Bathing the Beast

This is Neo.

Neo is always very sad when he has to take a shower.

Neo hates showers.

Neo pretty much hates water in general...especially if it is soapy and spraying directly on his back.

Neo thinks that the closer he stands to the shower door, the closer he is to freedom.

Neo is wrong.

Neo leaves lots of dirty hair in the shower when he has a bath.

Cleaning Neo's hair out of the drain is very gross.

Obviously, Neo has more hair than I do.  This makes me sad.

Neo looks beautiful after his bath, but he is still very sad.

Neo must stay in the bathroom until he is mostly dry because Neo likes to shake his wet fur all over everything.  This is not acceptable anywhere but the bathroom.

Neo still smells like a wet dog even when he is clean.  I am always glad when Neo is dry.

Once I tried to dry Neo with the hair dryer but Neo freaked out and I thought he was going to have an asthma attack so I stopped and let him dry naturally.  Poor poor Neo.

Neo gets to stay indoors on his bath days when it is cold outside.  Normally he loves to be indoors, but baths make him so sad that he is not cheerful (as you can see in this picture). 

Neo is not a very willing participant on bath day and I have to actually get in the shower to clean him and shove him into the water stream.  This is not my favorite thing.  After I am done washing him, I have to take a shower because I also smell like a dirty dog. And then I have to take a nap because it takes lots of muscles to bathe an overweight canine.

Neo feels humiliated by baths which is why I did not tell him that I was writing a blog on the subject.  I would appreciate if you would not mention it to him. 

Soon Neo will need another bath and he will hate it just as much, but not as much as our cat.  You can read about that here.  

Thanks for your attention to this matter.

The end.

Guilty

I feel guilty about a lot of things.  I feel guilty that I don’t use cloth grocery bags even though I have a thousand of them stuffed in the back of my car.  In fact, I have so many of them back there that when the little guy from Fareway helps me carry out my massive amount of items, he has to move the cloth bags to fit all the plastic, earth-killing, pet-suffocating ones in.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not really the environmentalist, tree-hugging sort, and I only drive an electric car because my husband makes me.  And sometimes, I drive it too fast and the little green ball (that tells me when I am being the most efficient with my battery life) turns yellow.  Don’t tell Brent.  But I do like pets and I would be so sad if my cat decided to commit suicide by using a grocery bag that I brought home.  I’m not sure why I can’t remember to use the re-usable bags.  Maybe it has something to do with being old now. 

While we are on the subject of pets, I feel guilty that my dog now weighs 138.8 pounds and has asthma because of his girth.  Last summer, we put him on a diet and he got down to a svelte 125 pounds and was breathing freely.  I was nervous about taking him to the vet last week because of his obesity.  This might have something to do with the last time I took him to the vet.  You can read about that here. 

I feel guilty about being addicted to Diet Coke.  I’m not sure why I like it so much, but it makes me feel happy. especially if it’s fountain pop and has really good pellet ice (Sonic!).  Diet Coke pretty much goes against every thing I believe in—like eating healthy and trying to avoid foods containing ingredients I can’t pronounce.  I think the whole addiction thing started when I had four kids six and under and nothing to look forward to each day—except pop.  (I exaggerate here. I’m sure my children and I had many lovely days together at home.  The entire decade of the 1990’s is a little blurry).  Anyway, now I’m addicted and I try to act like I’m not even though all the waiters at El Azteca greet me with “Diet Coke?” when I sit down to eat there.  That’s always a bad sign.  It may also be a sign that I am eating at El Azteca a little too often.

I feel guilty that my teenage and young adult children have trouble telling time on an analog clock.  They can do it, but it takes several minutes of squishing up their eyes and grimacing until they can  figure out which hand points to the hour and which to the minutes.  I didn’t know they couldn’t tell time until our electricity was out recently and they kept looking at the cat clock, whose eyes and tail no longer move, and asking what time it was.  It’s probably my fault for never buying them watches with hands.  It’s one of those things, you know?  I felt really good if I could keep them all alive when they were young.  I guess time-telling lessons just kind of got pushed into the non-urgent quadrant—the same place as teeth brushing and fingernail clipping.  I used to feel guilt about those things too but I’m past that now since they can all groom themselves.  and they seem to have pretty good teeth.

I also feel guilty that none of my kids makes their beds in the morning.  I tried.  I really did.  I even fined (as in money) them for not making their beds for a period of time.  This seemed to get their attention, but then they started saying they didn’t have any money to give to church so I stopped making collections.  I demonstrated to them how easy it was to make a bed.  I gave them heavy comforters and a sheet…only two items to pull up to their pillows…and they still leave them looking disheveled and messy.  They don’t seem to mind the messiness—none of them.  I have learned to just close their doors to keep the peace.  One time, though, Cole had a long stretch where his bed was made perfectly.  I would walk in his room and be so happy.  Then I found out that he was sleeping in the tree house every night—on a futon—in a sleeping bag.

I feel guilty about not being more disciplined in my writing.  which is why I am writing now.  and why I am going try to start posting twice a week again.  even if it’s about me and my guilt or my fat dog.  Speaking of Neo, I am planning to write a post very soon about bathing him.  because it’s a big event.  because he’s a big dog.  and because I took pictures of his very sad face last time I bathed him.  Bet you can’t wait. 

But now, I need to go.  I think I will go buy some Diet Coke to assuage my guilt.  But I will put it in a cloth bag to carry it out.

Mary, Mother of Jesus

And now, the final story in my “Ignored Characters from the Easter Story”...

 Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.   ~ John 19:25

O God!  He hangs there!  My baby hangs there!  He is crying Lord!  My baby is crying!  Your baby is crying!  Why God?!  Oh Why?  He is in pain! Why must my son, my beloved child suffer?  O Lord, why could it not be me?

I cannot help him.  He hangs there, my baby boy, in agony.  When they pierced his hands, I heard him moan. I know those hands they pierced with nails; wrinkled and red on the day He was born, chubby and velvety soft when He learned how to walk, calloused and rough as a young carpenter.  I held those hands as we strolled together into the village.  I washed those hands as the dust from the road gathered in their creases.  I felt those hands around me as He hugged my neck and touched my face. 

O God!  Please comfort Him!  Please comfort your son!  I cannot protect him Lord!  My heart is being ripped from my chest because of His pain!  O God! O God! O God, can I touch Him?  Can I caress his face once more? 

I remember the night He was born.  I put my ear to his tiny chest to hear his heart beating.  It was steady and strong, just like a drum.  In the moonlight, I looked on this Miracle Baby that God have given me and I marveled at His perfection.  How could I love Someone so much so quickly?  I knew then that I wanted to protect Him forever.

I can’t get close to Him, Lord!  He is too high, too far away.  My arms can no longer embrace Him.  He is calling for you, do you hear?  My God, He thinks You have forsaken Him Lord!  Have you forsaken your only Son?  Have you forsaken my Baby Boy?  O God, I want to hold Him!  I have not forsaken my Son!  I will never stop loving my Son!  Does He know how much I love Him?  My spirit dies with Him, O God!

I remember the night the Spirit of God visited me and told me that I would bear God’s Son.  It was so magnificent!  So unbelievable!  So confusing!  Why would the Creator of all want me to carry His child?  Why a meager peasant girl?  But I did carry the Son of Man…in my womb, in my arms, in my heart.  I did carry Him, but I can no longer.  He hangs on that cross, torn and tortured.  I stand on this dirt, dying a different kind of death. Helpless.

Is He dead, my Lord?  Has He died?  I want to go to Him.  I want to listen for His breathing.  Is He still breathing Lord?  O God!  They have pierced His side!  They have damaged my Son again!  He is bleeding God!  Blood and water are pouring from His wound! 

Sometimes when He was a baby, and even when He was an older child, I would go in quietly and sit by His mat and watch His chest rise and fall.  I would listen for His rhythmic breaths.  Then I would silently creep out, comforted by the obvious life in my Child; peaceful because of my Child’s peacefulness. 

Is this the end?  Is my Baby boy gone forever?  Is He with You Lord?  He said He must first descend to Hell.  Is He there Lord?  Is this not Hell enough? Are you listening to me God?  What is happening to my Son?  Your Son?  Is He really bearing my sin?  Even my sin at this moment?  Is that why my perfect Son had to die, Father?  What is this accomplishing, this decimation of my Child?  What good is this, Lord?  Save your Son!  Save me God!

God told me He was to die.  He said my Son, His Son, was born to die, born for sorrow.  It didn’t seem real—the suffering, the sorrow, the dying.  It didn’t seem real when He told me that He was to die for me—my Son would be my Savior—my Son would bear all sin—even my sin.  My Son would take man’s curse upon Himself.  My Son would rise again.

Will He rise, my Lord?  Will my Son rise from the dead?  Is it real? He said He would conquer death.  How will He conquer death?  O Lord, take care of my Baby. My heart aches, my mind screams for justice.  Where is the justice Lord?  Why, God?  Why did you give me this burden? I am terrified my Lord.  I am terrified by your will.  What is your will, Lord?  Show me the way of your will. 

The hot sun had shown on my face.  But now it is dark.  So very dark.  It has happened.  I stand here helpless.  My Son hangs there limp and lifeless.  He is still my Baby.  I am still His mother.  How can I move from here?  My Baby hangs on a cross.  They have killed him.  They have killed me.  Everything is colorless.  Yet, I want to believe He will yet live.  The horror of this day makes me doubt. 

O God, sustain my spirit.  I commend it into your hands.  My baby has gone.  Please do not leave me, my Lord.  I need You my Lord, O God, I need You.  I am so confused, so very confused.  You hold my breath, my feeble breath in your hands, you keep my broken heart beating.  Only You can have a plan for this nightmare, my Lord. Only You can make Him live again.  Only you can make all things new. 

Yes, Lord.  Make all things new.

Make all things new.

Make all things new. 

Loosening the Reigns

I still have one more post in my "Ignored Characters from the Easter story"series, but thought I would take a little break and share my guest blogger post at 18 Short Years--Loosening the Reigns. 

Enjoy!

Barabbas

This is my third story in my series, “Ignored Characters from the Easter Story”

From Matthew 27…

But the chief priests and the elders persuaded the crowd to ask for Barabbas and to have Jesus executed.

“Which of the two do you want me to release to you?” asked the governor.

“Barabbas,” they answered.

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate asked.

They all answered, “Crucify him!”

“Why? What crime has he committed?” asked Pilate.

But they shouted all the louder, “Crucify him!”

When Pilate saw that he was getting nowhere, but that instead an uproar was starting, he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he said. “It is your responsibility!”

All the people answered, “His blood is on us and on our children!”

Then he released Barabbas to them. But he had Jesus flogged, and handed him over to be crucified.

It was the smell that bothered him the most—the smell of the moist earthen walls, the stench of his un-bathed cell mates, the putridity of the decomposing excrement.  The odor had invaded his pores in the last three weeks since his imprisonment.  In this damp, dark dungeon grew mold and mania…and evil.

The night had been restless.  The moaning and cursing from the others made sleep elusive, and his eyes felt the heaviness of the morning’s exhaustion.  Not sure he could bear another hopeless day in the bowels of the earth, he again began rehearsing his crime in his head; he had murdered another…was it worth it?  Was his vengeance satisfactory enough to warrant the execution that awaited him?  Remorse steadily made its way into his scattered brain and seized his thoughts, breaking him of all pride.  Barabbas cried.  The hot tears ran quickly, drawing clean lines on his dirty cheeks –making his countenance a reflection of the bars that surrounded his body. 

“That one!”  His ruminations interrupted by voices outside the cell, Barabbas looked up.  He saw them there, dressed in all their shiny Roman finery –the servants of Pilate.  The rusted iron door swung open with a mournful creak and they grabbed him.  The hand upon him was warm . A fleeting memory of his mother, leading him by the hand, came to mind and he wished for her, her comfort, her serenity.  He knew the place where they were leading him now was a place of horror—not a place of love—was it a proper place for a criminal like him?  Was it a place for anyone?

With bare feet chained, he stumbled into the day, eyes assaulted by harsh unfamiliar sunlight, and was forced by his captors to climb the crumbling stone steps which led to the upper terrace of Pilate’s quarters.  Why were they taking him there?  Wasn’t Golgatha away, beyond these ornamented walls?  Didn’t his death on a cross mean separation, sacrifice, and humiliation?  Why would he be entering into the presence of a king? 

Why were all the people there?  Standing in the courtyard looking like a thousand hungry souls?  Did the presence of his highness not make them tremble, as it did him?—a million tiny goose bumps forming under his dirty, matted hair.  Who was this other rebel here?  His face seemed unaffected by the guilt of his past; His eyes, clear and calm…and something else; innocent? 

Wait!  Was it Passover?  Was that the reason for the swarming mass of humanity?  No wonder the throngs strained to hear Pilate.  There was a custom at Passover in which the Roman governor would release a prisoner of the crowd’s choice. He remembered this now! He remembered being there, in this very courtyard as a youngster, with his family, when a man—a prisoner like himself—was absolved of his guilt!  And now he was here.  He was the prisoner.  And now some child was watching him…and deciding if he lived or died.  How did his life get here?  What kind of man had he become?  Would it be him?  Would they release him?  Would grace be his?  

But what about the other guy?  Why was He here?  What was His crime?  Was the name of the man really Jesus?  His name was Jesus too—Jesus Barabbas.  They kept yelling “Jesus!” and “Crucify him!”  Which one were they talking about? What had Pilate asked of them? Who was the target of their hatred?  Maybe they would kill the other Jesus—maybe they would crucify Him in place of Barabbas!  Maybe Barabbas would get to live!  Maybe he could live a new life!  A joyful life!  A life of freedom forever! 

A cold palm grabbed his bicep and pulled Barabbas to the front with Jesus—A king on one side of him, a mere man on the other-- the criminal stood leg to leg with the one who held life or death in his hands. 

“Which of these two do you want me to release to you?”, the voice next to him screamed out. 

“Barabbas!”  They were yelling his name!  They wanted to free him!  He wasn’t going to die!

“What shall I do then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” 

He is called “Messiah”?  The “Messiah”?  Does this man really think He is God’s Savior?  Then Heaven save Him now.  Maybe His death will satisfy this wrath.  

“Crucify him!”  He heard them hiss below. 

Pilate hesitated, then questioned, “Why?  What crime has he committed?”

“Crucify him!” Their retort was deafening, condemning. 

With that, Pilate shrugged, thrust his arms into the ivory water bowl, and with dripping hands, pronounced his sentence, “I am innocent of this man’s blood!  It is your responsibility!”

“His blood is on us and our children!”

Abruptly, Pilate released his grip on Barabbas.  He was free. His shackles were unfettered.   And Jesus—the other Jesus—was handed over to the hungry crowds so they could whip Him, strip Him, and crucify Him upon a cross. 

The other Jesus was quiet now, not weeping, but somehow serene,  facing eternity.  As they led the Accused away, Barabbas felt a pang of guilt—the same guilt that had been transferred to the body of Another…the same guilt that killed a Man Who had become his Substitute…the same guilt that a Savior's blood would wash clean.  Barabbas would now live.  And this Man, this Jesus, this Deliverer would die in his place. 

Again, Barabbas cried.  Grateful, humble, forgiven.

And Jesus the Christ, died.  Obedient, rejected, forsaken

And death was defeated forever.

The High Priest’s Servant

This is my second story in the series, “Ignored Characters from the Easter Story”.  Enjoy.

From Luke 22...

While he was still speaking a crowd came up, and the man who was called Judas, one of the Twelve, was leading them. He approached Jesus to kiss him, but Jesus asked him, “Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?”

When Jesus’ followers saw what was going to happen, they said, “Lord, should we strike with our swords?” And one of them struck the servant of the high priest, cutting off his right ear.

But Jesus answered,“No more of this!” And he touched the man’s ear and healed him.

Curse those thorn bushes! How long must I walk through this dark, wet forest? My legs are being torn to shreds trying to find my way! There is no moon tonight. It is a very silent night indeed. A man named Judas is leading us through this thickness. His torchlight keeps flickering as he slinks through the trees like a snake; in fact, he reminds me of a snake…dark, sneaky, slippery. We are searching for that man…what is his name? Jesus? Yes. He claims to be the Son of the Most High God! Ha! Who does he think he is?! Blasphemer! What kind of leader has a follower who betrays him for money? A false one! Yes. A false one. We shall see what kind of man he is.

I trudge on, squinting in front of me, groping for the light ahead, the sweat from my brow makes my eyes burn. My mouth is parched; I can barely swallow. The stench of angry men—men on a mission—reaches my nostrils. All I can hear is sandaled feet crunching upon wet gravel…moving, moving…when will we stop moving? I must keep in step with the High Priest. By now, he is likely spewing venom. He will not give his power to that false prophet “king”!

I see the torch clearly now. Judas has stopped. Why have we stopped? Have we found the criminal? He sees him! Judas tells us that he will give his master a kiss. That is how we will know him. Taking a deep breath, then letting out a resigned sigh, Judas goes forth. His hands are shaking. Before he reaches him, the man, Jesus, stops and stares. His eyes display the excruciating pain of the imminent rejection. How can he know already that this disciple is a traitor? “Judas, would you betray the Son of Man with a kiss?” Judas reels back—almost as if he has been slapped—the kiss unfinished but the deal done. Suddenly, there is commotion amongst Jesus’ followers. I move to front as I hear the rustling of metal. I also raise my sword. I am ready; adrenaline is charging through my veins! I see the unmistakable swoosh of a weapon in the corner of my eye! What is happening here? I thought this man was peaceful!

In an instant, I feel cold metal against my head! My ear! My ear has been cut off! My ear has been cut off! It is lying at my feet. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness closes in around me. Spinning. In and out. Can you hear me? My shoulder receives the rush of blood. If I could just lift my hand to stop the bleeding...oh my head…dizziness…falling…my body hits the ground hard. Everything fades.

What is happening? Who is this man helping me to my feet? I feel as if I have just awakened. I am so confused. I touch my spinning, dust-covered, blood-plastered head. Wait--no blood. My ear is intact. My shoulder is dry. I am standing. I am whole. Was it all a dream? No. Everyone is as they were. Everyone is staring at me. Everyone—including Him—the One who calls Himself the Son of God.

“What did he do?” I ask the High Priest? No one speaks. He has healed my ear! It is soft and cool. A sword had removed it and he touched it and restored my ear! He made me whole again! I am living! He has given me life!

Still they cuff him and seize him. They will still arrest him. My right hand is still on my ear.

He has the power to heal? Could he really be a king? Could he really be Messiah?

I hear him speak softly as we walk. He is not resisting. “When I was with you day after day in the temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness.”

Am I a part of this darkness? Have I been the deceived one? Does this man know the way to the light? Is He the Light? Has my restored ear changed my eyes?

I must follow. I must follow him. My heart beats quickly. I am convinced He is Who He says He is. What have I been doing?

I yearn for truth. I yearn for light. He is the Light. I know this now. What am I doing? He really is the Lord! He really is the Lord!

Oh, my Lord! My Lord! Your hands touched my ear but saved my soul.

Will your blood be spilled for me?

The Colt

For Holy Week, I gave myself the task of writing character sketches of the "ignored" characters of the Easter story. And though it may seem a strange way to start, I focus on the colt that Jesus rode on Palm Sunday for our story today. Remember, creative exercises are good for my brain.  Judge lightly.

Use your imagination as we enter into Jerusalem...

  

Matthew 21...As they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethpage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, "Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her.  Untie them and bring them to me.  If anyone says anything to you, say that the Lord needs them, and he will send them right away"...

Laboring to carry his Rider towards Jerusalem, the colt stopped and started, braying unhappily.  If the animal had known that he carried a King upon his back, his step would have been lighter, easier, quicker to please.  Yet, the beast stumbled on, unaware of the honor given, knowing not that his Creator sat upon him.

As they entered into the city, the rush of people, the waving of palm branches, the shouting of the villagers frightened the colt, yet the Wise Rider still urged him on;

This One who rode him was kind.

Traveling onward, he felt the Kind Man’s hands upon his sweat-covered neck, and he lifted his head to receive the welcome caress;

This One who rode him was gentle.

Stepping across the coat-strewn road, the donkey yielded to the soft words of the Gentle-man as He quietly commanded “Stop”.  Amidst voices, “Hosanna!” “God, save us!” he felt his Rider descend. 

And now, this Man, this Master, was leading him through streets of the burgeoning town. 

Who was this Man they honored here? 

Who was this Grace-full Leader? 

Could He be of Majesty? 

Could He be a King? 

Kings were not gentle, nor humble.  This Man was both of these.  Kings sat upon horses and chariots; this Man, upon unsaddled beast. Kings spoke with volume, conceit; this Man was serene in His power.  Kings wore fine robes and crowns on their heads, this Man, just a coat and His tears.

Today, now, greatly admired, this Man would soon be rejected. The tears of this sorrow fell freely.

And the colt, un-tethered, un-hindered--now honored—bowed down to show his respect.  This Man who had chosen to ride like the lowly had come from on High to save those He loved.  But love is not what He found. 

The colt sauntered steady and the Servant climbed on him.  This Man he now wanted to please.  The step of this donkey was now firmer, now quicker, now prouder—all now without complaint.  His job was important, so worthy, so awesome…

 For he carried the King of all Kings!

I Can't

I can’t protect them.

My two younger kids got in a car accident on the way to school this week.  They are fine, but my “what-ifs” made me crazy realizing...

I can’t protect them.

My older daughter drove to Chicago a few days ago and she had never driven in the city.  I tried not to panic when I received no word of her arrival because it was becoming increasingly clear…

I can’t protect them.

The same daughter that drove safely to Chicago got on a plane to China to spend nine days with strangers in a foreign country and I kept waking last night to check on her 13-hour flight, all the while realizing…

I can’t protect them.

My first-born is living at home this semester and stays out late with friends sometimes.  For some reason, I can’t sleep until I know he is safe in his bed even though I never know where he is when he is away at college.  I’m trying not to mother him so much and it’s hard for me to admit…

I can’t protect them.

When my children were all little and under my watchful hawk-eye, I reveled in the fact that I could protect them.  I took precautions to keep them within the realm of my indulgent care.  I established boundaries so they would not suffer bodily harm.  My “mother bear” instincts made my adrenaline rush when I sensed danger nearby, and my intuition about negative influences assured that I was being the gatekeeper for their impressionable minds.  I was secure when I knew of their whereabouts and kept close tabs on their adventures outdoors.  I did all of these things because I loved them intensely and my love drove me to protect them. 

My love still drives me to protect them. 

But I can’t.

I can’t protect them.  I need to let them go.  I need to learn to fully trust my God—their God—to take care of my babies now.

This is so hard for me.  My mother-bear tendencies still run on high gear.  My ears are still attuned to those small noises in the night.  My mind is still aware of all the dangers in their worlds.  And my arms still long to tuck them in their safe, warm beds.

But they are growing up and experiencing life on their own terms—not mine.  God has designed a whole lifetime for them and they are excited to experience it.  He knows the plans He has for them and he is fully aware of the challenges they will face.  He sees them all the time—even when they are in a crushed car or on an over-the-ocean plane ride.  And He loves them intensely—just like me.

Over the years, I have learned to trust the Father with my own life.  He has shown Himself faithful and reliable.  He is always there when I need Him.  And I know that nothing can pluck me from His hand.  Now, in this new season of life, I must consciously decide that I can trust Him with my children’s lives.  Ultimately, He is the One in control and I know that my level of anxiety decreases as my confidence in the all-knowing Father increases.

He must become greater; I must become less.

I can’t protect them.  But He can.  And He knows what He’s doing even if it looks scary or wrong to me.  His good is not my good because His ways are higher than mine.  And if His definition of “protection” for my kids sometimes looks like danger or loss to me, I must accept it from His hand.  His purposes will prevail even if I choose not to trust Him, so I have decided to submit…and to trust…and to stop grieving Him with my need to control.  My worrying offends the One who took Himself out from the protection of His own heavenly Father to experience pain and sorrow and suffering for me.  My doubt pierces the heart of the One who gave His life to protect me from Hell. 

He wants what’s best for me—and for my kids.  I need to choose to believe that. 

And I need to learn to rest in His all-knowing arms. 

I can’t protect them…but He can.  And it’s only in Him that they are truly safe.

I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety. 

Psalm 4:8

Declaration of Dismay (by Shay)

My sweet third-born is 17 today!!  Because of that, I decided to make her my guest blogger!  As an assignment for school, Shay was to write a “declaration” about anything she wished based on the structure of the Declaration of Independence.  Shay choose to evaluate American society.  Check out her observations—both entertaining and insightful. 

(And after you are done reading, get off the computer and be productive!)

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for humans to break the bonds which have connected them with the couch, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to stop exercising laziness.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created able with certain undeniable aspirations that among these are passion, progress, and productivity. However, these desires are forgotten, when idleness is instituted among Men, deriving their just notions away from productivity-- whenever any form of procrastination, such as Facebook, Netflix, or Pinterest, becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new aspirations, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to affect their success and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that productivity shall not be sacrificed for the sake of momentary entertainment; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. Such has been the patient sufferance of The American population; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former way of life. The history of the American way of life is a history of repeated wasted time and unfulfilled potentials, all having in direct object the establishment of Productivity over lethargy. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

We Have invented gadgets that encourage laziness by minimizing our daily work, and doing the simplest of activities us.

We have electronic toothbrushes that brush our teeth for us.

We have walkways in airports that move so we don’t have too.

We Have buttons on our steering wheels so we don’t have to stretch to the dashboard.

We have blankets with armholes so we don’t have to hold them up on our own.

We have calculators so we no longer have to do simple arithmetic.

We have cars that can park all by themselves.

We have Google so that we never have to wonder.

We have garage doors that open themselves.

We have pre-made sandwiches with the crust already cut off.

We fast food and T.V dinners.

We have Velcro so we don’t have to tie our shoes.

We have u, idk,and k because it’s too hard to write out you, I don’t know, and okay.

We have spell check so that we never have to learn to spell.

We have ice Cream cones that rotate so our tongues don’t have to and cups that automatically stir up our chocolate milk.

We have television for constant entertainment.

We have Facebook for constant procrastination.

We have everything we need without work or struggle.

We have chairs named after the offense itself.

We have robbed ourselves from noticing the beauty of natural life.

We have robbed ourselves from the joy of satisfaction and hard work.

We, therefore, the people of America, in appealing to our fellow peers for the rectitude of our intentions, solemnly publish and declare, that we are, and of Right ought to be free from the bonds wasted time and wasted potential; and that we are free to live lives full of purpose, we have full Power to take action, and live life to the fullest.

A Massage from Jesus

Hey y’all!  Sorry I’ve been missing for a while.  I just returned from a warm and sunny trip to wonderful Cancun, Mexico.  Brent and I stayed at a beautiful resort and read millions of books and lay in the sun for hours on end.

And I got a massage from Jesus. 

Now, it wasn’t the Jesus that you and I are both thinking of, but nonetheless, I thought it was pretty cool that Jesus was my masseuse—even if he was a short 20-year-old Mexican boy.   And I got to pondering that, as Americans, we all want a massage from Jesus, don’t ya think?  We want that touch from our Savior, but only if it feels good to us—only if it is soothing to our spirits.  If the hand of God hurts our ego or makes us uncomfortable in any way, we want to get out from under the pressure. And we beg God to stop. 

That’s kind of my life lately—lots of uncomfortable pressure from Jesus hand to conform me to His image.  And, I’ve not been a great participant.  In fact, I’ve pretty much been kicking and screaming to Him about how uncomfortable my situation is and wishing He would just stop the whole refining thing because I’m seeing just how ugly and sinful and proud I really am.  And that, my friends, feels like a kick in the seat of my pants, not a relaxing massage.

But, if I would be still for a while and sit at Jesus feet, I might just remember His promise that  “He who began a good work in me will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:6).  And I just might recall that this whole completion thing requires me to change.  And then I might realize that this changing of myself will actually be good because it will make me reflect Jesus more and more…and Tori less and less.   Haven’t I read somewhere that suffering produces      

perseverance and perseverance produces character and character produces hope (maybe in Romans 5:3-4)?  And isn’t hope exactly what I need when I am feeling God’s heavy hand?  I think so.

And though I’d rather have a massage from Jesus, the pressure He has allowed in my life lately is ultimately so much better.  Slowly, but surely, with His ever-skillful hands, He is molding and making me into who He intends me to be.  

Sometimes it’s hard for me to keep all this in perspective.  Sometimes I just see to the end of my day, not to the end of all days.  But God has long vision.  He sees how our trials in this life will conform us to His image and help us truly understand our enormous need for a Savior.

Bottom line?

We need to quit our bellyachin’.

We need to trust Him when we’re struggling.

And we need to stop begging for a massage from Jesus.

    

  And all the people said,   

        

 “Amen!”


The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn, shining ever brighter until the full bright of day.

Proverbs 4:18