Mess Haul

Lately, I’ve had a bit of what writin’ folks call “writer’s block”.  That, and I can’t figure how to fit writing into my new busier—and apparently messier--life.  Anyway, that’s why I haven’t been posting much in this here blog.  So, to get the ball a’rollin, I have decided to do a report on recent happenings in my little world.  If you are easily bored, or uncomfortable with disaster, check out now and go take a nap or whatever you do when you have a little free time.

I’ve had a few difficult days this week.  That feeling could be compounded by the fact that late Sunday night, after we had gotten home from the lake at 10:40 pm and I was cleaning out the cooler, a glass jar of salsa slipped out of the fridge and plunged onto the tile floor into about a million pieces, decorating everything with red tomato messiness.  Have I ever told you how much I hate messes? This was not happiness for me.  In fact, it felt like much sadness and I just wanted it to go away.  So my sweet husband, seeing my distress, offered to clean it up for me.  And when he had worked hard to get everything spic and span, and as I was moving the cooler to get the last of the remnants of glass underneath, a container of sour cream fell from the top of the cooler and broke open and splattered all over my floor and cupboards and dishwasher.  Really.  Too bad, we weren’t in the mood for tacos just then because we had all the toppings readily accessible.  Eyeing my repeated look of terror, my husband once again assisted me as I was near in tears.  Finally, after watching my rescuer clean up most of both disasters, and after pulling myself together, I vacuumed and mopped the entire floor.  Then I slogged to bed and collapsed smelling faintly of pico de gallo.

Now you may think this was the end of the food disasters, but you would be wrong.  There is more.  And I am beginning to wonder if something is wrong with me—like maybe I have an alternate persona or maybe God is trying to get my attention with some analogy that I am not quite catching…kind of like when He told Ezekiel to cook a barley loaf over human dung (Ezekiel 4:12)—what was with that?  Fast forward to Tuesday morning when I was dutifully making a green smoothie for my aforementioned helpful husband.  As I added ingredients and turned on my megablendeer, the sound it was making was unfamiliar but it often sounds loud and weird, I mean it has a 3 HP, 1560 watt motor (like a lawnmower), so I just left it.  I blended once, twice, and still my smoothie was not smooth, and still the whirring sound continued.  In my ignorance, I pushed blend again, and the Blendtec Wildside became furious and blew out the entire side of its plastic jar in protest, spewing green gunk all over my kitchen and dishwasher and sink and cupboards and windows and floor and myself.  As I surveyed the amazing mess I had made—again—I found a very disgruntled metal spoon which had accidently fallen in the blender.  Don’t ask me how.  I don’t know.  Maybe I was super tired and temporarily stupid.  Or maybe I was another person who had watched www.willitblend.com one too many times.

 Oh, and did I mention that this entire debacle occurred just 15 minutes before I had to leave for an appointment. Did I also ever mention how much I hate messes?  Especially messes that take place right before I need to leave? I cleaned up as best I could and left Shay to buff the stainless (stainless takes a huge amount of time even when I don’t dump green smoothie all over it) and wash the window—which she did—I guess—but it was still super streaky when I got home and a little green so I cleaned it again.  As an added bonus, I had a sink full of dishes when this occurred.  And since they were also covered with thick green goo, I had to wash them upon arriving home; exhausting and disheartening all at the same time. 

But now, just to convince you that I may indeed be struggling with another personality unaware, I had additional accident. 

With food. 

So, I was in Wal-Mart picking up a few things on the same day that I suffered the green smoothie explosion and I remembered that Shay had used the last of the cream cheese on the bagel she so sweetly prepared for me when I was hyperventilating.  I walked to the cheese isle, picked up a (plastic) container of cream cheese, put it in my cart, and promptly walked ahead.  The cheese fell out of the front part of my cart (where the seat is) and rolled to the floor cracking the top. 

I felt like crying.  And throwing up.  But restraining myself and doing neither, I walked to the check out and told the lady that this now-cracked container had fallen on the floor and broken.  And it was my fault.  I then asked if I needed to pay for it.  Seeing my pitifulness, she had mercy on me and said no.  Then she put it in a Wal- Mart bag and wrapped it up and stuck it under the counter just like nothing ever happened.  I wanted to hug her but I just paid for my undamaged groceries and left.

So that’s the news folks.  And because I am unsure if I am just one person or two (I’ve taken to calling myself Sybil), I am being very careful when I handle plates and crock pots and jars or even plastic containers of any kind since I never know when I might snap into the reckless Tori and destroy the rest of my house.

Pray for me.  And only serve me supper on paper plates. 

HIStory

I’m scared about a lot of things. 

I’m constantly haunted by the fact that maybe I’m not doing what I am supposed to be doing—that I am keeping busy, but that this busyness may not be “the good works that God prepared in advance for me to do.”  Most days I have a sense of urgency—a sense of being unsettled—because I am afraid that I won’t be able to accomplish what I really want to do—the things I can see in my mind clear as day, but can’t figure out how to bring them to life.  I don’t have this sense of urgency because of lack of time, but because of a lack of courage.  I am often afraid to start big things—like trying to master a new language or complete a big dream, like writing a book.  These big things scare me into motionlessness because they seem too huge to start; I feel so ill equipped to even venture toward the goal.  I often see big, talk big, and then do nothing—because I really don’t know what to do.  This exasperates me, and I don’t understand how to fix it, so I push the vision aside and it sits on the back burner and taunts me with suggestions of “lazy” and “weak” and “disappointing”.

I really admire people, like my husband, who set big goals for their lives and set forth a plan to accomplish those seemingly “undoable” items.  I don’t operate like this; I can see the goals I want to reach, but unless someone clearly defines the path for me, I get lost in the brushy stuff on the side—wandering aimlessly until I finally find a comfortable spot and stay there.  Physically, I can push myself out of my comfort zone quite successfully, but mentally and intellectually, I like to stay where things are familiar and known.  This characteristic often hinders me when I am trying to establish new routines or develop good habits like memorizing scripture or reading more books.  The minute something gets difficult, I punt, and fall back into what is easy for me.

There are so many things I want to do and be and learn and I feel like I am the only one keeping me from them. 

I believe this familiar inertia keeps me from being the Tori that God intended me to be.  I often pray to push out of it—this “what I’m used to” attitude—and I can sometimes, with great effort, force myself to think in a broader way.  This type of processing, though, takes so much effort for me, that it only lasts a time, and then I’m back to where I started--scared of accomplishing much. 

Jesus wasn’t scared of accomplishing much.  He submitted himself to the Father’s will, and accomplished everything that God put before Him. 

I want to be like that.  I want to force myself to do the things He has given me even if they make me uncomfortable—even if I have to think really hard—even if I have to go way out of my cozy life to do them.  I don’t want to be afraid of doing big things. 

But wait…here’s a new thought:

Maybe my God is big enough to empower me for His greatness—not my own.  Maybe I struggle not with lack of courage, but lack of submission.

So maybe that is where I err.  I am trying to accomplish much on my own for myself.  I am looking for the “good works from God” to make myself feel great—to release the tension of my uncertainty.  Maybe I am much too focused on what I am doing—not what He is doing through me. 

Maybe my paradigm needs a little shift…

When I stop focusing on my own big dreams and when I begin looking for where God is at work and decide to join Him in His big goals, I am actually accomplishing much more that I could on my own. 

When I hold my own agenda for greatness in my own tiny fists, God will not work His will through me.  And I will have a sense of anxiousness because I am looking to myself and my skills for fulfillment.  But when I release these things that scare me, these big things I think I need to do, and when I tell Him I cannot do them, He unleashes His strength into my Spirit to bring Him glory.

This glory—God’s glory—may not look identical to my own goals—and I need to be Ok with that.  I must rest in His decisions.  I need to stop my mental pacing and name-calling.  I need to set my eyes on Him and not on the big things I think I need to do.

I need to keep reminding myself that it’s all about Him.

God is the author of this big story He is writing.  We are just the characters in it.  I often mistakenly think it’s my story I’m writing, but I’m wrong.  It’s all about Him.  It’s all for His glory.  And if I choose to put Him—not my perceptions of my own purposefulness—first, then all these “things” will be added to me as well. (Matthew 6:33)

So, is it my lack of courage, my refusal to start big things that is keeping me from becoming the one God intends me to be?  Or is it my refusal to put myself under His headship that stagnates all my plans?  I think the latter is probably true.

If I continue to look to my goodness and my talents to reach my goals, I will disappoint myself time and time again.  I can intellectually choose to force myself out of seemingly immovable inertia, but I don’t have enough willpower to make a perfect Tori.  Only by God’s Spirit can I achieve lasting change.

 If I make God my goal and His glory my aim, like Jesus did, and if I put myself under submission of His Lordship, he may release me from the fear of accomplishing much and do great things through me.  Or he may do small things through me.  He is the Author, remember?

Jesus accomplished everything that God put before Him.  Jesus was completely immersed in God’s will.  I think I can learn something from that. 

And then, maybe, I won’t be scared of so many things.

“Such confidence as this is ours through Christ before God.  Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God.  He has made us competent as ministers of the covenant—not of the letter, but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life.”

2 Corinthians 3:4-6

Running Home

My girls and I ran a half marathon on Saturday.  Actually, it was a 20K, but none of you non-runners care, so let’s just leave it at a half.  Anyway, as I was running it, I thought back to the first time I ran a full marathon.  It was a goal that I had thought previously unachievable…until I broke it down.

When I was contemplating running 26.2 miles, I read books on the subject, scanned articles written by veteran racers, and generally fed my brain anything marathon related.  I was interested in running these long miles, but unfamiliar with the how-to.  After perusing several Internet sites, I found a training plan that looked do-able and penciled into my calendar the miles I needed to run.  That way, when the marathon rolled around, I would be good and ready.  And I decided that I would obey my calendar even when I felt like ignoring it. 

This worked well for me.  After getting up in the morning, I would look at the mileage that was required that day and find a way to fit it in.  If I ignored the directives of my calendar, I knew I wouldn’t be ready to run when the big day arrived.  This fear of failure, of disappointing myself, kept me on the straight and narrow path when I wanted to give into the wide road of lethargy. 

The reason that this plan worked for me is because the long months of training were broken down into (relatively) small daily miles.  The big goal of running a marathon seemed achievable by training one day at a time.  Conversely, if I had the same desire to run a marathon, and if I would have gone out the first day trying to run 26.2 miles all at once, my attitude towards my goal would have been very different. The dream of the marathon would have seemed completely undoable, discouraging, defeating.  This is why, when we have a large vision, we start small and build slowly. Breaking goals down helps us to wrap our brains around this monumental task that we are attempting.  One does not become a marathoner in a matter of days, or even weeks—a marathoner takes several months to be race-ready. 

Why then, as Christians, do we expect to be spiritually mature instantly?  Why do we think we can become godly by “just going to church?”  In the same way that training for a race is a process, spiritual growth takes time…and effort.  It takes hours and hours of sitting at Jesus feet, learning from His Word, reminding ourselves of His Truths.  Spiritual maturity sometimes seems unattainable when we are struggling again and again with the same enslaving sin.  It seems far off when our desire for the Word wanes.  It seems unswervingly huge when we truly understand how incapable we are of achieving it on our own.  But it is achievable…when we break it down.

If we make it our goal to seek God daily and read His Word regularly, it will affect our lives.  Jesus promised, “It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it” (Isaiah 55:11).  If we memorize scripture by reviewing it daily, it can help us to sin less; the psalmist said “I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.” (Psalm 119:11).  And if we give up our rights to our lives, God will reward us with His abundant life; “For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. (Matthew 16:25).  These are promises the Christ-follower can count upon.  One does not become spiritually mature in a matter of days—or even months—becoming more like Jesus takes a lifetime.

Although we will never achieve perfect maturity in Christ until we meet with Him in Heaven, we can take small steps here on earth to display a better reflection of Him to others.  It’s true, as Christ-followers, that we have the same power that raised Jesus from the dead at our disposal.  But it’s also true that we need to choose to use this power by disciplining ourselves and making wise choices every single day. The fear of the Lord and the reality of meeting Him face to face in the future make this obedience more appealing. Starting our day by looking at our “Guidebook” for direction is a great way to start.  And choosing to do what it says is non-negotiable.  Luke 6:46 poses the question, "Why do you call me, 'Lord, Lord,' and do not do what I say?"

Choosing righteousness is hard.  It requires dedicated training.  Sometimes it feels completely unreachable; our true Home seems so far away. Philippians 2 tells us that we must “work out our salvation with fear and trembling” (all the while being aware of the Spirit within). So, keep making the next right choice, keep persevering in your quest to give God glory.  Keep choosing obedience over pleasure. Keep walking on the narrow path when the wide one beckons louder.  Keep training yourself to be godly, little by little by little. 

And it will happen.   And you will see more and more of God’s face.  And then, one day, you will hear the coveted words, “Well done good and faithful servant” when you reach the finish.

Keep running, my friend, keep running.

The path of the righteous is like the morning sun, shining ever brighter till the full light of day.

Proverbs 4:18

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

Cart Correction

When it comes to carts, I think I am cursed.  It seems to never fail, that when I make my choice from that tangled mess of metal and madness in the entrance of Wal-Mart or Hy-Vee or Target, I end up with a defective one.  Really.

So, the other day as I was pushing my shopping cart, I noticed that I had to work especially hard at keeping it on the straight and narrow.  As I perused the endless aisles, I realized that I must apply heavy pressure on the right side of the handle so the left wheel wouldn’t push me into an oncoming customer.  I was exhausted by the time I got to the check out aisle and had to go home and take a nap after unloading my groceries.

This whole experience of fighting with my cart, the wheel wanting to go one way, and me pulling it back, made me think of how I am with God.  I constantly try to go my own way, think my own thoughts, bring myself the glory.  God, in His loving strength continues to pull me back on the right path through His Word, His people, His Glory.

Sometimes, though, I don’t respond to any of these, and He in His infinite wisdom, has to apply some pressure to my life so I won’t keep pulling away.  This pressure may come in the form of conviction or confusion or discontentment, and though it feels uncomfortable, it always turns me back to God…at least for a time.

And God, in His boundless mercy, continues to guide me patiently, knowing full well that I will stray from His path again and again and again.  Just like the wheel on the cart.

But still, He keeps holding on.

And He keeps guiding me so I won’t collide with disaster.

And I need to keep trusting Him and letting Him lead the way. 

“For the waywardness of the simple will kill them, and the complacency of folls will destroy them; but whoever listens to me will live in safety, and be at ease, without fear of harm.”

Proverbs 1:32-33

May Madness 2013

Hey!  It's May 13th and my first post of the month.  It's not that I am trying to ignore y'all, it's just that it's May and the madness has begun (check out Mad May 2010 and the same from 2012).

And you know my new job?  It kind of interferes with my life. Besides working, here's what I been doing since I last talked to you:

I washed and dried my family's sheets 2 times and hung them on the line to make them smell good.  I attended 1 going-away party, 1 graduation party, 1 baby shower, 1 band concert, 1 worship concert, 1 night of work on a Friday eve, 1 track banquet (I skipped the 2nd one), 2 track meets, 2 connection groups, 3 staff meetings, 3 lunch meetings (one at El Azteca), and visited Sam's club too many times to mention.  I  made 3 special trips to HyVee to buy Kale for my husband, 12 cupcakes to celebrate the now-ignored May Day, and fed 16 extra people (at different times--not including my family) at my house.  I produced no-bakes in 15 minutes for an event I had to leave for in 30, sewed 2 puppy towels, ironed 1 shirt for my son, and ran 7 very fast miles with my long-legged daughter. I sent a package to my mother-in-law, a package to my finals-taking daughter and a package to someone unknown (for Luke).  I rode around a local lake for 2 long hours with some energetic 9 year old boys for the local Christian school bike-a-thon and the day after that I earned my yellow belt in boot camp, even though my legs were pretty sore.  I helped create 1 video (on a bad hair day) to highlight women's ministry and I recruited 12 volunteers for the welcome team at church. I  made bone broth in my crock pot. I made yogurt in my crock pot.  And one day, I put a roast in my crock pot, but forgot to plug it in--that means big disappointment after being gone for 10 hours. I washed a neighbor's dishes, ate a neighbor's salad, and paid a neighbor big bucks for the damage to their car (It was not my fault.  Someone else, whose name rhymes with roll, backed into them).  I bought 2 tank tops, 2 t-shirts, and a pair of shorts in order to usher in summer (since we skipped spring) and I invited 20 people and millions of children to my house for a work brunch next week.  That means I need to plant 3 flower beds and 2 flower pots, replace 2 dead bushes and remove 5 piles of dog poop from the sidewalk before they arrive.  In the remaining days of the month, I still need to attend 1 member's banquet, 1 coffee date, 3 discipling dates, 2 grad parties, 1 band concert, 1 bridal shower, 1 American citizenship celebration,  and 1 fund-raising carwash for the kids.  I also have 1 potluck at my house (not to be confused with the aforementioned brunch) in 8 days, 1 storytelling time for Sunday, and 1 fine day of moving my college girl back home.  Oh, and Cole wants me to make curtains for his tree house when I have time.

One of these days (not in May), I will again have time to produce inspiration and wit which I will post on this here blog.  But now, I must retire so I can get my 5 hours of beauty sleep.

And then I will make curtains.

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.