Just so you know: this post is coming to you entirely devoid of pictures. If you came here hoping for images of gratuitous nursing, what’s wrong with you?
This isn’t that kind of blog. (If that kind of blog exists, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know). Move along elsewhere.
(This is not a service our church offers).
Anyway…
The kids spent the the night at their grandparent’s house, so Lisa and I did that thing that adults do when their kids aren’t around:
We slept in.
Late last year, despite having gone to a men’s retreat, and having been there touched by Jesus, I found myself carrying a troublesome burden:
Anger.
I was angry at my wife, angry at life (and my station in it)… just angry.
But the truth is that hostility, and the rages borne of it, masked something much darker, more worrisome:
Fear.
I was angry because I was afraid, and I was afraid because life was
not working out as envisioned. In other words, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get what I wanted out of life. Sadly, that’s what was paramount to me: what I wanted.
If anything got in the way, I exploded. I wanted what I wanted. Damn the consequences. It’s taken many months, much prayer, and counseling to come to grips with what a selfish bastard I was. And how much the selfishness hurt those closest to me.
I never want to live in that place again. I want to forget, but I can’t. If I forget, I run the risk of going there again, right? Yes, love covers a multitude of sins, and mine are washed in the
blood of the Lamb, but there’s a reason God made us with memories–why we can’t forget. (Even though He remembers our sins no more, dropping them into the sea of forgetfulness).
If we forget, we perhaps will fail to learn the most basic lesson:
We’re not okay. It’s when things are going smoothly, life is working out, that we all have a tendency to drift. To think that we’re okay, that we’re not so bad after all.
So I for one, although I forgive myself, don’t want to forget the dark places I can go. Why do you think the Bible presents people as they are? Abraham, the friend of God, told the same lie about his wife, Sarah, on at least two occasions. Moses murdered an Egyptian. Samson… poster child of what not to do when one has taken a Nazarite vow. Barak wouldn’t go to the fight without Deborah. Gideon was weak of faith. Jephthah made a rash vow.
David wanted Bathsheba. We all know how that worked out.
Peter denied Christ… I could go on.
The point is that these stories, about people just as real as ourselves, are chronicled for our edification. They are told so that we don’t forget two things:
1) These oddballs were screwups (just like us) of the first order; and,
2) God loves, and uses, the screwups right where they are. And somehow manages to love them (and us) enough to not leave them where they are.
As it says in the Bible, “We have this treasure in earthen vessels to show that the excellency of the power is of God, and not of ourselves.”
How about you? Do you want to forget? Or do you want to fall into the arms of Grace Personified?
Today’s post was originally posted by me, (Jim Woods) back in April 2012 here. It was one of the first posts I had ever written that REALLY dug deeper and was more revealing than the rest. It kind of opened the flood gates for me. I’d like to thank Chad for this opportunity and also my friend David Johnston for allowing me to use this great picture.
I like to pretend I’m alright.
I won’t often admit that I’m screwed up.
I try to get my act together, but I can’t help it.
I’m disorganized.
I’m lazy.
I lack in focus.
I get distracted by any bright, shiny toy.
I have a zillion things bouncing around in my head.
Many of those thoughts are toxic.
Yet I try to pretend I’m okay.
Ask me how I am and the answer of “okay” or “fine” pops out.
On my best days, I’m just a little bit less messed up than usual.
But then I talk to you.
We interact.
We share.
We fill each other’s holes.
The gaps aren’t as empty.
And we both know we’re not alone.
Today’s post is by Pamela Williamson. Pamela is a writer and photographer, with a passion to preserve life’s moments by both means. She’s not only a fan of flash fiction and short stories, she pens them too. Her current journey, writing her memoir. She shares about all of the above on her blog, Snap Shot of the Whole.
Note-this post originally went up on Pamela’s blog on July 3, 2012.
The shriek pierced the silence, intense and frightening.
Jumping from a perched position on the edge of my bed, milk sloshed over the edge of the bowl. Crunchy chocolate balls rode the creamy waves.
I couldn’t get to the commotion fast enough.
Tripping over my feet in the effort, I slammed a shoulder into the door frame, landed full force on the annoying heel spur, and finished the trek to the kitchen with a renewed limp.
Shrill sounds, poured from a face masked in horror. I tried hard to understand. Words, loud and desperate lost their own unique sound in the flood.
The dogs! A bird! Screeching! Help!, were the only words I could decipher.
Small gray eyes bulged in their pleading. Scarlet crept across her face, and followed the length of her neck, as long thin arms waved frantically towards the sliding door.
Though the limited vocabulary on its own was a mystery, combining it with mime gave me a better idea, and I followed her out the back door.
With stick in hand, I prodded the baby bird slick with dog slobber. Despite the lack of movement, I clung to hope, and turned him over on his stomach.
Anticipation, weighty as the humidity that drenched us, hung in the air. We watched and waited.
Minutes passed, and aside from the shallow rise and fall of its back, the baby was sadly motionless.
It was with regret that we left the injured bird where he was. God, after all, takes care of his own.
A verse from the Bible, Matthew 10:29, came to mind as we walked back to the house: Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.
I’m not sure that poor little guy actually fell to the ground. More like he was on the ground and ambushed, but the sentiment still held true.
I was reminded of Luke 12:6 too: Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God.
It was in that context that we left the poor, little, comatose fledgling in the lawn on a breezy morning, alone in the shade of a swaying tree.
The kitchen was cool and refreshing. A great respite from the heat outside. The oldest child worried incessantly, while the littlest prayed.
To dispel the worried looks, wringing hands, and pacing, I promised to check on the little guy soon.
Through all the comforting and encouraging I was faced with a dilemma.
If death did descend on the wee thing, should I protect the girl’s precious hearts from breakage? Should I bury it and tell them that God spared its life?
Is honesty the best policy in this situation, really? To submit to them, in their wild-eyed hope, that their prayers did not save the life of the poor bird? Can that kind of honesty, at such a tender age, be a good thing?
I didn’t want to console them with the age-old saying, it was just his time to go. They’d get it. They’d understand, but what would that teach them about prayer?
If he died, and I lied and said he lived, then I would be stepping on the toes of God, wouldn’t I?
I was conflicted, and to be honest, it was not a good time. It had only been two weeks since they witnessed the burial of a family of six mice, a mother and five new-born babes. That is entirely another story in itself!
Whatever happens, I decided, be he there, or be he gone, I’d leave the end of the story in God’s hands.
I vowed to tell my girls the truth, regardless of what I found.
After scouring the yard, literally, from one end to the other. The baby bird was nowhere to be found.
This happened last week, and the tale of the wounded bird is packed away, in a tidy little folder, in the back of the girl’s minds….. But, this Mimi is still giving thanks to God. He heard the prayers of two desperate little girls, and honored the faith they placed in Him.
Have you ever faced a situation where it would have been nicer to lie, but felt honesty was the best policy?
