubt...

A girl twirls and twirls, inspired by Olympic figure skaters in all their icy glitter and she holds her arms out gracefully as she spins on the carpet.  Four people are present but there isn't really an audience.  No one pays attention until she falls hard, tripping on her momma's outstretched legs.  Mom gasps, too loud and everyone sees.  The girl cries in her momma's lap.  It's just her pride but it still hurts.

He can't stand it.

That insensitive big brother who would normally throw her under the bus if she even bent a rule,
that boy who makes his decisions by weighing everyone on those scales of justice,
that boy who puts life in neatly defined boxes,
that boy who  is wildly creative and lives to play outside with stories in his mind,
that boy who chips away until we play some new game of his own invention,
that boy who draws imaginary creatures on reams and reams of paper.

He can't stand her tears.  Not today.

For no reason that I understand he brings her a book on Amelia Earhart and points out some reason she should read it, while she hides her tears in my shirt.  She takes the book and slowly opens back up to the room.  Minutes later, she slides off my lap and bounces to the front of our attention proclaiming that she was born on the same day as Amelia Earhart and isn't that something?

Life goes back to normal except for that little glow coming from that boy's eyes as it sinks in.

He knows he did right.  He knows that he, the boy who seems to be made of rock, he soothed a little girl's heart with kindness.  Maybe he adjusts his scales to measure a new kinds of treasures.

m

More like this?
King Robert of the Wild Hair
Confessions of a Reformed Helicopter Parent
Yesterday (the post about the time we were taken over by aliens)

The Truth...and I saw it right there in Sunday School

So, I live this typical, rather mundane existence where I know the names of some of the parents that watch soccer games with me, see the same cashiers at the grocery store, go to church with my makeup on most Sundays, smile, and in the rather current words of Miranda Lambert, "...hide my crazy..."  Life spins so quickly that most days I just go along with this system.

Inside I crave truth.

I have warmed more than a few pews.  I walk down the hall at church with my mind on my new sandals trying to decide if I want a soda or not and I pass exhausted mamas and worry-worn men and maybe your broken heart and I don't even know and I don't even ask.

But I crave truth.  Because, well, if we only knew, your heart and mine, they could be encouraged together, both you and me.  If we only knew.

So, a couple of months ago, our fellowship group (that's Sunday School for us old-timers) leader left the church to begin preparations to start a church in the northeast, a foreign land if there ever was one, at least from my perspective in rural North Carolina.  A member of our class stepped forward and continued the teaching with great humility and sincerity. Sincerity...truth...like medicine.  Anyway, someone came up with the idea of having people give their testimony, church talk for people telling their story about why they chose God.

I expected sweet little stories about vacation bible school and summer camps and youth pastors and prayers  and maybe a couple of wild stories about too much beer in high school and maybe a baptism in a river if things got charismatic.

What I didn't expect was the pouring out of raw reality.  Raw truth from the same people that chat over donuts and Mountain Dew on Sunday morning.

I didn't expect to see scars from old wounds and tears in grown men's eyes and husbands and wives holding each other tighter.

I didn't expect to hear about precious babies in heaven and the strength to air your dirty laundry right there in Sunday School so that someone else can be washed clean too.

I didn't expect for that sassy chick with the red hair to look right at me and challenge me, right there in a a skirt and sandals and give me big ideas, like maybe my husband is right and maybe I do have something useful to say, so that we could both be encouraged, you and me.  If only you knew.

But when all that happened, I wasn't surprised at what happened next.  I have seen it before.  When truth is laid out there on the table, like roses, complete only WITH the thorns, well, people can't help but think it is beautiful.

Once you know truth, you can't unknow it and nothing else will do and so those people, not the ones talking, the ones listening, they wouldn't let it stop.  They laid out truth too until, heaven help us, there was simply no time for the lesson and no one cares that we are two weeks behind on our quarterly because these people are on the hunt.  They have fed on truth and now maybe there is no going back because a grown man's heart is breaking over little girls being sold across the sea and there is a woman waiting for a man of God and marriages 33 days old and marriages 33 years old and new birth growing and a man who dares to say that a husband would go to the cross for his wife and something must be done about these things because people's souls are dying.

We can't unknow these truths.
We can't unknow these hearts, yours and mine.  It's too late.  It's real and alive.  It's truth and life and who knows whose truth will change a life?  And now we begin to know truth and we can be encouraged together, you and me.

Blessedly Ordinary

I want to write, to have interesting things to say, maybe make a difference to someone.

But I am really, really ordinary and most of my days are not interesting at all.  My day, on paper, would not inspire.

I lie in bed thinking about how little I have to say and how ordinary I am.  I long for beautiful words to spill from my fingertips out to you.  Surely there is something of worth in my mind, right?

I have no idea about the worth of my own mind but I know where my worth is found and it has nothing to do with what I may write...or not write.  I begin to see that blessed are these ordinary days.

Blessed is the heaviness of a blanket and two quilts on a cold morning.  What I mean is…it simply feels good to wake to warmth and physical comfort.  You know, warm, heavy blankets feel good on my legs.  That’s it.  Simple.  Good.

Blessed is the sound of my sons playing quietly in the next room.

Blessed is my daughter still wrapped up, completely sideways, sleeping in the bed that belonged to my grandmother.

Blessed is the donut shop and every bite of that Boston Crème and I don’t care how many calories it is because today it made me happy to be there and it made my kids happy to start our morning like this, in a donut shop and you know what?  Judge me irresponsible but those hot chocolates with all their wonderful sugar, that was blessed too and we WILL do that again.

Blessed is a lunch of simple leftovers where everyone chooses what they want and we eat yet another simply boring meal…together.  Blessed is the laughter that goes with it.

Blessed is the sibling rivalry.  I am not sure how but they worked it out and perhaps taught each other lessons about doing unto others that my preaching could never accomplish.

Blessed are library books and the worlds they bring to our ordinary, slightly dingy red couch which, by the way, the dog licks when we are gone.   Seriously, he licks the edges of the couch.  I don’t know why.  Just thought I would throw in that boring little bit of reality.

Blessed are knee socks and veggie trays with ranch dip.

Blessed are the many conversations we have had today about the plot of The Magician’s Nephew and The Horse and His Boy and Legos and how Aquaman had the money to buy the elaborate mansion that Six and Seven built for him and did you know that when Anakin isn’t fighting battles he has pet snakes and a dry cleaning establishment?  I am grateful to know these things inside the minds of those I love.

Blessed are vacuum cleaners and all the dog hair that they remove from my life.  Blessed is our good dog who really does not care what his kids, my kids, do to him.

I anticipate that our ordinary dinner of hamburger stroganoff with I don’t yet know what else will be blessed because sweet daddy (my husband) will be home tonight. 

I guess ordinary can be pretty great.

Blessedly ordinary,

Michele

King Robert of the Wild Hair

Robert’s Hair is wild.  It is a little coarse, curly, about 50 different colors ranging from platinum to light brown and there are bushels of it.  Robert likes his Hair.

It all started around the time we watched Blue Hawaii starring Elvis Pressley.  Either that or when he started reading books with pictures of Superman.  Either way, you get the picture.  He twists a curl in the middle of his forehead unconsciously and it looks just like the curl Christopher Reeve sported with his red cape.  

All summer when his Hair was wet from the pool, he ran his fingers through those curls, standing them on end a fabulous three or four inches from his scalp and they did stand straight out…it’s impressive!

Robert is nine.  His soul and his wit are about 15.  This causes an interesting dynamic sometimes.  Robert doesn’t yet crave opportunities for rebellion, but like most teenagers, he will.

I love the Hair short so I can see his big eyes and his close-cropped daddy sometimes suggests that he cut it.  I used to pester and nag until Grandma Jan suggested that we leave him alone, that he, the person who is Robert, really likes his Hair the way it is.

He isn’t proud about the Hair.  As a person, Robert is a very no-nonsense personality.  He isn’t vain about his Hair or any aspect of his appearance.

He isn't silly about things, okay sometimes he is.  He is the kid who will squish bugs who unfortunately choose to live in the house.  He does this as a matter of business, without sentimentality or squeamishness.  He is the boy who will fish toys or barrettes out of the toilet.  He once rescued a sister’s prized marbles from a rotten pumpkin full, and I mean full, of gnats.  He patiently dug through the stinky yuck, on a mission, no a Quest for his sister’s happiness, while a tornado of angry black insects swirled around his wild Hair.

Rebellion.  Ugly word.  Ugly from the beginning of time.  I don’t want to think of any of these beings that came to life before I even held them, rebelling against my crazy mother-love.  I don’t want to imagine the inevitable hurt of word or deed that will come.  I don’t want to see my sweet boy, maybe twisted in anger that neither of us will understand.  Yet I walked that path that seems to be in some degree part of our nature.  Some rebel a little, some more and some rebel early, some later.  Either way, rebellion seems to have played a part from the beginning.

So the kid likes his Hair big.  There is no rebellious intent in it unless we draw a line in the sand.  He isn’t vain about it.  He keeps his Hair clean.

What is It really all about?  Life, love, souls, eternity…what is It all about?  I am certainly only a spiritual child but I can tell you this…it is NOT about the Hair. 

Is It about how others see or esteem us?

NO…For the Lord does not see as man sees; for the man looks at the outward appearance but the Lord looks at the heart.  1 Samuel 16:7b

Is It about church traditions?

NO…From Acts 8, the eunuch said, “See, here is water.  What hinders me from being baptized?” Then Phillip said, “If you believe with all your heart, you may.”  And they blessedly pulled that chariot over and he was baptized right there, because he believed with all his heart and for no man-made reason.

Is It about obedience or going through the right motions?

NO, that isn’t enough, you need a sincere heart…Bondservants, be obedient…in sincerity of heart, as to Christ. Ephesians 6:5 NKJV

Is It about knowledge or spiritual power?

NO…And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have love, I am nothing.  1 Corinthians 13:2 NKJV

Is It about good works?

NO…And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor…but have not love, it profits me nothing.  1 Corinthians 13:3 NKJV

It’s all about the Heart…

For as he thinks in his heart, so is he. Proverbs 23:7b NKJV

GOD wants your heart…The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart—these, O God, You will not despise. Psalms 51:17 NKJV

It’s all about the Heart…

I don’t think I want to draw a line in the sand about the Hair.  I think I will save my energy for the Heart…starting with my own.  However, my own Hair could use some work. 

Besides, the Hair is, well…kind of growing on me.

Michele

Stone Soup...a confession

I want to be good, to make Jesus happy.  I remember thinking those thoughts as I left the pew in my little church as a child and went forward toward a rather ordinary-looking grace that would change my life, hinder it though I may.  I went to Pastor David and told him I wanted to be saved, I wanted eternal life in the presence of God. When he asked me why I said that I wanted to make Jesus happy.

But I have a confession.  I don't make Jesus happy.  I bear bad fruit sometimes.  I want to do better.  I want to BE better.  I am showing my children how to grow bad fruit and that makes me sad.  I thought if I shared a little reality, it would help, sort of like a step-program...I confess to you.  I...I...I can't do it by myself, what I really need is a new heart.  Luckily, that is possible.

A deep breath in my soul and here it comes:

Judgement.  That's my sin.  At least the one I am most aware of today.

Perhaps my opinion of myself is low and so I feel better if I think I am achieving more or doing it better than someone else.
If I have a cleaner house then maybe I am not the worst person?
If my kids don't swear (yet?) then maybe something I do is worthy of righteousness or on the sliding scale of sin that is a total lie, I am not as bad as others and therefore I must be better than some?
If I manage to get make-up on and you didn't then I am a better wife right, even when I nag because it is all about the skin right?  Or is it the wallet?  No...that's not it either.

For whatever reason, I judge.  I look around and I think, "My ____ isn't perfect but I would never do that or at least my kids don't _____."  Hateful and there it is right on the ground between us.

But what should I do when I look around and see with truthful and loving eyes, see others in sin?

When the Jews ran to Jesus, dragging their guilty victim, talebearing in their hearts and on their tongues, our sinless King said,

"He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first."  John 8:7

Would I throw a stone at Her?  Who Her?  A beloved friend?  I would never! Right?  A relative or sister or some other precious, sinful Her like me?  Surely I would not.

But I do throw stones.  I throw them every day.  I throw them at my neighbors and people I see at the gas station.  I throw them at you and I throw them at my church and I throw them at myself.  And I hate those stones and they lay there accusing ME and calm moments like this when I can see into my own heart, I hope you don't even know and those stones hurt me.

Now comes the scary part, and the scary big promise right from the mouth of the King himself.

"For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.  And why do you look at the speck in your brothers eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye?...Hypocrite, First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."  Matthew 7:2, 3 and 5 NKJV

That's me in verse 5, Hypocrite with a plank in her eye.  This makes me fear deep in my soul and I am not talking about the watered down "reverential trust" kind of fear that your modern bible translation might offer, I am talking about respectful fear of Creator God who looked down on pre-flood mankind and was sorry He made them.

BUT, gracefully, the tide turns when you dive into the Word and learn about the God who does good for us because he loves us and for no other reason than that he chooses to love us, He who planned to love us from the very beginning.  Read Moses speech to Israel in Deuteronomy 7, 8 and 9, and though we aren't Israelites, you get deep insight into His mind and motives, "that He might humble and that He might test you, to do you good in the end." (Deuteronomy 8:16 NKJV)

And Moses relays God's message over and over in these chapters that it is not because of their righteousness that GOD SET HIS LOVE ON THEM.

Oh my, take a knee if you are able because He set His love on us.  We can only stiffly resist with our proud necks or let ourselves be crushed by the love that He set on us.  Crushed by His love.  May it be, My God, give me a new heart and let me be crushed by Your love, crush all the stones in me and soak me right up and accept my gratitude for this promise in your word...

"Therefore be merciful, just as your Father also is merciful.  Judge not, and you shall not be judged.  Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned.  Forgive, and you will be forgiven.  Give and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom.  For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you."  Luke 6:36-38 NKJV

"For every tree is known by its own fruit."  Luke 6:44 NKJV

I have only to look at my fruit to see what kind of tree I am and we don't even want to go there...because God's word is not silent on the fate of trees, but it is full of promise, and the Word bears grace and it does not bear stones and so I want to leave my stones on the ground right here.

My sinful heart is broken and that is the only sacrifice that I really have anyway but luckily, it is not my sacrifice that matters...

And the promise in Luke, the warning and the promise that whatever measure we use it will be measured back to us and maybe not even equally, but in good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over and it will be put right into us but we need help.  

I can't change by myself but the Spirit, the Spirit can bear fruit right out of me, I am grafted onto something good and that is the fruit I want and I don't deserve good but the God of All went and set His love on me and poured out grace and there is literally and blessedly...nothing I can do to change that.

Blessedly crushed,
M