Christmas Eve just came and went again…I spent it the same way I have for the last forty-four years, with my Grandma. She is ninety-three this year and is beginning to fade a little. I treasure every moment with her these days. She is the only one of my four grandparents still living.
I found out over Thanksgiving that I will be a “Grandma” myself soon. In case you are the only person in the Charleston area I haven’t told about it, I’m on cloud nine! The news has caused me to do a little reflecting on my own grandparents and what they meant in my life.
The four of them could not have been more different. But as I reflect in my adult years, I find that each of them played such a key role in developing me into who I am today. I’m grateful.
My earliest memories include my grandparents farm in Ozark, trailing my grandfather as he tended chickens in his chicken house, fed dogs, horses and other assorted animals, all the while whistling and singing old church hymns. He was a large man, a giant in my little eyes. He only had one arm, but could hit a baseball, lead a church service, serve in County office, and spank a child if needed. He always had a large garden, and worked sun-up to sun-down it seemed. He was a church planter, led worship in a lively voice, and didn’t put up with those who didn’t sing along in services. The only thing I remember that he had trouble with was tying his shoes. One of my sweetest memories is seeing my little Grandma kneel each morning to tie them for him.
In his later years, he began to have “sugar issues” and was limited on sweets. This was a big problem, as my Grandma was an excellent cook. Many days he would send her outside on one errand or another and have me stand guard at the door while he downed half a pie or a plateful of cookies. The first time I was an accomplice to crime was in my Grandma’s kitchen. He and I would giggle uncontrollably while she chastised him.
Grandpa was the head of our large Sosebee family. No one doubted it. Until the day he died, I never saw one of his children or grandchildren “talk back” to him. His three grown sons, including my daddy, always knew their place. Every Sunday afternoon, we would all attend church, followed by a huge pot-luck meal. Then Grandpa would take his place in his chair with an assortment of grandchildren fighting for a place on his knee, where he would pull out his old harmonica and play church hymns while my aunt played the piano and we all sang along. In the summer, the men would gather out under the shade tree in the yard and visit, while the women stayed in the house talking about quilting, canning and babies. The children played hide and seek, chased chickens and fought and made up. It was an unspoken rule that we never turned a television on, never mowed a yard, never missed a Sunday. That was understood. It was a day for worshipping God, visiting with family, and joyful rest. Oh how I miss those Sundays. How I took them for granted. I treasure those memories now. Sometimes I close my eyes and go back.
My Grandma Sosebee was the opposite of Grandpa in many ways. She eloped with him when she was eighteen and he was thirty-two. Her dad was opposed because of his so-called “handicap” and so, after a secret courtship during church services, she took off and married him, leaving a hard life behind. They had a long and fruitful marriage, but it wasn’t until later years that I ever heard her stand up to him. She is a gentle and meek woman, but I have heard her “let him have it” on occasion- such as in the aforementioned pie and cookie incidents! Grandmas life has been a life of service. The lessons this lady taught me can’t all be listed. She cooked, cleaned, gardened, canned, sewed, knitted, taught Sunday School, and baby-sat several generations of children to supplement their meager income. She raised five children, buried one, and had a large hand in raising us eight grandchildren. She’s working on the great grandchildren now, and my grandbaby will make her first great-great grandchild. Little did that scared eighteen year old girl know what God had planned for her. Grandma always had a baby in her lap or under her feet. She taught me to read my Bible, holding it in her lap with a bookmark underlining one sentence at a time. Taught me the books and stories in it, and taught me what patience really meant. Grandma always had time for me. As a child, there was nothing more important than that. I still get to spend some Sundays at my Grandmas. She still sews a little, still hugs me tight. Still inspires me and makes me strive to be a better person every day.
My other grandmother we called NeNa. She was a “Lacy” from the Booneville area, raised in a family of nine beautiful girls and handsome boys. From her childhood she was different from her brothers and sisters- she dreamed of escaping small town life. She succeeded most splendidly, becoming a model in Tulsa, Ok, which in those days was the “big city,” very glamorous and far away. She was a head turner in every way. And left a trail of broken hearted men in her path. She gave birth to two children, one of which she also buried when he was twenty-one. The other was my mom. The pride of her life.
By the time I came along, she had settled in Barling, happy in her single life. She lived in a cute little house that seemed like a museum to me, with crystal in her china cabinet and beautiful knickknacks scattered about. I loved to go to her house, where I was the only child present and the center of everything. I felt like a “grown-up” there. We looked at fashion magazines and she let me sit at the kitchen table with her round lighted make-up mirror and practice putting on lipstick. She was of the impression that neither of us should ever leave home without it. She could dance like nobody’s business, and won several local contests even in her later years. She had a closet full of beautiful dresses and shoes, and put them all to good use.
In later years, when I was grown with toddlers, I would go and take her on her weekly shopping trip for groceries and necessities. I knew to “dress up” a little because if not, she would lecture me on appearances and taking care of myself. She kept an immaculately clean house, and baked a very good carrot cake. The lessons she taught me have grown in importance to me as I’ve gotten older. I learned many things from watching her.
I remember her coming out to our little Vesta farm on the prairie to visit. She stuck out like a sore thumb. She was usually wearing her fur coat, lipstick perfectly in place and hair teased and colored. She was the talk of the town when we drove in to get cow feed in the old farm truck.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up and be her. Every time I put on my lipstick and jewelry these days, I realize that a little part of her lives on in me. I am so thankful I had her in my life, to learn from and to love. She was a beautiful lady. She loved her daughter, my mom, with a blind and total love. And that love extended to me, her granddaughter. There is nothing greater than that. I’m so thankful.
One of the men she left behind was my other grandfather, my “Papa Bud.” My earliest memory of him was while he worked full-time for Synergy Gas and lived in Ft. Smith. That may have been his “job,” but our little family on the farm was his “life.” On Saturday mornings, Cody and I would stand in the dusty driveway watching down our dirt road for his truck to come. He would arrive for the weekend, bearing bags of candy for us. Many times he bought us things that mom and dad could not afford. He had a giving spirit that my brother inherited. He spent his life helping others in quiet ways, and following us grandkids around. I thought he would literally “bust” with pride when Cody started performing in and winning junior rodeos. It was all he talked about. I remember when I was in junior high school and made the cheerleading squad- I came home to find a crooked hand lettered sign duct-taped to our old back door that said “Congratulations Sissy!” At some point he retired and moved into a little trailer up behind our house. He loved to walk down and take over the kitchen from mom, cooking whatever squirrel or rabbit had not escaped the hunting posse at our house that week. He loved fishing, music and baby animals. What I remember most about my Papa Bud is that he taught me laughter and fun, and to help others every chance I got. Great lessons from a quiet and hard-working man.
Four great people. Four great lives of lessons lived out that formed the person I am today. I miss them all every day. The thing they all had in common was that they took time for me and made me feel like the center of their world. I pray every day that in the midst of the busy world I inhabit today, that I can slow down and have the time, energy and love to do the same for my kids and grandkids. This is what God intended. This is how one generation should carry faith, love and family history to the next. It is my firm belief that many foundational life lessons should be learned while sitting on a grandparents knee…I had some of the best.
Today I’m so thankful.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
"Broken Pieces" ~by Shannon McChristian
2 Corinthians 12: 9-10
There is a beautiful church in the little town where I grew up, built with ancient stones and colorful stained glass windows. The first time I visited it as a child, I stood amazed. I couldn’t concentrate on the message, the songs, the people. Just the windows.
They were amazing. The sunlight poured through the color, changing the scenes minute by minute. They told the story of Christ. Scene by scene, image by image. They showed His suffering, His glory, as clear as day. Without using a word. Amazing.
I was an innocent little girl then. But those windows stayed with me as I grew. As a teenager, I sang a favorite “special” over and over in our little country church. It was called “Broken Pieces.” The words are embedded in my mind, even today. The song was about God being able to put things back together, when life has fallen apart. At the time, when I was young, it was just a song I memorized. But it seemed to speak to my heart somehow. I realize now that God was preparing me, even then. Giving me tools.
Many years later, my well-ordered, perfectly-planned life had fallen apart. I was filled with pain, ugliness and sin. Broken. Shattered in a million tiny pieces that ripped my heart and soul apart with every deep breath I took. I couldn’t go to work, couldn’t see friends or family, found it impossible to walk into church and face people.
But I could pray, and I did. Constantly, without ceasing, asking for Him to restore me, rebuild me from scratch, make me feel whole again. Take the ugliness away.
And amazingly, over the days, months and years, He began to put my pieces back together. One tiny slice at a time. It seemed an impossible, time-consuming task. It seemed hopeless. Pointless sometimes even, at least to me.
Some pieces were jagged and rough. Some smooth and liquid. Some ware dark and stormy, others clear and pale. But patiently He worked, day by day, reattaching the shreds, fitting the tiny pieces gently together and pouring His grace in the cracks.
And a funny thing happened. The more scripture I studied, the more I prayed, the more I suffered, the more He revealed Himself and His truths to me. I lived in His world. I depended on Him completely, trusted Him deeply, relied on His strength, wisdom, and forgiveness to get me through each hour, each long day. And all that time He was rebuilding me into His plan. In His grace, He still is. All these years later.
As I say often, my favorite Bible character is Peter, without a doubt. Peter, Jesus’ loudest cheerleader. The one who pledged to witness and protect. Big plans, big promises, loud praises for all to hear. But God knew Peter was shallow. Nothing to back up the claims. No spiritual depth or knowledge. And when the chips were down, Peter folded, fell apart. The hardest thing for Peter, I think, must have been the next morning. Waking up to the truth and the consequences. Waking up knowing the world as He planned it was shattered and broken. Wondering where to go from there. Feeling like an embarrassing failure. But Peter is a story of redemption. Of God slowly and lovingly rebuilding him from the ground up. And in the end, God used him mightily, in spite of his own weaknesses. He put Peter’s pieces back together again, just like in the nursery rhyme. Just like me. Me and ‘ole Peter have a lot in common.
These days, I can’t look at a stained glass window without tears springing to my eyes. For they represent what I strive to be. Many jagged, hopeless, shattered pieces that have been restored to make up colorful, changing pictures of Christ. That’s me. Stronger than before, better in spite of the breaks. My edges have been smoothed, my gaps filled in. Yes, I am a work in progress. I have to be maintained, patched up here and there. But I am so much stronger and better that the big shallow piece of clear glass that I once was.
And I hope as people look at me, at my jagged pieces, my different colors and textures, as they delve more deeply into my picture, all they will see are the images that are reflected of His life, His work, His grace and forgiveness. His amazing, patient, loving Restoration. That is, just like Peter, the finished picture I want to reflect.
There is a beautiful church in the little town where I grew up, built with ancient stones and colorful stained glass windows. The first time I visited it as a child, I stood amazed. I couldn’t concentrate on the message, the songs, the people. Just the windows.
They were amazing. The sunlight poured through the color, changing the scenes minute by minute. They told the story of Christ. Scene by scene, image by image. They showed His suffering, His glory, as clear as day. Without using a word. Amazing.
I was an innocent little girl then. But those windows stayed with me as I grew. As a teenager, I sang a favorite “special” over and over in our little country church. It was called “Broken Pieces.” The words are embedded in my mind, even today. The song was about God being able to put things back together, when life has fallen apart. At the time, when I was young, it was just a song I memorized. But it seemed to speak to my heart somehow. I realize now that God was preparing me, even then. Giving me tools.
Many years later, my well-ordered, perfectly-planned life had fallen apart. I was filled with pain, ugliness and sin. Broken. Shattered in a million tiny pieces that ripped my heart and soul apart with every deep breath I took. I couldn’t go to work, couldn’t see friends or family, found it impossible to walk into church and face people.
But I could pray, and I did. Constantly, without ceasing, asking for Him to restore me, rebuild me from scratch, make me feel whole again. Take the ugliness away.
And amazingly, over the days, months and years, He began to put my pieces back together. One tiny slice at a time. It seemed an impossible, time-consuming task. It seemed hopeless. Pointless sometimes even, at least to me.
Some pieces were jagged and rough. Some smooth and liquid. Some ware dark and stormy, others clear and pale. But patiently He worked, day by day, reattaching the shreds, fitting the tiny pieces gently together and pouring His grace in the cracks.
And a funny thing happened. The more scripture I studied, the more I prayed, the more I suffered, the more He revealed Himself and His truths to me. I lived in His world. I depended on Him completely, trusted Him deeply, relied on His strength, wisdom, and forgiveness to get me through each hour, each long day. And all that time He was rebuilding me into His plan. In His grace, He still is. All these years later.
As I say often, my favorite Bible character is Peter, without a doubt. Peter, Jesus’ loudest cheerleader. The one who pledged to witness and protect. Big plans, big promises, loud praises for all to hear. But God knew Peter was shallow. Nothing to back up the claims. No spiritual depth or knowledge. And when the chips were down, Peter folded, fell apart. The hardest thing for Peter, I think, must have been the next morning. Waking up to the truth and the consequences. Waking up knowing the world as He planned it was shattered and broken. Wondering where to go from there. Feeling like an embarrassing failure. But Peter is a story of redemption. Of God slowly and lovingly rebuilding him from the ground up. And in the end, God used him mightily, in spite of his own weaknesses. He put Peter’s pieces back together again, just like in the nursery rhyme. Just like me. Me and ‘ole Peter have a lot in common.
These days, I can’t look at a stained glass window without tears springing to my eyes. For they represent what I strive to be. Many jagged, hopeless, shattered pieces that have been restored to make up colorful, changing pictures of Christ. That’s me. Stronger than before, better in spite of the breaks. My edges have been smoothed, my gaps filled in. Yes, I am a work in progress. I have to be maintained, patched up here and there. But I am so much stronger and better that the big shallow piece of clear glass that I once was.
And I hope as people look at me, at my jagged pieces, my different colors and textures, as they delve more deeply into my picture, all they will see are the images that are reflected of His life, His work, His grace and forgiveness. His amazing, patient, loving Restoration. That is, just like Peter, the finished picture I want to reflect.
Friday, January 17, 2014
"A Time to be Thankful..." ~Psalm 106:1
It’s not Thanksgiving…and yet I am so thankful.
I am in the middle of Wedding season…my oldest son got married in the Spring. My middle child, and only daughter, will marry in the fall. It’s early summer now. I am in the middle.
Both have had rocky relationships in the past. Not your usual teenage drama, but serious, scary, run-for-your-lives relationships. I have cried, prayed, begged and let go…then grabbed hold again. I watched and waited, praying we would all come out of them unscathed.
And the miracle of it all is, we did... I am so thankful.
I publicly and privately gave my son to God when he was a baby. And it’s a good thing I did, because it took God’s daily help to raise him. Every day, some days every hour, he was a challenge. I loved him greatly and disciplined him greatly. And prayed.
He was always the leader of the pack, whether on the football team or church youth group…he was the instigator and the inspiration. He was strong in his ideas and beliefs. Which is another way to say he was stubborn. I loved him with all my heart, even on the days when he broke it. A child like that is a challenge and a joy. The joy just takes patience sometimes.
As a young man he drifted away from God’s plan. He had the wrong friends. He did the wrong things. He was in a serious long-term relationship that wasn’t right for him. I watched the path of destruction he walked on. I talked until he wouldn’t listen. Cried until I was dry. Gave up and tried to quit many times. But moms don’t get to quit. We love too hard.
My daughter was born two years after him…and as happens so often, she was his opposite in almost every way. Blond hair and green eyes, tiny and sweet. She was a joy from the start. Sitting quietly for hours, watching her whirlwind of a brother entertain her. She didn’t talk until she was three because he talked for her. She was eager to please. A follower, loyal and true. She hated conflict of any kind. She was our laughter and joy.
Our divorce messed her up…she was thirteen. A hard age to face the things we faced. She got caught in the crossfire, swept up in the whirlwind. Deposited in the debris that was the life we had left when the dust settled. She didn‘t complain. I thought she was okay, but she wasn’t. She just didn’t tell me. And I didn’t understand. But I prayed. More than ever before.
What followed were several years of the biggest heartbreak of my life, as I watched my baby girl struggle. She also left God’s will…in a much quieter and less rebellious way.
So now I had two in crisis. In very different ways, one publicly, one privately. Both just as heartbreaking. I felt helpless and overwhelmed. Out of my element and over my head. Some days I couldn’t breathe. I was in a battle. Spiritual warfare. If you don’t believe it’s real, you haven’t been where I’ve been. I prayed and I cried. I screamed and I begged.
...Alone with my God. Many times He seemed far too silent. But I prayed some more.
Hours passed, one by one, then days, months and years. There were not any simple solutions, not any quick fixes. Daily, continuous, soul-wrenching prayer. That’s what saved us.
It’s been many years as I write these words. We are in the middle of Wedding Season at our house. But, as you can imagine, it feels more like Thanksgiving.
Both of my children have chosen mates well. My daughter-in-law grew up far away from us, being molded and shaped into an angel for my son. They are a good fit. And she handles his stubbornness like a pro. She told me this week that he has been starting to share his testimony with the youth group in their church. I could only smile. Bet those kids are in shock!
And as for my precious little girl, I prayed so often that God would send the “Perfect Guy.” Someone to cherish and love her unconditionally, someone to show her what a healthy relationship could be. I could only laugh when she introduced him and his name was actually Guy. My God took my prayers literally. As he so often does. I couldn’t have chosen anyone more “perfect” for her, even if it was up to me. Glad it was up to God instead.
So I am in a thankful phase…just sitting back and watching answered prayers walk up church aisles to marry. Seeing God's big picture unfold. The "mess" become a "message." Seeing my babies restored and stronger than ever. Believing in miracles. Believing in prayer. Believing in God’s promises.
Love Never Ever Fails. Neither does He. I’m Thankful.
I am in the middle of Wedding season…my oldest son got married in the Spring. My middle child, and only daughter, will marry in the fall. It’s early summer now. I am in the middle.
Both have had rocky relationships in the past. Not your usual teenage drama, but serious, scary, run-for-your-lives relationships. I have cried, prayed, begged and let go…then grabbed hold again. I watched and waited, praying we would all come out of them unscathed.
And the miracle of it all is, we did... I am so thankful.
I publicly and privately gave my son to God when he was a baby. And it’s a good thing I did, because it took God’s daily help to raise him. Every day, some days every hour, he was a challenge. I loved him greatly and disciplined him greatly. And prayed.
He was always the leader of the pack, whether on the football team or church youth group…he was the instigator and the inspiration. He was strong in his ideas and beliefs. Which is another way to say he was stubborn. I loved him with all my heart, even on the days when he broke it. A child like that is a challenge and a joy. The joy just takes patience sometimes.
As a young man he drifted away from God’s plan. He had the wrong friends. He did the wrong things. He was in a serious long-term relationship that wasn’t right for him. I watched the path of destruction he walked on. I talked until he wouldn’t listen. Cried until I was dry. Gave up and tried to quit many times. But moms don’t get to quit. We love too hard.
My daughter was born two years after him…and as happens so often, she was his opposite in almost every way. Blond hair and green eyes, tiny and sweet. She was a joy from the start. Sitting quietly for hours, watching her whirlwind of a brother entertain her. She didn’t talk until she was three because he talked for her. She was eager to please. A follower, loyal and true. She hated conflict of any kind. She was our laughter and joy.
Our divorce messed her up…she was thirteen. A hard age to face the things we faced. She got caught in the crossfire, swept up in the whirlwind. Deposited in the debris that was the life we had left when the dust settled. She didn‘t complain. I thought she was okay, but she wasn’t. She just didn’t tell me. And I didn’t understand. But I prayed. More than ever before.
What followed were several years of the biggest heartbreak of my life, as I watched my baby girl struggle. She also left God’s will…in a much quieter and less rebellious way.
So now I had two in crisis. In very different ways, one publicly, one privately. Both just as heartbreaking. I felt helpless and overwhelmed. Out of my element and over my head. Some days I couldn’t breathe. I was in a battle. Spiritual warfare. If you don’t believe it’s real, you haven’t been where I’ve been. I prayed and I cried. I screamed and I begged.
...Alone with my God. Many times He seemed far too silent. But I prayed some more.
Hours passed, one by one, then days, months and years. There were not any simple solutions, not any quick fixes. Daily, continuous, soul-wrenching prayer. That’s what saved us.
It’s been many years as I write these words. We are in the middle of Wedding Season at our house. But, as you can imagine, it feels more like Thanksgiving.
Both of my children have chosen mates well. My daughter-in-law grew up far away from us, being molded and shaped into an angel for my son. They are a good fit. And she handles his stubbornness like a pro. She told me this week that he has been starting to share his testimony with the youth group in their church. I could only smile. Bet those kids are in shock!
And as for my precious little girl, I prayed so often that God would send the “Perfect Guy.” Someone to cherish and love her unconditionally, someone to show her what a healthy relationship could be. I could only laugh when she introduced him and his name was actually Guy. My God took my prayers literally. As he so often does. I couldn’t have chosen anyone more “perfect” for her, even if it was up to me. Glad it was up to God instead.
So I am in a thankful phase…just sitting back and watching answered prayers walk up church aisles to marry. Seeing God's big picture unfold. The "mess" become a "message." Seeing my babies restored and stronger than ever. Believing in miracles. Believing in prayer. Believing in God’s promises.
Love Never Ever Fails. Neither does He. I’m Thankful.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
"The Tin Cup" ~by Shannon (Sosebee) McChristian
Thinking today about an old tin cup.
When my kids were small, I often tried to “create” good memories for them. I thought somehow by making a huge deal of the happy moments, I could balance out or erase the bad ones. Of course it didn’t work that way. Now they are adults, and when we discuss their childhoods, I don’t remember half of the events they can describe in vivid painful detail. And they seem to remember more negative things than positive. Epic fail on my part. My efforts to pick and choose only happy memories for them failed miserably!
When I think back to my own childhood memories, I realize the difference in the generations was that my parents didn’t have some of the luxuries I did as a mother. They were too busy trying to keep us all fed and clothed to worry too much about what memories we would have. The “creating” of memories was left up to the will of God, which is as it should me. Most of the time, we can’t successfully force happy memories. Sometimes they just happen.
And so that brings me back to the tin cup.
We lived on a farm. It didn’t look like the farms I see in glossy magazines today. But it was a farm none the less. We had cows and horses, dogs and more dogs, barn cats and occasional goats. Eggs to gather and babies to birth. Prairies, ponds and pastures. Old hay barns to play in, and a mountain in the background to climb and explore. Beautiful sunrises and sunsets. It was a farm all right. And a wonderful place to grow up.
One of the advantages of a farm like we had was self-sufficiency. My parents worked hard to raise animals that provided meat for our table and vegetables that made up our side dishes.
We had a small garden plot near the house that was handy to send us kids running out to just before supper, maybe to grab a couple of last minute squash to fry, or a tomato to slice up fresh. Nothing has ever tasted better to me till this day.
But the real garden was about a half mile away. The big garden. Part way up the mountain. We called it a “truck patch.” Maybe because you could easily drive away with a truck-full of fresh grown produce on any fall day. We would ride our ponies bareback to the patch, or maybe catch a ride on dad’s open tailgate, bumping through mud puddles and squealing with delight when our hot bare legs got sprayed with muddy water, bare feet dangling and brushing the ground. Those dangling legs are how we measured our growth, mine were always longer than my baby brothers. Wondering now at what point he outgrew me…been a while since we’ve ridden on a tailgate side by side.
I’m sure that large truck patch was a lot of work each year for my parents. That’s not the part I remember.
I remember all of our relatives coming to work side by side on weekends. I remember racing down the perfectly straight dirt rows. I remember running wildly with my cousins and the neighborhood kids, climbing in the trees nearby. Climbing the nearby mountain. I remember on long summer days when our parents were busy, how my brother and I would “sneak away” alone to the truck patch and work together to lift a big watermelon high above our heads. Then turn it lose and watch it bust into edible pieces.
There is nothing better on a hot summer afternoon, than to sit barefooted in the dirt and eat a watermelon without any silverware. I dare you to try it. (But don’t tell my dad we did that. We told him it was wild animals. And I’m just sure he believed us. In spite of the tiny human footprints in the dirt.)
But I have gotten off track. I wanted to talk about the tin cup.
Up behind the truck patch, on the side of the heavily wooded mountain, ran a little stream of water. We called it a creek. The water was icy cold and crystal clear. The rocks scattered throughout had been washed smooth and stayed cool year around. It was a quiet place. Shaded and peaceful. Perfect for a mid-day break from working in the heat of the huge garden. That creek was one of the happiest places of my life.
There was a small tin cup that hung from an old piece of hay-baling wire, high in a tree limb above. I remember my Grandpa holding me up so I could “get it myself.” I remember that cool water trickling down my hot dusty throat. I remember noon-day breaks sitting near the creek to eat our sandwiches. All the people I loved most in the world spread out resting and visiting in the shade around me, with the sounds of the creek running close by.
I’ve lived in nice houses since then, with air conditioning and cool showers. I’ve had fancy smoothies and cold milk shakes on hot summer days. I’ve taken naps in luxurious hotels.
But I’ve never rested better than on those hot summer afternoons by the creek. I’ve never tasted a better drink than from that old tin cup, with my Grandpa’s calloused hand holding it steady.
And I don’t think I ever will.
When my kids were small, I often tried to “create” good memories for them. I thought somehow by making a huge deal of the happy moments, I could balance out or erase the bad ones. Of course it didn’t work that way. Now they are adults, and when we discuss their childhoods, I don’t remember half of the events they can describe in vivid painful detail. And they seem to remember more negative things than positive. Epic fail on my part. My efforts to pick and choose only happy memories for them failed miserably!
When I think back to my own childhood memories, I realize the difference in the generations was that my parents didn’t have some of the luxuries I did as a mother. They were too busy trying to keep us all fed and clothed to worry too much about what memories we would have. The “creating” of memories was left up to the will of God, which is as it should me. Most of the time, we can’t successfully force happy memories. Sometimes they just happen.
And so that brings me back to the tin cup.
We lived on a farm. It didn’t look like the farms I see in glossy magazines today. But it was a farm none the less. We had cows and horses, dogs and more dogs, barn cats and occasional goats. Eggs to gather and babies to birth. Prairies, ponds and pastures. Old hay barns to play in, and a mountain in the background to climb and explore. Beautiful sunrises and sunsets. It was a farm all right. And a wonderful place to grow up.
One of the advantages of a farm like we had was self-sufficiency. My parents worked hard to raise animals that provided meat for our table and vegetables that made up our side dishes.
We had a small garden plot near the house that was handy to send us kids running out to just before supper, maybe to grab a couple of last minute squash to fry, or a tomato to slice up fresh. Nothing has ever tasted better to me till this day.
But the real garden was about a half mile away. The big garden. Part way up the mountain. We called it a “truck patch.” Maybe because you could easily drive away with a truck-full of fresh grown produce on any fall day. We would ride our ponies bareback to the patch, or maybe catch a ride on dad’s open tailgate, bumping through mud puddles and squealing with delight when our hot bare legs got sprayed with muddy water, bare feet dangling and brushing the ground. Those dangling legs are how we measured our growth, mine were always longer than my baby brothers. Wondering now at what point he outgrew me…been a while since we’ve ridden on a tailgate side by side.
I’m sure that large truck patch was a lot of work each year for my parents. That’s not the part I remember.
I remember all of our relatives coming to work side by side on weekends. I remember racing down the perfectly straight dirt rows. I remember running wildly with my cousins and the neighborhood kids, climbing in the trees nearby. Climbing the nearby mountain. I remember on long summer days when our parents were busy, how my brother and I would “sneak away” alone to the truck patch and work together to lift a big watermelon high above our heads. Then turn it lose and watch it bust into edible pieces.
There is nothing better on a hot summer afternoon, than to sit barefooted in the dirt and eat a watermelon without any silverware. I dare you to try it. (But don’t tell my dad we did that. We told him it was wild animals. And I’m just sure he believed us. In spite of the tiny human footprints in the dirt.)
But I have gotten off track. I wanted to talk about the tin cup.
Up behind the truck patch, on the side of the heavily wooded mountain, ran a little stream of water. We called it a creek. The water was icy cold and crystal clear. The rocks scattered throughout had been washed smooth and stayed cool year around. It was a quiet place. Shaded and peaceful. Perfect for a mid-day break from working in the heat of the huge garden. That creek was one of the happiest places of my life.
There was a small tin cup that hung from an old piece of hay-baling wire, high in a tree limb above. I remember my Grandpa holding me up so I could “get it myself.” I remember that cool water trickling down my hot dusty throat. I remember noon-day breaks sitting near the creek to eat our sandwiches. All the people I loved most in the world spread out resting and visiting in the shade around me, with the sounds of the creek running close by.
I’ve lived in nice houses since then, with air conditioning and cool showers. I’ve had fancy smoothies and cold milk shakes on hot summer days. I’ve taken naps in luxurious hotels.
But I’ve never rested better than on those hot summer afternoons by the creek. I’ve never tasted a better drink than from that old tin cup, with my Grandpa’s calloused hand holding it steady.
And I don’t think I ever will.
Monday, December 23, 2013
"The Mirror...a Christmas Memory"
Two of my (grown-up) babies got engaged at the same time this last Christmas season. I caught myself thinking several times that this might be my best Christmas ever. It brought back a long forgotten memory of what really was perhaps my favorite Christmas gift ever.
I was about twelve or thirteen, and it had been a lean year financially for our little family on the Vesta Prairie. It was cold and we were broke, but that isn't the part I've been remembering...
Christmas was coming, and I had my mind on the expensive designer jeans my “town friends” were wearing. I was experimenting with make-up and spending hours locked in the bathroom curling my hair, surrounded by clouds of hair spray. The teenage years were hitting fast and furiously. My emotions were spiraling out of control. I spent the majority of my time with the phone receiver cradled to my ear and the cord stretched to my bedroom. Gossiping with my friends about cute boys, piles of “Teen” magazines scattered across my bed. I wanted to be a rich glamour girl. I wanted to live in New York City. I had a ways to go. In every sense.
My dad and his brothers had been out hunting in the woods on our mountain every night, coming home late and exhausted. They skinned the animals they killed and sold the skins. “Hide” money funded my parents Christmas shopping. I lived in a state of constantly conflicting emotions, stuck between praying for those poor animals to get away, and hoping for money to buy those designer jeans.
Dad spent more and more time working out in the barn at night, often going back out in the cold weather after supper and staying until long after my brother and I went to bed. I assumed he was skinning animals. I avoided that barn as much as possible. I can smell it in my mind, even today.
After much anticipation, the long-awaited Christmas morning finally dawned…my brother and I opened the gifts stacked under the tree one by one. I can’t remember what they were that year…maybe make-up or a cassette tape for me, maybe a football for Cody. No wrapped expensive designer jeans- and I tried not to show my disappointment… but then Dad slipped outside when we were almost finished, hurrying out to the barn and coming back with something wrapped in black trash bags. He handed it to me excitedly…
He had secretly spent those hours late at night out in that barn with all those stinky skinned animals- in the one place he knew I wouldn’t snoop- building me a large oval make-up mirror surrounded by lights. He fashioned the frame, positioned the mirror and attached it, ran the electrical cords and carefully screwed in the large bulbs…all with money we could hardly do without. It was beautiful.
I can close my eyes even today and easily remember the excitement on his face when I squealed with joy as he carried it in from the cold outside.
Mom spent Christmas Day hanging my mirror above a fancy new vanity table, with its short and padded stool. Oh, the many happy hours I spent primping in front of all the bright lights, pretending I was headed to model for a fancy magazine, applying and reapplying my make-up, modeling every outfit I owned. Getting ready for the day I would move away to the big city.
It’s been about thirty years since that Christmas morning so long ago. I’ve received a lot of presents and given a lot of presents myself, many of which cost much more than that mirror did. But I’m not sure I ever received a gift that had more effort and thought put into it, or brought me more fun and happiness.
I still lived in the country. I was still poor. I would never model for a magazine or even own those fancy designer jeans…but each and every time I sat in front of those bright lights, in my private little dressing room… lost in my pretend world…I was glamorous and rich.
I never made it to New York City. At least not to live. Never fulfilled many of those teenage dreams. As I got older, other dreams replaced them. Better dreams. Of family and faith, and small town life. It took me a lifetime to understand that I wasn’t poor- even in my childhood, but rich in ways that I wouldn‘t understand for many years…
I was about twelve or thirteen, and it had been a lean year financially for our little family on the Vesta Prairie. It was cold and we were broke, but that isn't the part I've been remembering...
Christmas was coming, and I had my mind on the expensive designer jeans my “town friends” were wearing. I was experimenting with make-up and spending hours locked in the bathroom curling my hair, surrounded by clouds of hair spray. The teenage years were hitting fast and furiously. My emotions were spiraling out of control. I spent the majority of my time with the phone receiver cradled to my ear and the cord stretched to my bedroom. Gossiping with my friends about cute boys, piles of “Teen” magazines scattered across my bed. I wanted to be a rich glamour girl. I wanted to live in New York City. I had a ways to go. In every sense.
My dad and his brothers had been out hunting in the woods on our mountain every night, coming home late and exhausted. They skinned the animals they killed and sold the skins. “Hide” money funded my parents Christmas shopping. I lived in a state of constantly conflicting emotions, stuck between praying for those poor animals to get away, and hoping for money to buy those designer jeans.
Dad spent more and more time working out in the barn at night, often going back out in the cold weather after supper and staying until long after my brother and I went to bed. I assumed he was skinning animals. I avoided that barn as much as possible. I can smell it in my mind, even today.
After much anticipation, the long-awaited Christmas morning finally dawned…my brother and I opened the gifts stacked under the tree one by one. I can’t remember what they were that year…maybe make-up or a cassette tape for me, maybe a football for Cody. No wrapped expensive designer jeans- and I tried not to show my disappointment… but then Dad slipped outside when we were almost finished, hurrying out to the barn and coming back with something wrapped in black trash bags. He handed it to me excitedly…
He had secretly spent those hours late at night out in that barn with all those stinky skinned animals- in the one place he knew I wouldn’t snoop- building me a large oval make-up mirror surrounded by lights. He fashioned the frame, positioned the mirror and attached it, ran the electrical cords and carefully screwed in the large bulbs…all with money we could hardly do without. It was beautiful.
I can close my eyes even today and easily remember the excitement on his face when I squealed with joy as he carried it in from the cold outside.
Mom spent Christmas Day hanging my mirror above a fancy new vanity table, with its short and padded stool. Oh, the many happy hours I spent primping in front of all the bright lights, pretending I was headed to model for a fancy magazine, applying and reapplying my make-up, modeling every outfit I owned. Getting ready for the day I would move away to the big city.
It’s been about thirty years since that Christmas morning so long ago. I’ve received a lot of presents and given a lot of presents myself, many of which cost much more than that mirror did. But I’m not sure I ever received a gift that had more effort and thought put into it, or brought me more fun and happiness.
I still lived in the country. I was still poor. I would never model for a magazine or even own those fancy designer jeans…but each and every time I sat in front of those bright lights, in my private little dressing room… lost in my pretend world…I was glamorous and rich.
I never made it to New York City. At least not to live. Never fulfilled many of those teenage dreams. As I got older, other dreams replaced them. Better dreams. Of family and faith, and small town life. It took me a lifetime to understand that I wasn’t poor- even in my childhood, but rich in ways that I wouldn‘t understand for many years…
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
"The Gathering Place"
I’ve been home alone this week, trapped by snow and ice, and without electricity, like so many others here in the Charleston area. I’ve had some unexpected quiet time, broken only by the sharp crack of limbs breaking and falling in our back yard. Made me start thinking about how much I love trees. And one in particular.
In previous generations, kids in small towns such as ours gathered in sand lots to play pick up baseball games, unencumbered by the watchful eyes of referees or coaches. Playing long into summer evenings and running home to supper when the sun began to set. And maybe, once they were driving age, those same kids gathered at the local drive-in, where they compared cars and clothes and ate ice cream under warm summer skies. These days my teenager and his friends gather at the local high school gym in the evenings to shoots some baskets, and probably discuss the same issues as so many before them. The gym is their “gathering place.”
Young kids and old men have a tendency to gather and visit. I think the rest of us, hurrying from place to place and activity to activity, could learn some lessons from them.
To get back on track, my brother called recently to tell me he was cleaning up around our old home place and planned to cut down the big tree in the side yard. He knew he should call. He knew I would want to know. He knew I would be sad. And he was right. That tree was the “gathering place” of our childhood.
We were country kids, raised almost seven miles from town. We rode an old bus to school and back every single day, an hour each way, through winding dirt roads. With dust blowing in through the lowered windows, sweating in the summer and freezing in the winter, it felt like seven hundred miles instead of seven. I don’t remember my parents worrying too much about our comfort in those days. I think they worried more about our character. Riding that school bus taught me many things. Some good and some bad. I suffered a little. But I think now my parents had the right idea. Suffering just a little bit as a child taught me many good and enduring character traits. Makes me worry a little for the generation we are raising now. Afraid they are entirely too comfortable. Don’t think they are spending much time climbing leafy trees or riding hot buses.
Anyway, the point is, we didn’t have a ball field or a gym to enjoy. We didn’t have a drive-in anywhere in Vesta, USA. What we had was a tree in the yard. And a lot of boredom.
It wasn’t just an ordinary tree. It was perfect as far as trees go. The trunk was several feet around, solid and sturdy. It split about four feet off the ground into several thick low limbs that were perfect to get a first foothold, then continued up for forty or fifty feet, horizontal limbs branching off in all directions. I think God planted that tree as a special gift to Cody and me when he plotted out the blueprint of the world. Our world was small, and some days never expanded any farther than those cool, leafy branches.
When we were really young, dad poured us a sand pile. Oh, the excitement! There was no frame except for the thick tangled roots of the tree standing proudly above, and no expensive pesticides to keep away the tiny bugs, which we caught and kept for pets. We buried broken toys we found at the city dump, and old pennies we shined up, then dug them back up, over and over again. We built elaborate miniature houses from rocks, and used sticks to form long, curving roads and deep lakes, which we filled with muddy water. We fashioned various schools and churches (although at Cody’s insistence, the schools stayed closed year around). We tried unsuccessfully to grow plants in our sand pile, transplanting grass cut by the lawn mower and watering it faithfully.
After many years that load of sand was swallowed by the damp earth underneath, and there remained only a trace of what had been. Our sand pile was gone forever.
At some point in those early years, my brother decided he would grow up to be a professional bull rider. I don’t remember anyone ever telling him it was unlikely. In fact, my dad hung an old rusty barrel from the low branches of the tree and he commenced to practicing! I spent countless long hot hours pulling on the four ropes that suspended it, making his “bull” turn to the left and right, bucking and twisting the barrel until he landed in the left over sand pile, standing quickly to throw his hat in the air and wave to the imaginary crowd that cheered wildly. Those who were surprised that he actually grew up to earn a good living in the Professional Rodeo world were not with me under that tree all those hot summer days.
I, for one, was not surprised at all.
On the other side of the tree, we had an old tire swing that was never still. We were not the only ones who made good use of it, as we often tied unsuspecting farm animals in against their wills, naked broken baby dolls, and even an occasional adventurous adult! The rope had to be replaced periodically due to use and abuse, as we would sometimes load it down with three or four neighborhood kids at one time and swing high, stretching the tire to the ground, where it would hang and rub in the smooth dirt below until dad climbed the tree to loop the rope over the branch a few more wraps.
Many summer days found us eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking kool-aid under the tree while pretending we were far away from home on a fancy picnic. We attempted to ignore that fact that mom was delivering discreetly from her kitchen fifty feet away.
As we got older, we had family birthdays and country church picnics under the sprawling branches, resting afterward, spread out in the shade, slices of garden fresh watermelon resting in our laps, sticky juice dripping from our chins.
Years later, I grew up and got married, gave birth to my first child, and took him straight home from the hospital to live in our old home place. I had the satisfaction of seeing him play under the old tree, just as we had a generation before. It was starting to droop a little, not producing as many leaves. But it still had the strength to host one more group of children playing happily beneath it’s sheltering branches, puppies and mud puddles close by. I’m so grateful for that.
My kids are grown and married now, and many years have passed. I’ll have my own grandchild next summer. But I think often of my time as a child, playing under that tree. It was a simpler time. A time when “busy” lived somewhere seven miles away in town, and our vivid imaginations ruled our simple country world.
When my brother called recently to say it was time to cut it down, I knew in my heart he was right. It had been leaning slightly, with rotten branches slowly splitting, for several years. It was becoming a danger in it’s old age. It was time to let it go. And so we did. But it felt like we had lost an old friend. Some might not understand. Some might point out that it was “just” a tree. But they would be wrong. It was the “gathering place” of a happy childhood. And gifts like that aren’t easily replaced. Good memories seem harder to make these days. Long carefree summer afternoons are fewer and far between.
I am thankful for the gift God gave us all those years ago. The seed he planted and nurtured. I am thankful for those sturdy familiar limbs where we whispered secrets and dreams. I am thankful for parents who didn’t structure our time and energy, but turned us loose to explore and imagine. I am thankful that I learned the seasons of life not from a book in the school library, but from vivid changing colors of an old oak tree that allowed me to nap often in its leafy branches, under a calm and clear blue sky. I am thankful that I got my first glimpse of what heaven may be while lying in the limbs of that old tree, watching clouds drift lazily by, far above my little world.
I am thankful, most of all, for the gathering place of my youth. Thankful for the lessons it taught me and the adventures it gave. My tree is gone now, like it never existed at all.
But always, always…my sweet memories remain.
In previous generations, kids in small towns such as ours gathered in sand lots to play pick up baseball games, unencumbered by the watchful eyes of referees or coaches. Playing long into summer evenings and running home to supper when the sun began to set. And maybe, once they were driving age, those same kids gathered at the local drive-in, where they compared cars and clothes and ate ice cream under warm summer skies. These days my teenager and his friends gather at the local high school gym in the evenings to shoots some baskets, and probably discuss the same issues as so many before them. The gym is their “gathering place.”
Young kids and old men have a tendency to gather and visit. I think the rest of us, hurrying from place to place and activity to activity, could learn some lessons from them.
To get back on track, my brother called recently to tell me he was cleaning up around our old home place and planned to cut down the big tree in the side yard. He knew he should call. He knew I would want to know. He knew I would be sad. And he was right. That tree was the “gathering place” of our childhood.
We were country kids, raised almost seven miles from town. We rode an old bus to school and back every single day, an hour each way, through winding dirt roads. With dust blowing in through the lowered windows, sweating in the summer and freezing in the winter, it felt like seven hundred miles instead of seven. I don’t remember my parents worrying too much about our comfort in those days. I think they worried more about our character. Riding that school bus taught me many things. Some good and some bad. I suffered a little. But I think now my parents had the right idea. Suffering just a little bit as a child taught me many good and enduring character traits. Makes me worry a little for the generation we are raising now. Afraid they are entirely too comfortable. Don’t think they are spending much time climbing leafy trees or riding hot buses.
Anyway, the point is, we didn’t have a ball field or a gym to enjoy. We didn’t have a drive-in anywhere in Vesta, USA. What we had was a tree in the yard. And a lot of boredom.
It wasn’t just an ordinary tree. It was perfect as far as trees go. The trunk was several feet around, solid and sturdy. It split about four feet off the ground into several thick low limbs that were perfect to get a first foothold, then continued up for forty or fifty feet, horizontal limbs branching off in all directions. I think God planted that tree as a special gift to Cody and me when he plotted out the blueprint of the world. Our world was small, and some days never expanded any farther than those cool, leafy branches.
When we were really young, dad poured us a sand pile. Oh, the excitement! There was no frame except for the thick tangled roots of the tree standing proudly above, and no expensive pesticides to keep away the tiny bugs, which we caught and kept for pets. We buried broken toys we found at the city dump, and old pennies we shined up, then dug them back up, over and over again. We built elaborate miniature houses from rocks, and used sticks to form long, curving roads and deep lakes, which we filled with muddy water. We fashioned various schools and churches (although at Cody’s insistence, the schools stayed closed year around). We tried unsuccessfully to grow plants in our sand pile, transplanting grass cut by the lawn mower and watering it faithfully.
After many years that load of sand was swallowed by the damp earth underneath, and there remained only a trace of what had been. Our sand pile was gone forever.
At some point in those early years, my brother decided he would grow up to be a professional bull rider. I don’t remember anyone ever telling him it was unlikely. In fact, my dad hung an old rusty barrel from the low branches of the tree and he commenced to practicing! I spent countless long hot hours pulling on the four ropes that suspended it, making his “bull” turn to the left and right, bucking and twisting the barrel until he landed in the left over sand pile, standing quickly to throw his hat in the air and wave to the imaginary crowd that cheered wildly. Those who were surprised that he actually grew up to earn a good living in the Professional Rodeo world were not with me under that tree all those hot summer days.
I, for one, was not surprised at all.
On the other side of the tree, we had an old tire swing that was never still. We were not the only ones who made good use of it, as we often tied unsuspecting farm animals in against their wills, naked broken baby dolls, and even an occasional adventurous adult! The rope had to be replaced periodically due to use and abuse, as we would sometimes load it down with three or four neighborhood kids at one time and swing high, stretching the tire to the ground, where it would hang and rub in the smooth dirt below until dad climbed the tree to loop the rope over the branch a few more wraps.
Many summer days found us eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking kool-aid under the tree while pretending we were far away from home on a fancy picnic. We attempted to ignore that fact that mom was delivering discreetly from her kitchen fifty feet away.
As we got older, we had family birthdays and country church picnics under the sprawling branches, resting afterward, spread out in the shade, slices of garden fresh watermelon resting in our laps, sticky juice dripping from our chins.
Years later, I grew up and got married, gave birth to my first child, and took him straight home from the hospital to live in our old home place. I had the satisfaction of seeing him play under the old tree, just as we had a generation before. It was starting to droop a little, not producing as many leaves. But it still had the strength to host one more group of children playing happily beneath it’s sheltering branches, puppies and mud puddles close by. I’m so grateful for that.
My kids are grown and married now, and many years have passed. I’ll have my own grandchild next summer. But I think often of my time as a child, playing under that tree. It was a simpler time. A time when “busy” lived somewhere seven miles away in town, and our vivid imaginations ruled our simple country world.
When my brother called recently to say it was time to cut it down, I knew in my heart he was right. It had been leaning slightly, with rotten branches slowly splitting, for several years. It was becoming a danger in it’s old age. It was time to let it go. And so we did. But it felt like we had lost an old friend. Some might not understand. Some might point out that it was “just” a tree. But they would be wrong. It was the “gathering place” of a happy childhood. And gifts like that aren’t easily replaced. Good memories seem harder to make these days. Long carefree summer afternoons are fewer and far between.
I am thankful for the gift God gave us all those years ago. The seed he planted and nurtured. I am thankful for those sturdy familiar limbs where we whispered secrets and dreams. I am thankful for parents who didn’t structure our time and energy, but turned us loose to explore and imagine. I am thankful that I learned the seasons of life not from a book in the school library, but from vivid changing colors of an old oak tree that allowed me to nap often in its leafy branches, under a calm and clear blue sky. I am thankful that I got my first glimpse of what heaven may be while lying in the limbs of that old tree, watching clouds drift lazily by, far above my little world.
I am thankful, most of all, for the gathering place of my youth. Thankful for the lessons it taught me and the adventures it gave. My tree is gone now, like it never existed at all.
But always, always…my sweet memories remain.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
"The Holy Hush" ~Zephaniah 3:14-17
“Shout for joy, O daughter of Zion! The Lord has taken away His judgments against you. He has cleared away your enemies. You will fear disaster no more. He will exult over you with joy, He will be quiet in his love, He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.” ~Zephaniah 3: 14-17
I’ve never heard these verses before. Never studied them that I remember, but I heard them in a sermon recently and they shook me to my core. When they were being read, the tears just streamed down my face, and even now, weeks later, they threaten again as I type these words.
I struggle with my sins. Even now. Years after being saved. Years after God’s mercy washed over me. There is rarely an alter call when I don’t confess them again, and again, and again. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to convince God just how bad I really am. Like He doesn’t already know. He does. He’s heard all the details. Many times over. And over. And over.
It's always been hard for me to wrap my mind and soul around mercy and forgiveness. The truth is I crave judgment instead of mercy. I feel ashamed. I often sit in a church crowd and hope they won’t discover how bad I really am. An imposter. Not worthy. Not clean.
I am serving a prison sentence inside for things I’ve done. A prison sentence that no one sentenced me to. It is self-imposed. But just as stifling. My invisible bars sometimes keep me from speaking up, singing loudly, teaching, serving, reaching out. Which of course, is a form of failure resulting from failure, sin resulting from sin. It’s a cycle. And a prison. My bars are solid. My jumpsuit striped black and white. Sin and mercy side by side.
It’s been pointed out to me on occasion that my feeling this way is a slap in the face to the power of Jesus’ blood to cleanse. Do I not believe his grace is sufficient? Do I not trust His mercy? My sins were wiped away. He can’t see them anymore. I believe that. I really do. But I can still see them clearly. They are etched on my soul. And they still hinder me, cripple me, every day. Consequences remain.
You can understand why these verses hit me so hard. It’s been years since I shouted for joy. Or even spoke it loudly. I don’t shout. I don’t speak up. Satan has his hand firmly over my mouth. My failures have smothered my "joy shouts". I’ve always felt like God knows this. We have an understanding. The shouting part is for other people. The people with enduring marriages, perfect children, bills paid and savings accounts firmly in place. The “got-it-all-together-and-know-where-I-put-it-people.” You know some of them, don’t you? The holy hush crowd. Sometimes it’s hard to shout for joy in the midst of them. When I can clearly see the road behind me. A long dirty road that is littered with heartaches and potholes. Broken dreams. Soul shattering sins. My sins. When I look back on that, all my shouting gets swallowed and choked on.
And then the next verse speaks straight to me. The Lord has taken away His judgments against you. Maybe the most powerful words He could say to me. He has taken them away. They are gone. Not waiting for me somewhere. Gone. Gone. Gone. So the big question now is, who could I be without my sins smothering my shouts? Without my prison bars? Without the ball and chain of regret that weighs me down. Can I really let go and let Him cover the mess I made? Can I?
He will exult over me with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over me with shouts of joy. The idea of My Father in Heaven shouting over me brings me to my knees in humility. I am so undeserving. So dirty. Such a failure. How can He shout over me?
So many times I get in my comfortable Bible study rut. I read my old favorite verses, my Psalms, my much studied parables and underlined passages. I find such comfort in the familiarity of them. I find reassurance in the sameness of scripture. It’s always there for me. A trusted friend. And then something like these verses hits me right between the eyes and slays me. A fresh and new word. A message from God written straight to my heart. A wake-up call that knocks the wind out of me. Just when I start to feel comfortable. Hidden and safe. He knows me so well.
So today I will try to shout. Even if it’s just to Him alone. I will shout. I will sing to Him. I will praise Him for His mercy. His cleansing, soothing, snow white love and forgiveness. I will rest in it. And I will try to accept my pardon from sin. My release from prison. His mercy shines a bright spotlight into the deepest black pit of my sinful soul. And I will rejoice, just for a while, with shouts of joy. Just as He does!
I’ve never heard these verses before. Never studied them that I remember, but I heard them in a sermon recently and they shook me to my core. When they were being read, the tears just streamed down my face, and even now, weeks later, they threaten again as I type these words.
I struggle with my sins. Even now. Years after being saved. Years after God’s mercy washed over me. There is rarely an alter call when I don’t confess them again, and again, and again. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to convince God just how bad I really am. Like He doesn’t already know. He does. He’s heard all the details. Many times over. And over. And over.
It's always been hard for me to wrap my mind and soul around mercy and forgiveness. The truth is I crave judgment instead of mercy. I feel ashamed. I often sit in a church crowd and hope they won’t discover how bad I really am. An imposter. Not worthy. Not clean.
I am serving a prison sentence inside for things I’ve done. A prison sentence that no one sentenced me to. It is self-imposed. But just as stifling. My invisible bars sometimes keep me from speaking up, singing loudly, teaching, serving, reaching out. Which of course, is a form of failure resulting from failure, sin resulting from sin. It’s a cycle. And a prison. My bars are solid. My jumpsuit striped black and white. Sin and mercy side by side.
It’s been pointed out to me on occasion that my feeling this way is a slap in the face to the power of Jesus’ blood to cleanse. Do I not believe his grace is sufficient? Do I not trust His mercy? My sins were wiped away. He can’t see them anymore. I believe that. I really do. But I can still see them clearly. They are etched on my soul. And they still hinder me, cripple me, every day. Consequences remain.
You can understand why these verses hit me so hard. It’s been years since I shouted for joy. Or even spoke it loudly. I don’t shout. I don’t speak up. Satan has his hand firmly over my mouth. My failures have smothered my "joy shouts". I’ve always felt like God knows this. We have an understanding. The shouting part is for other people. The people with enduring marriages, perfect children, bills paid and savings accounts firmly in place. The “got-it-all-together-and-know-where-I-put-it-people.” You know some of them, don’t you? The holy hush crowd. Sometimes it’s hard to shout for joy in the midst of them. When I can clearly see the road behind me. A long dirty road that is littered with heartaches and potholes. Broken dreams. Soul shattering sins. My sins. When I look back on that, all my shouting gets swallowed and choked on.
And then the next verse speaks straight to me. The Lord has taken away His judgments against you. Maybe the most powerful words He could say to me. He has taken them away. They are gone. Not waiting for me somewhere. Gone. Gone. Gone. So the big question now is, who could I be without my sins smothering my shouts? Without my prison bars? Without the ball and chain of regret that weighs me down. Can I really let go and let Him cover the mess I made? Can I?
He will exult over me with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over me with shouts of joy. The idea of My Father in Heaven shouting over me brings me to my knees in humility. I am so undeserving. So dirty. Such a failure. How can He shout over me?
So many times I get in my comfortable Bible study rut. I read my old favorite verses, my Psalms, my much studied parables and underlined passages. I find such comfort in the familiarity of them. I find reassurance in the sameness of scripture. It’s always there for me. A trusted friend. And then something like these verses hits me right between the eyes and slays me. A fresh and new word. A message from God written straight to my heart. A wake-up call that knocks the wind out of me. Just when I start to feel comfortable. Hidden and safe. He knows me so well.
So today I will try to shout. Even if it’s just to Him alone. I will shout. I will sing to Him. I will praise Him for His mercy. His cleansing, soothing, snow white love and forgiveness. I will rest in it. And I will try to accept my pardon from sin. My release from prison. His mercy shines a bright spotlight into the deepest black pit of my sinful soul. And I will rejoice, just for a while, with shouts of joy. Just as He does!
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