Twelve years.
Twelve years a slave.
Twelve years a prisoner to this disease, her ever unwanted companion of agony, which sometimes forced her to her knees. It would always do what it pleased, which never included her release from this chain of embarrassment and pain. The priests told her she had no one to blame but herself, she should feel shame for whatever sin it was that now hid her under this cloak of suffering.
Money. Oh the money she had spent. To doctors and "healers" and sacrifices it went. The priests and healers cried, "Repent!" though from what she did not know. All she could do was lament her empty purse and empty soul while she still sat bent, failing in her attempt to win a never-ending duel with pain.
She felt hopeless . . . helpless . . . hapless . . . just less. Less than what she had been, less than what she could be, less than any child, man, or woman she could see. Or couldn't see. How had she been dealt this lot? It was as if an author had sat down and thought to write her life story and into the plot pen an unsolvable problem, not realizing the ripple that would cause a hurricane in his character's life.
One day however, she saw hope. It had dark hair and gentle eyes and they called it Jesus Christ. She had heard statements about him, she knew they weren't lies. If she could just get to him . . . but he might despise her and her blood and pain so much he wouldn't recognize her faith, tiny but alive.
The crowd surged around her, like the ocean waves onto the sand, relentless, making it hard to stand. If him she could just touch with her hand, no effort would that demand. She tried to move as he walked by, she was pushed and shoved, made to fall by this human tide. But falling at the feet of Jesus made it easier to get to Him.
It was while she was down low that she reached Him. She touched his clothes. While on her knees she felt a flow of . . . something. A flow of warmth, like the sunlight shining bright from her insides. A flow of power, like a thousand boulders falling down a mountainside. A flow of peace, like a river that on its path slowly glides. Pain, vanished. The battle, finished.
Who touched me?
She sank back into the surge of people when she heard Him say this. A moment ago all was bliss, but now she feared what might come, the result of her actions, the sum. Again she heard it.
He knew. She knew he knew. And he knew she knew he knew. So instead of fleeing like a pursued gazelle, she moved forward like a cowering beaten dog and fell, trembling, at his feet. It was I, she whispered, I touched you. Please, forgive me, Lord, but I have had this pain and I just thought that if . . . she trailed off, thinking her speech in vain.
Daughter, be comforted. Your faith has made you whole. Go in peace. Gentle words from a gentle healer and a gentle Lord.
Faith took her pain. Faith made her well. Faith, as tiny as a mustard seed. He said that's all we need. Faith.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Friday, June 10, 2016
Over the Waters
The wind howls, reminiscent of an displeased cat.
The waves lap hungrily at the side of the boat.
His mind wanders, traversing multiple paths at once.
He sits among the others, steering, thinking, watching. The forceful wind has pushed their boat far from land, as if its weight were of no consequence. What will become of the One they left behind? He said to go, but should they have insisted no? How will He reach the other side - would He walk or find a ride? The man's mind begins to feel the weight of the day and of the wonders he has seen.
With a jolt like a lightning bolt, a voice cries out in terror, pulling him back into the here and now. A figure glides toward them, the sleep in his eyes causing it to look like a blur of white, bright as sunlight swallowing the darkness over the water on which it seems to tread. A demon, a ghost, an angelic being?! His mind is slow to grasp the reality of what he is seeing, but then he hears . . . he hears a voice.
That voice. It is one overflowing with authority yet laden with humility, bursting with power yet abounding in tenderness. It has blessed, it has comforted, it has healed. It has prayed and it has taught how to pray. It both chastises and encourages. The man knows this voice. What was it saying . . .?
"Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
It is Him. The Lamb, the Son of God, Son of Man . . . I Am.
Don't be afraid.
Don't be afraid . . .
Before he knew what was happening, words were traveling. From his mind they were flowing, to his voice they were connecting, out of his mouth they were trajecting . . . "Lord!"
WHAT was he saying? . . . WHY was he saying it? . . . From WHERE was this coming?
"If it is you, tell me to come to you on the water."
Without a pause he heard the response . . . "Come."
His feet and legs immediately went into action. It was not his intention, but it was occurring without thought or hesitation. He sat on the side of the boat and wondered for a split second if, like it, he too would float. Or walk? Or sink? He was about to step over a chasm of unknown, with a bridge of faith alone to suspend him - no wood, no rope, no stone. He fixed his eyes on his Master. This could become a miracle or a disaster. Then, without further ado he pressed one foot, then two, onto the shifting liquid floor and he stood. His gaze didn't waver as he took each step toward the man he loved and admired, his complete faith was all that was required to do what seemed impossible. But then it did waver. The fear rose up inside like the water that was about to rise over his being, churning and engulfing him. It was no longer the Savior he was seeing but the impossibility of what was happening. Sinking, defeated, helpless he cried, "Lord, save me!"
"Oh ye of little faith, why did you doubt?" said Christ, his eyes swirled with sorrow and exhaustion.
Why HAD he taken his eyes off the Lord?Why had he looked away?
These thoughts trolled through his mind as he walked to the boat, chagrined, but with the Lord at his side. As he stepped in, he looked back at the water that had just turned what he thought was rock faith into dust. All this in a matter of seconds but what had felt like eternity.
Where is your faith?
Is it in yourself? Is it in those around you? The police officer down the street? The car you drive? The house in which you live? The number on your bank account?
Where is your gaze? Your focus?
Do you have it fixed upon the only One who can help you walk over the turbulent waters of life? Or have you cast down your eyes instead of your idols? Have you shifted gaze instead of shifting your mindset? Have you lost focus on Him instead of losing the burden of this world? Are you sinking? Are the waters overtaking you, engulfing you, mind, body, and soul? Hold on, don't lose hope. Have faith.
Fix your eyes on Him and merely cry out, "Lord . . . save me."
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you . . . . ~Isaiah 43:2
The waves lap hungrily at the side of the boat.
His mind wanders, traversing multiple paths at once.
He sits among the others, steering, thinking, watching. The forceful wind has pushed their boat far from land, as if its weight were of no consequence. What will become of the One they left behind? He said to go, but should they have insisted no? How will He reach the other side - would He walk or find a ride? The man's mind begins to feel the weight of the day and of the wonders he has seen.
With a jolt like a lightning bolt, a voice cries out in terror, pulling him back into the here and now. A figure glides toward them, the sleep in his eyes causing it to look like a blur of white, bright as sunlight swallowing the darkness over the water on which it seems to tread. A demon, a ghost, an angelic being?! His mind is slow to grasp the reality of what he is seeing, but then he hears . . . he hears a voice.
That voice. It is one overflowing with authority yet laden with humility, bursting with power yet abounding in tenderness. It has blessed, it has comforted, it has healed. It has prayed and it has taught how to pray. It both chastises and encourages. The man knows this voice. What was it saying . . .?
"Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
It is Him. The Lamb, the Son of God, Son of Man . . . I Am.
Don't be afraid.
Don't be afraid . . .
Before he knew what was happening, words were traveling. From his mind they were flowing, to his voice they were connecting, out of his mouth they were trajecting . . . "Lord!"
WHAT was he saying? . . . WHY was he saying it? . . . From WHERE was this coming?
"If it is you, tell me to come to you on the water."
Without a pause he heard the response . . . "Come."
His feet and legs immediately went into action. It was not his intention, but it was occurring without thought or hesitation. He sat on the side of the boat and wondered for a split second if, like it, he too would float. Or walk? Or sink? He was about to step over a chasm of unknown, with a bridge of faith alone to suspend him - no wood, no rope, no stone. He fixed his eyes on his Master. This could become a miracle or a disaster. Then, without further ado he pressed one foot, then two, onto the shifting liquid floor and he stood. His gaze didn't waver as he took each step toward the man he loved and admired, his complete faith was all that was required to do what seemed impossible. But then it did waver. The fear rose up inside like the water that was about to rise over his being, churning and engulfing him. It was no longer the Savior he was seeing but the impossibility of what was happening. Sinking, defeated, helpless he cried, "Lord, save me!"
"Oh ye of little faith, why did you doubt?" said Christ, his eyes swirled with sorrow and exhaustion.
Why HAD he taken his eyes off the Lord?Why had he looked away?
These thoughts trolled through his mind as he walked to the boat, chagrined, but with the Lord at his side. As he stepped in, he looked back at the water that had just turned what he thought was rock faith into dust. All this in a matter of seconds but what had felt like eternity.
Where is your faith?
Is it in yourself? Is it in those around you? The police officer down the street? The car you drive? The house in which you live? The number on your bank account?
Where is your gaze? Your focus?
Do you have it fixed upon the only One who can help you walk over the turbulent waters of life? Or have you cast down your eyes instead of your idols? Have you shifted gaze instead of shifting your mindset? Have you lost focus on Him instead of losing the burden of this world? Are you sinking? Are the waters overtaking you, engulfing you, mind, body, and soul? Hold on, don't lose hope. Have faith.
Fix your eyes on Him and merely cry out, "Lord . . . save me."
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you . . . . ~Isaiah 43:2
Friday, April 1, 2016
No Repayment Needed
Fathers.
They are quite the amazing breed of human beings.
They give - they give cell phones, money, car rides, lectures, time, awful dad jokes, "when I was your age" speeches, encouraging words, consequences, and a heart full of unconditional love.
They don't often take, unless that is part of the punishment they are doling out at the present moment. For example, when I was in high school, I listened to what my father said in one aspect of road safety by pulling over to the side of the road to talk on the phone. However, I didn't listen to the part of not parking on the crest of a hill. And of course who should drive by when I was talking on my phone, pulled over to the side of the road, on the crest of a hill? My father - with a very red and contorted face, I might add! I was given the option of him taking my cell phone or my car. He took my cell phone, although he did not have a happy daughter for a little while because of this incident.
My father gave and gave and gave. He gave his time and his effort and his money. He was always making sure we had clothes and food and a home, no matter the job he needed to have to do so. He gave his knowledge and experience and advice and stories. My mind is chalk full of things he told me or advised me of to this day. My behavior often stems from something I remember my father doing or telling me. I never gave him anything. What could I give him? I was a child growing into an adolescent and eventually young adult. I had no means or resources by which to give him anything. I had nothing to offer. I gave him no reason to ever be indebted to me or to repay me for something I did or gave him.
But for me? How can I ever repay him for what he has done for me? He raised me with love and patience and discipline and God. He helped mold me into the person I am today. He set the foundations for what and who I am and where my life has taken me. He helped provide me with opportunities of which I could have never dreamed. Oh no, he is not in any way indebted to me - it is I who am indebted to him. Something I will never be able to repay, nor that he would wish I repay. All he wants is communication and love from me.
"'Who has ever given to God, that God should repay them?' For from him and through and for him are all things." ~Romans 11:35-36
If my earthly father has given me so much and is someone whom I can never repay for what he has done for me, how much more so is my heavenly Father? He provides for all my needs. He never leaves my side. He gives me wisdom and advice and knowledge. He has given me the best opportunity and promise of all, eternal life by His side. How could we ever even dream that there is some way anything we give could repay God for the salvation and unconditional love He gives us, his beloved sons and daughters? All he asks for is communication and love and faith from me. A repayment is impossible and unnecessary. He needs nothing for all things are from him and for him. All I can do is love and believe . . .
They are quite the amazing breed of human beings.
They give - they give cell phones, money, car rides, lectures, time, awful dad jokes, "when I was your age" speeches, encouraging words, consequences, and a heart full of unconditional love.
They don't often take, unless that is part of the punishment they are doling out at the present moment. For example, when I was in high school, I listened to what my father said in one aspect of road safety by pulling over to the side of the road to talk on the phone. However, I didn't listen to the part of not parking on the crest of a hill. And of course who should drive by when I was talking on my phone, pulled over to the side of the road, on the crest of a hill? My father - with a very red and contorted face, I might add! I was given the option of him taking my cell phone or my car. He took my cell phone, although he did not have a happy daughter for a little while because of this incident.
My father gave and gave and gave. He gave his time and his effort and his money. He was always making sure we had clothes and food and a home, no matter the job he needed to have to do so. He gave his knowledge and experience and advice and stories. My mind is chalk full of things he told me or advised me of to this day. My behavior often stems from something I remember my father doing or telling me. I never gave him anything. What could I give him? I was a child growing into an adolescent and eventually young adult. I had no means or resources by which to give him anything. I had nothing to offer. I gave him no reason to ever be indebted to me or to repay me for something I did or gave him.
But for me? How can I ever repay him for what he has done for me? He raised me with love and patience and discipline and God. He helped mold me into the person I am today. He set the foundations for what and who I am and where my life has taken me. He helped provide me with opportunities of which I could have never dreamed. Oh no, he is not in any way indebted to me - it is I who am indebted to him. Something I will never be able to repay, nor that he would wish I repay. All he wants is communication and love from me.
"'Who has ever given to God, that God should repay them?' For from him and through and for him are all things." ~Romans 11:35-36
If my earthly father has given me so much and is someone whom I can never repay for what he has done for me, how much more so is my heavenly Father? He provides for all my needs. He never leaves my side. He gives me wisdom and advice and knowledge. He has given me the best opportunity and promise of all, eternal life by His side. How could we ever even dream that there is some way anything we give could repay God for the salvation and unconditional love He gives us, his beloved sons and daughters? All he asks for is communication and love and faith from me. A repayment is impossible and unnecessary. He needs nothing for all things are from him and for him. All I can do is love and believe . . .
Friday, January 22, 2016
Mugs and Things
There she stood in front of me on the stairs - wispy blonde curls; little hand on her jutting hip; immensely over-sized, black-framed, unnecessary glasses; and a re-gifted mug painted with ducks held high in her hand.
Oh my goodness, do you, like, like my mug? asked my cousin's four-year old daughter, Ruthie, perfectly mocking the nasally and annoying accent we refer to as "Valley Girl" or "Californian".
That Saturday afternoon, my dad's side of the family had gotten together for Christmas. My family must like me or something, because they shifted this year's Christmas get-together to the afternoon of January 2 so that I could attend during my visit to 'Merica. As annual tradition would have it, after the meal and many souls braving the cold for some quality ice skating time, it was time for the Dice Game. You know, the game in which, once all the wrapped presents have disappeared from the middle of the circle into the possession of those who were lucky enough to roll doubles, a timer is started and in those few short minutes, family becomes enemies as gifts are stolen from each other, but only by those who are, again, lucky enough to roll doubles. Such a loving and fun-filled Christmas activity.
Of course, we always make sure the little ones have at least one present at the end (we like to keep the peace that way). Ruthie happened to be so lucky to unwrap an old mug once the game had concluded. I immediately recognized this mug from when I was a little girl - yup, it's old. Ruthie was so proud of her mug. She adored it. She carried it around the rest of the night, presenting it to others as if it were one of the crown jewels. The joy she found in sharing with others this mug was sincere, pure, undefiled. She bubbled with happiness at her newly acquired treasure.
And so, she stood in front of me, asking me about her mug, holding it up with pride and joy. Where she picked up this accent is beyond me, but I threw on my best valley girl accent, cloaking my voice in slightly disinterested and majorly nasally tones, and we proceeded to converse in this way for a good two to three minutes. I complimented her on her mug, asking where she got it and telling her how "like, totally awesome" it was. We volleyed compliments back and forth until I finally stumped her by telling her the jacket I was wearing wasn't mine and she proceeded to tell me instead that she "like, really totally like[d] . . . ummm . . ." my fingernails. I suppose it was safe to say that because I couldn't tell her that they weren't mine.
I know that I have previously written posts about simplicity. Maybe I sound a bit like a broken record. A girl and the aged, well-used mug she had acquired just made me once again realize how much joy the simple things in life can truly bring. Cold iced tea on a hot day; the sound of children's laughter on a playground; finding your favorite book among the mountains of written works at a used book store; adding the last piece to the puzzle you've worked on for weeks; the silent reassuring presence of a beloved friend - each can bring a smile to our face and joy to our hearts. Life can easily overflow with the stress and chaos that get poured on us day in and day out. Take a moment. Breathe. Find the simple things. Pick them out of your day like fragrant flowers out of a garden. Slow down and let them help you remember what joy is. We have this one life to live. Fill it with simple joys rather than get stuck on the daily problems we face. It makes the already difficult road we travel just that much easier.
Oh my goodness, do you, like, like my mug? asked my cousin's four-year old daughter, Ruthie, perfectly mocking the nasally and annoying accent we refer to as "Valley Girl" or "Californian".
That Saturday afternoon, my dad's side of the family had gotten together for Christmas. My family must like me or something, because they shifted this year's Christmas get-together to the afternoon of January 2 so that I could attend during my visit to 'Merica. As annual tradition would have it, after the meal and many souls braving the cold for some quality ice skating time, it was time for the Dice Game. You know, the game in which, once all the wrapped presents have disappeared from the middle of the circle into the possession of those who were lucky enough to roll doubles, a timer is started and in those few short minutes, family becomes enemies as gifts are stolen from each other, but only by those who are, again, lucky enough to roll doubles. Such a loving and fun-filled Christmas activity.
Of course, we always make sure the little ones have at least one present at the end (we like to keep the peace that way). Ruthie happened to be so lucky to unwrap an old mug once the game had concluded. I immediately recognized this mug from when I was a little girl - yup, it's old. Ruthie was so proud of her mug. She adored it. She carried it around the rest of the night, presenting it to others as if it were one of the crown jewels. The joy she found in sharing with others this mug was sincere, pure, undefiled. She bubbled with happiness at her newly acquired treasure.
And so, she stood in front of me, asking me about her mug, holding it up with pride and joy. Where she picked up this accent is beyond me, but I threw on my best valley girl accent, cloaking my voice in slightly disinterested and majorly nasally tones, and we proceeded to converse in this way for a good two to three minutes. I complimented her on her mug, asking where she got it and telling her how "like, totally awesome" it was. We volleyed compliments back and forth until I finally stumped her by telling her the jacket I was wearing wasn't mine and she proceeded to tell me instead that she "like, really totally like[d] . . . ummm . . ." my fingernails. I suppose it was safe to say that because I couldn't tell her that they weren't mine.
I know that I have previously written posts about simplicity. Maybe I sound a bit like a broken record. A girl and the aged, well-used mug she had acquired just made me once again realize how much joy the simple things in life can truly bring. Cold iced tea on a hot day; the sound of children's laughter on a playground; finding your favorite book among the mountains of written works at a used book store; adding the last piece to the puzzle you've worked on for weeks; the silent reassuring presence of a beloved friend - each can bring a smile to our face and joy to our hearts. Life can easily overflow with the stress and chaos that get poured on us day in and day out. Take a moment. Breathe. Find the simple things. Pick them out of your day like fragrant flowers out of a garden. Slow down and let them help you remember what joy is. We have this one life to live. Fill it with simple joys rather than get stuck on the daily problems we face. It makes the already difficult road we travel just that much easier.
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