Author: Lisa

Married for 17 years with 2 adult children, helping to parent our 6 year old grandson. Home is filled with the chaos that comes with Legos, mud and two very large dogs. Our world is centered around our Plum, the child who brings great joy and teaches us about grace.

We Gotcha

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I want to speak straight to my Trump supporting sisters , all of you out there. I am no longer striving to convince you that your vote for Trump is dangerous. At this point, if you cannot see it, nothing I say or post or promote will sway you. His own words don’t push you away, scare you, mobilize you. So I want to assure you that the rest of us have your back. We will protect your children, we will stand up for your neighbors, we will respect religions other than ours and we will salute vets with PTSD. I understand you aren’t able yet, maybe you never will be ready, to stand up to a powerful man. Maybe your views are colored by the bullying men in your life. Or maybe, somehow you are in that small percentage of women who have not been exposed to sexual violence. I celebrate you, I am jealous of you. You were able to watch the debate last night and avoid the visceral response I had, my body clenching, silent screaming for someone to make Trump back away, stop looming over Clinton’s back. I felt afraid for her, I wanted her to run, to move away from him, to find safety. This man who has admitted to attempted sexual assault stood too closely, out of her eyesight, surely she was aware of his presence. But you were watching and it didn’t bother you that he was trying to physically intimidate a woman, another presidential candidate, before our very eyes. Lucky you, your eyes are free to see what you want.

No worries, just as some women sat out of the fight for equality that now ensures you get to vote for this man, just as some women sat of the fight for reproductive rights that allowed you to use birth control in college, you can sit out this fight. Your sisters will ensure this man never holds power over any of us, your brothers are joining us too. They know the stakes as well. They have sisters and daughters and mothers and have actually been molested themselves. They have been discriminated against, they have fought in wars they cannot defend and come home damaged and been mocked by your candidate for their psychological response. Go ahead and vote for him, we gotcha.

It calls to mind Michael Jackson, we all loved his music, grew up on his videos. Yet the rumors and charges of his molestation of young boys were pervasive. Most were free to believe or not with little consequence to themselves, they never would be faced with dropping their own child off for an over-night at Neverland.  I wonder, my sisters,  would you leave your beautiful daughters alone with this man?  But don’t worry, most of you will never have to face that test. You may though someday have to tell those same daughters how you chose not to support their safety. I can’t help you with that.

Putting on a Baggy Sweater today

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

My earliest memories are of sexual abuse by my father. I grew up in a town that had a thriving pedophile culture, my father’s actions were supported by his friends. He shared me with other men, they shared their daughters. I learned not only that I was made for the enjoyment of others but that men would hurt me. It took over 40 years to regain a sense of my own body, to allow men into my world. Only recently, at the age of 52, have I begun wearing bright colors, clothes that actually fit my shape, no longer so afraid to draw attention to myself. Years of hiding underneath baggy sweatshirts, black sweaters, trying to fade away literally through an eating disorder have been slowly put to rest as I finally, finally heal. Avoiding triggers, those places, movies, events that would send me reeling back into my victimization, I have emerged bit by bit from my cocoon. I never expected a presidential election to awaken that sick feeling, to create a terror I can barely express.

I have learned to listen to my gut, to understand where the real threats are. Alarms go off, I have learned to flee, find a safe place, tell other adults, just like I teach my Plum. These are important lessons we all teach our children. When something doesn’t feel right, that is enough. I was adamant with my children that they never ever had to give hugs, sit on laps, accept kisses even, maybe especially with relatives. Shaking hands, being polite is perfectly acceptable. Boundaries, learning from early on to establish and hold those, teaching them to protect themselves for all the times I wouldn’t be next to them to ward off danger. We teach our children to avoid creepy men, we listen to them when they tell us some adult makes them feel uncomfortable. We rush in now to dig deeper, to remove our child from impending peril, allegations are enough. What message are we sending to these same children when we refuse to listen to our brothers and our sisters when they say Donald Trump is dangerous to women, how much more evidence do we need?

This election is no longer about which party should win, I don’t think that has been the case for a long time. Personally I wish Elizabeth Warren had been our first female president, I could really get behind her ethically. What I cannot understand is why we still even have a race. The second debate is tonight, I don’t know if I can even watch. The flood on my news feed regarding the video that surfaced in which Donald Trump brags about his attempted sexual assault has sent me into a tailspin this weekend. Feeling an obligation to promote education about his behavior, I retweet and share, then curl up into a ball and hide.  He is literally making me sick. How am I going to survive the next month, how can I maintain my status as survivor when my very country is threatened by a man who wants to lead all women back to victimhood? I grew up in a town that supported this thinking, what if our entire country allowed women to be objects?

I read posts where men say they have daughters, wives, mothers so they feel they must condemn his remarks. That’s a start. What about condemnation just because it is wrong? He is wrong?  How about a revolution, a rising together in which we all agree that when danger lurks we listen to our gut and flee, right to the voting booth.  God help us otherwise. God help me, I truly don’t know how to survive a country led by this scary man. I don’t have enough baggy clothes to fit around us all.

Intruder

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

Drama wanted to come for a visit yesterday. I know this drama, once allowed in, it takes over my home, steals all of my emotional energy, takes my money, separates me from my husband, keeps me from sleeping. This drama knocks on the door, if I don’t answer, it tries to barge right in, uninvited, when my back is turned. I lock the doors, try to reinforce the boundaries, drama can be heard imploring for entrance through the cracks under the door. I call in help, ask for support. I need reminders that I am bigger than this, I don’t have to play host to this intruder.

Disengaging from the choices others make is ultimately a matter of survival for me. I know that I am a rescuer, my instinct is to always give my lifejacket away and then I risk drowning. In the past I have given my preserver to those not even in the water, those taunting from the shore. I was confused, I thought if I just gave more, ever more, we would have reconciliation. We would all swim together. I know differently now. Some people will just never stay in the water with me, not for long anyway. Maybe only long enough for me to think we are all comfortable, we are delighting in the same pool. Drama joins our swim party, the cycle begins again. Except I am just too tired to keep swimming, keep recsuing, keep interacting with drama. I am choosing to try new strategies. I don’t want to risk drowning anymore.

Challenging old patterns, making new choices of how to respond is not without consequences as well. Drama insists on being heard, taking the spotlight. The more I liberate myself, the stronger the pushback. Patterns want to remain. Every next step requires extreme care, considered maneuvering, much as a child’s first steps. I hold onto the wise words of friends, I tread slowly. I stop and ponder how to get back to safety. Yesterday my soul was screaming, “I want to go back to the mountains.” I gave my soul some attention, listened to the voice that was telling me danger lurked ahead. I can’t get on a motorcycle and escape my current situation, how can I regain the lessons from the mountains while still here with drama trying to create unrest?

When I looked at the valleys, the canyons of Colorado, I remembered how small I was and big God is. I was reminded of my little place in the huge picture, flowers grew without me. Water trickled from snow capped mountains to find rivers below. God has a plan that doesn’t require my lifejacket, my involvement in ensuring that all his seeds sprout, that all the snows melt and find their way home. Yes, the mountains, my soul whispered, remember what we learned there. We are a seed also, God showed us how to bloom.

Drama is going to keep knocking, this drama is going to grow. Protecting my fragile heart is my priority, rather than rescuing others from the choices they have made.  I can only pray they someday take their own trip to the mountains. Maybe then we will all swim and truly relish the water together.  For now, I’m focusing on all the pictures of my trip, listening to my soul and keeping my door locked.  Drama, you are not welcome here.

Happy Birthday Chef

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Almost 20 years ago I walked into the same restaurant I had worked at through college, seeking a job to restart my life. The first place I applied, the first time to check that horrible box on the application that put me in a category, changed who I was, I sought a relatively safe place to begin again. I needed an income fast, two children to support, housing and transportation to secure. I started back where I had been before things had gone so wrong.  Maybe I was looking for a do-over, a chance to make new choices based on the new me. What I found was that second chance, the hiring manager looked carefully over my application and asked about that box. He was clearly puzzled, I didn’t look like the usual applicant for the position and certainly not one who presented with a felony conviction. I told him my story, he checked with HR. He gave me a job, he gave me a lifeline.

I worked my lunch shift as a server then washed dishes in the back for a free lunch, came back for the evening shift on the days the kids were with their father. The manager gave me every extra shift available, I took any chance to make money. Soon he moved me up to an hourly management spot, a shift meal came with that as well. I couldn’t afford to eat otherwise. The business was slow, we had much time to begin knowing each other. His work ethic was exceeded only by his sense of fun, he had such a ready laugh. He attracted people, all ages and genders. I watched him while I worked, wondering how someone could be so light, so easy to be with, seeming not to carry burdens as he lifted those of others. One evening after a shift he asked me if I wanted to go for a drink. Thus began the end of that job and the beginning of the rest of my life.

We are opposites politically, he likes red wine, I only drink white. He backs the state school to the South, I will never abandon my Boilers. A smile is his most natural facial expression, mine is resting bitch face. He craves social time, I don’t think I ever have. A proud carnivore, he knows I prefer veggies. He doesn’t eat fruit, my mainstay. His entertainment is visual, I hate watching movies and need books like I need air, he doesn’t read. Ice cream is his favorite treat, I am lactose intolerant. How could we possibly be together? Married now for 16 years, we have weathered too many storms to recite. Low points take me back to that day when I walked into the restaurant and wonder if his life wouldn’t have been so much easier had I chosen the one down the street. Left wondering just what he could gain from a union with me, I know that God chose him as my partner.

Chef rounds me out, pulls me up from dark moods and too much introspection. He reminds of the playful world available, if only I choose to engage. He has modeled what a father can be, in the sometimes impossible position as step-father. His love never stopped, his generosity never quit, even as frustration boiled over. He carried the worries of troubled children, he insisted on respect for me when I was willing to allow unacceptable behavior, he made fun breakfasts. Through it all he kept working, working working 60, 70 plus hours each week, securing the future of our family which now includes our grandson. Demonstrating what God wants from men, not perfection but striving with integrity to be leaders in the church, home and community, he brings redemption to his brotherhood. He taught me to give other men a chance, to allow for friendships and small group interaction with that other gender who had before only meant danger. He opened the world to me.

My Chef has been pruned these last few months, a cutting so painful to watch I often can barely contain my rage.  He deserves much more, has sacrificed too deeply for this to be his daily reality. Yet this season is bringing him into his own rounding out, plumbing the depths to discover what else he truly wants, who else he is called to be. I see his more, all those around see it. Finally he has time to explore his own reflection. I know that the man God led me to is now truly leading him. Scary as it is to not see the road ahead, when you trust the One who paved it, the One who sends the Light, traveling only requires a next step and then a next until finally you realize you have arrived.

Today my Chef turns a year older, maybe a day he will reflect that he is not where he wants to be if measured by bank account statements or employment status. Yet I know he is right where God intends, on a new path, one I am so blessed to walk with him. Today I celebrate not just my Chef but a God who led me into a restaurant 20 years ago to rebuild my life, a life now restarting together with God at the center.  Faith, family friends and then work, balance restored. Through it all, I am so very proud to call this man my husband, to affirm those vows taken long ago. God knew our individual strengths would be called on to lift us rather than separate us, a strong union to face the future only He could see. Hand in hand we take this journey, following God, discovering the next adventure.  Happy birthday to my Chef, I contentedly stay in your shadow, remain your sous chef, allow your light to warm me. We are right where God wants us.

 

Who Taught Me To Pray?

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

We talked about prayer and how we pray in our small group last week. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. The reading content was okay but the discussion is where I really gained wisdom, where words spoken have refused to leave me. Who taught me to pray?  A week later I am still wondering about that. I know it wasn’t the Catholic catechism classes I attended spottily, as my parents wavered in and out of church attendance. I learned rituals  but not a deep spirituality, an ability to talk straight to God. I don’t think it was during my young adult years at the Episcopal church where I found comfort in those same traditions from childhood worship but less restriction concerning my social values. Maybe I taught myself when all the trappings of church were stripped away, when I was left alone to choose God without candles, incense, organs or even an anointed leader. Traditions that were meant to guide and ground me were gone. Stripped down, wearing only a jail uniform, I couldn’t hide my insides behind fancy Sunday clothes. No make up could mask my pain, I could no longer hide within the body of the church, any church. Without even a mirror to study my own reflection, even  I could see that my inside turmoil finally matched my outsides. I talked to God when there was no one else to talk to. I think I taught myself to pray, or let God teach me, private lessons from the Master.

During our class discussion I heard a friend say something so outrageous that it really could cause a revolution. Her story is not mine to tell but let me say I have witnessed her walk,  gained strength from our shared moments of success and grieved a piece of her harrowing, gut-wrenching defeat to the monster of addiction. She is real, she wears her battle of everything stripped away and newly chosen life in the very energy that surrounds her. She is someone that attracts people, her smile is warmth, her eyes shine as only eyes who have really seen God can. If you knew her story you would expect bitterness, anger, she has every right. She could easily be consumed with hatred, with grief that never ends. Her anger could be directed at our God, I am sure there are many days that has been true. Yet in our class she said she prays for her enemies. I know who she meant, she doesn’t have to do that. Let someone else pray for them, she has surely given enough at the altar. Her statement wasn’t self-aggrandizing, she wasn’t saying what our leader wanted to hear. None of the rest of us said such a crazy thing, those of us with less destructive enemies. She meant it, I believe her. That very act of prayer may be what has given her the glow of God.

I have another friend whose prayer looks like clay pots, broken and reassembled. It looks like  pastels on card stock preserved and delivered to church between a piece of folded cereal box. It smells like an extra pan of lasagna, a bowl of soup, fresh bread for hurting friends. Her prayer looks like listening, always hearing the call of God , and then acting. Quietly, no fanfare, in the shadows, she daily follows the direction God leads. I am amazed at the direct line she seems to have, the absolute connection to the Holy Spirit that is undeniable. Faithful in attendance at church but more faithful to the actual voice of our God, her prayers are born of the wisdom of prophets long ago. No need for acronyms to remind her how to pray, she has moved passed speaking into hearing. I trust her prayers, she means them, they are well considered and exude grace, reminds me of the centeredness that comes only when we are no longer our center.

I appreciate worship together, I need that time even if I try to avoid it when I am most hurting. Yet I truly believe that getting real with God may mean going away like Jesus to the garden, when no one can see, not following prescribed steps, being so broken you can only fall down and reach up. I gain such insight into the character of my God from fellow travelers, those who have crawled and now stumble, rarely run, tread carefully. The journey of their faith teaches me more than doctrine, more than guide books for praying. These women ARE my guides. They are have taught me to find my way to pray, a way that reaches the ear of my God. A God who doesn’t want a cookie cutter phrase repeated from memory, one that I can say without feeling anymore. God wants me to join in the conversation, however that appears, to have an authentic chat and then listen for the next step. I know He wants me to stay away from art supplies. He may want me to bake some lasagna. I am afraid He may be calling me to pray for my enemies. They are broken as well.

I go to church and worship with those who are on this journey, those who are seeking the path to our God. I cherish the music which speaks to my soul, breaks down the walls I try to erect. I learn from the sermons, I feel called to act, to change, to do. My real teachers though are the women in my life who write songs, hang out in the kitchen, nurture the children. These women know pain and know God. They know how to pray.  A week later and I finally have an answer to “Who taught me to pray?” My sisters did and do every day.

Dancing to the Rooster’s Call

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I heard the rooster crow, a faint call blending with the morning crickets and dogs snorting and snuffling as they battle over a ball. Cawing crows, distant traffic, another call of the rooster. As the morning came alive, I sat in the darkness and waited to feel the same. My body matched my desolate mood, the stress caught up, I struggled to move. My pelvis was out of place, once easily corrected with a trip to the doctor or physical therapist, now  progressively more painful as each day passed without insurance, no safety net to fix my brokenness. Afraid to make it worse, I allowed my body to stiffen, muscles to tighten, I hobbled back inside to refill my coffee. The rooster crowed again.

Stepping carefully, slowly around boisterous beasts, watching for any obstacles, my usual 3 minute journey took at least ten. Listening once more to the far off roar of a motorcycle, the call of a coyote, I tried to focus on breathing through the pain, wondered how to correct this misalignment, how things could have gone so terribly wrong. Blaming a God who knew I had no access to those who could help, anger simmering, I remembered I had lifted the huge jugs of water that created the problem in the first place. I knew better but was rushing. “Still, seriously, God, it was for dinner at church! I was being your servant and this is what I get?”  Personal accountability was no match for self-pity, my pain was too great. That rooster crowed, that damn rooster again.

The days following my displacement had grown increasingly dark, ever more isolated. More time in bed, barely speaking, hardly eating. I wasn’t writing, all thoughts consumed with my pain. That rooter reminded me I had been there before, I needed to wake up. That insistent call demanded I rise, acknowledge what was really hurting and get moving. The bed was too tempting for me, I had already given up a year laying there. Finally I allowed myself to cry, to tell God that it hurts, so much it hurts, to be missing my daughter. This pelvis that moves out of place because I gave birth to her now begs for attention, reminding me that I am a mother without a child. “Why God, why can’t you heal this brokenness, NOW? Why must we be so out of alignment, grown rigid in positions that only bring more pain?”  Shallow breaths, barely living, rather than exulting in the deep glory of shared triumphs?  “When God, WHEN has it been long enough? ”

The release of tears brought hunger, a renewed energy.  Walking carefully around the house, noticing my neglected life from just a few days of exile, I attempted a few chores, made a light meal. I felt looser physically, more connected emotionally. That night, God visited during my slumber. No longer able to hold myself stiff, away, careful, I jolted awake from the first deep sleep in days.  The jolt caused me to jerk, to cry out in the night.  The jerk popped my pelvis back where it is supposed to be. Finally relaxing a body held so tightly, pain nurtured like as it were my cherished child itself, I had let go into a deep sleep. God finally was able to wrestle control from me, to give me what I was seeking  yet fighting Him for. I wanted to dance, filling my lungs with the air of hope, the victory of promises kept.  I considered that rooster, calling me, wondering if I truly believe or just say that when times are good. I rose to seek out my morning call, to praise that faithful creature who rises before me with promises for a new day.

The rooster knew there will always be other noises to distract me, there will always be pain. I can’t count on a middle of the night jerk every time I mess up, I have to choose to stop doing things I know are wrong. I have to focus on what heals me, let go of things that destroy my health. I know that if God can take the time to deal with my stubbornness, my tendency to turn back to my bed, He is actively involved with my Stella as well. We each have our own roosters calling, asking us to believe, to rise up and choose a life of trust in Him. Today I listen to the rooster and praise God for His insistent pursuit of this willful child, sometimes turning a deaf ear to His calling. I know the rooster is asking me to rise even when it hurts. Hitting the snooze on the wake up call God has sent means I am at risk of over-sleeping, missing my life, missing the chance to see His light as the sun comes up. Another day, a new chance to give it up to Him and do my chores. I’m not fully healed, I’m still leery of a wrong move, but focusing on His voice, I send a glorious “Good morning” to the rooster, I dance in the darkness of my porch as I move to refill my coffee.

Back on the Steps

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I sat on the steps in the jail pod and silently begged God to let me die. All means of doing so myself had been removed. I huddled in anguish,  shrouded in the utter devastation that had become my life. I was told my case would never go beyond the investigation, then never beyond the initial charges. When a plea deal was offered, I was advised to reject it, no way would a jury convict. But they did and I sat in jail, awaiting transfer to prison, the nightmare that had begun almost 2 years before culminating in separation from my children for 2 1/2 years. I was told I would be able to see them immediately, another falsehood. It would be six months before the prosecutor completed the paperwork allowing my transfer, a vengeful act to increase my punishment. I sat on those steps and begged God to let me die. Excruciating heartache suffocating me, I could no longer breathe on my own. I didn’t want air to fill my lungs. I rejected food, I wanted no nourishment, my soul felt already dead. I just wanted my body to follow suit. Alone on the steps when all of the other women housed in the pod with me had left for the one hour recreation time, beseeching a God that had surely already forsaken me, I cried out.

My children were 2 1/2 and 5 at the time. I had sang them to sleep each night. I never wanted anything more than to be a mother. No longer able to smell their sweet breath, to feel silky hair glide through my fingers, hear the tinkling melody of little voices, know the weight of a lap immediately filled when I finally sat down, I wanted to escape my body. My senses were empty without children to give them meaning. I had no use for me, without the role of mom. I wanted out. I knew my suffering, I could only allow in tiny fragments of thought about those of my babies before I struggled to hold onto my sanity. What if I just let go?  A God who would allow this all to go so horribly wrong surely could just help me finish the job, just end this now. But He didn’t. He met me on the steps, the lowest place I have ever been and lifted me up. He broke through my anguished pleadings with intrusive images of the footsteps poem. I sought to push it away, arguing with God that I was done, there was nothing left in me, I couldn’t stand, let alone walk. The story kept pushing through, remembering how Jesus carried the person when they couldn’t walk. God told me I was still worth carrying. He was carrying my babies as well.

I don’t remember rising from the steps. There was no miraculous healing. I struggled minute by minute to survive. Somehow I did survive, I took the next bit of air in. I read the Bible that was given by some church group that visits prisoners.  I cherished the time an older woman from the community was allowed into the pod to do a study with anyone willing. She was a reminder of kindness and hope, she was the face of Jesus when I couldn’t find Him anywhere around me. Other bits of light began to appear as community members wrote to me, holding my family in prayers. I never had a day without mail, faith in action as strangers made time to tell me I had value still, I wasn’t forgotten and I wasn’t being judged by all, negating the message I received outside of mail call.  I was a lightening rod for many guards who favored the punishment aspect of incarceration. I didn’t fit in with the general demographic of the other women, I had a Master’s degree, I was married, had a home, other inmates didn’t like outsiders.   Yet angels appeared in the form of correctional officers as well. Intervention by CO’s allowed me to have a job that kept me away from the fray and moved to housing that fit my temperament but not my classification, both actions that protected my time and person. These angels were sent by God, they were Jesus carrying me when I couldn’t walk.

Finally I was freed, we rebuilt our life. Reunified, our time was more precious, never taken for granted. We loved deeply, openly. I gave up all of me to be mom again, the sweetest name ever I was called. I thought our horror was behind us, we still had struggles ahead. Addiction and pregnancy during Arrow’s teen years challenged us all, but we battled and united together. We stayed together. Hours and hours of laughter filled our home, if not riches, if not fancy belongings. A high school trip abroad, college, an extra car all found a place in a budget that barely covered the house. I thanked God faithfully for my blessings, these children, and for picking me up from those steps. We no longer had to subsist minute by minute, we were fully alive.

I didn’t expect to ever be separated from my children again. I knew they would grow up, go out into the world but I imagined we would stay connected as they moved into their own lives. Arrow and I have mostly managed this, never out of touch for long, the string between us stretches rather thin sometimes but has not yet snapped in two. My sweet Stella though, gone. I feel many days like I am back on those steps, aching for my girl. I no longer am begging God to die, yet I plead with Him to intercede. How can we have survived that horrific time only now to be ripped apart, by choice.  Once again, I can’t get to her. I am locked away from her or she is locked away from me. I dream of her, I wake with a longing so deep I know Jesus will have to carry me through the day if I am to rise from my bed. I know angels appear in the form of friends who ask me to walk or give me nuggets of news they have gleaned. Minute by minute I survive until one day I can live fully again. I know Jesus will carry me today. I just wish He didn’t have to.

Bible, Next Edition

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

Sitting in my small group study last night, listening to the responses to the question, “Is the Bible to be taken literally or figuratively?” , I drifted off into my own imaginings.  Understanding that the Bible is a collection of stories, written as inspired by God, the tales  passed from family to family, clan to clan, tribe to tribe before ever making it onto a scroll, I swing towards mostly taking in the greater lesson.  I read the words and allow God to do the interpretation at any given time. I put most of my stock in the “Jesus said” parts, figuring I can’t go wrong there.

Of particular interest is all the stories of big sinners whom God found purpose for in His kingdom. These are my people. This is my story. I hear it said often that the Bible is the Living Word. What I don’t hear is that we are living out the next chapter, the next installment. During class I began to imagine the next edition of the Bible, the one that is gleaned from our Facebook posts, our twitter feeds, our Instagram pictures. What if that tells future generations how we walked, stumbled, got up again in choosing to follow God? What if someone gathered our ITunes, Pandora or Spotify playlists as Psalms, would these be the songs we sing to the Lord?  Who are the prophets of our time, false and true, who do we follow and how do we know which are which? We have conventional wisdom, changing with the wind, is that our Proverbs?  Is what we are living out worthy of saving for our children’s children? Will they learn from us, grow in hope, gain wisdom from our choices? Will they find inspiration from our struggles and the way we turned to God in the darkness or only see that we wandered without looking for the Light?

I began to see that I AM the next chapter of the Bible. I have the advantage of reading the current guidebook but must remember that others are reading my life the same way and will do so in the future. I am and will be judged on my ability to seek God in all things. My everyday choices will tell those who come after me whether my story is of one of a Pharisee or a good Samaritan, a Judas or a Peter, a blind sinner named Lisa or Lisa, God’s humble servant, filled with sin but covered in grace. I am living out Bible 2.0, the next edition. How it is written is up to me.

Jesus Freaks, Where Are You?

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

Years ago as my extended family gathered around my table for dinner, we had a heated discussion about the upcoming election. As the sole Democrat in the group, my lone voice was a lightening rod, the gang enjoyed my discomfort. I am often the odd one out in our family, values a bit to the left. They still eat with me. Jokes and barbs were passed with the bowls of mashed potatoes, and salad, platter of meat. While my candidate was not so respected at my table, my view was allowed and so was theirs. We all knew that whoever won, our country was still going to go on, maybe not exactly as we would wish, but imminent danger did not lurk. We trusted the process, the ability to share our opinions and the basic morality of the men who had reached this point. As a family of Christians who had begun the meal in prayer, we knew who we were called to be. We expected to be united regardless of the outcome, we understood our role in the political process. Prayerfully selecting the next leader, prayerfully supporting that leader, continuing the work Jesus asked of us.

My anxiety over this election season is growing by the hour. My family no longer debates with me, having abandoned their party at the presidential level. We are all dumbfounded, wondering where our fellow Christians are. Serious discourse has been replaced by lies, bullying, fear-mongering and violence-inciting hate. Jesus freaks, where are you? How can one narcissistic man mislead so many intelligent people, cause them to forget who they are? I struggle to not lose respect for my fallen brothers and sisters, I try to remember to pray that we all make it through this without a wall not just at our border but between us all. This is the work of the devil, spreading evil amongst believers, turning them away from the Word.

One man who has divided our country, spews lies and refuses to be accountable to those very words, who blames others, how did he amass so much power? Charisma, maybe? Timing? Finding the chink in the armors of the Democratic and Republican contenders alike, he managed to lift himself as the savior, the one who understands the needs of the little guy. He asked that we ignore what we see and feel and follow him. Don’t listen closely to what he says, stay away from reason and what we know, follow him. I know why he scares me, I have met his kind. I have suffered at his hands, have watched as an extremely intelligent young woman got pulled away and trapped by lies and misdirection. I lost my daughter to a narcissist just like him, a dangerous man who blames others, is explosive with his anger, is never ever wrong. There is no heathy discussion with him, we don’t share values like forgiveness and grace. He has built a wall. His hand on the button, he exploded our family with just one nuclear launch. We all sit in the devastation, wondering how we missed his rise to power, how we let him divide us. We can’t vote him out, wondering if his term will ever expire, we are left to pray to our God, the only one who can rescue us all from this horror.

Being estranged from my daughter is the most painful experience of my life. Being estranged from out allies around the world is even scarier. We have a guide book to tell us how to vote, how to proceed. What would Jesus have us do? Pass more potatoes, feed more hungry people. Invite more kids to the table and teach them to respect the voices of all who are speaking. Prayerfully, fervently beseech God for direction, ask if we need more hate in our world or if He really means that love your neighbor stuff. The future of our family depends on it.

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I am a Psalm

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

I want to be like Paul, preaching with conviction, able to sacrifice everything because I know, just know the truth. I want to be able to put aside my needs, let go of my own concerns and worries, trust all of those to God, get on with the work of His kingdom. Wanting is not enough. Rather, I am more of a psalms woman, one day lamenting, the next shouting out my joy for all the world. I am a psalm, when I grow up I want to be a gospel. I worry that I am running out of time, that I am stuck in my ways, that I am never going to get there. I can’t even seem to move to the wisdom of proverbs.

I have heard that those who convert to anything are more passionate than those who were raised in that particular thing. Making the conscious choice seems to be the key. Paul had a run in with Jesus that he couldn’t deny, he chose not to anyway. He decided to change his entire life, what an embarrassing about face that must have been, if he had cared. I justify my “Un-Paulness” by imaging that God infused a bit of Himself that day, giving an otherworldly power to Paul. Something I lack, if only I had that extra spark, had been hit by the zap of God to cure my blindness. Alas, having grown up in the faith, I have always been able to see.

The truth that God only took away what was blocking Saul from seeing, allowed him to truly SEE is some honesty I try to avoid. I wear my blinders and go about my days, lamenting, yearning, crying out to my Lord. I lift up my joys, give credit to God, I know His hand is at work. Stuck in the raging emotions of the psalms, I forget that I can uncover my eyes at any time. I can choose to be all in, I can make the leap like Paul. Instead I stumble, bump into the obstacles in my life, fall down and scrape my knees. My arms stay straight in front of me, reaching to find walls, stability, looking for something to hold on to. This blindness doesn’t allow my arms to ever open wide to the side, a posture of trust and welcoming, a stance of complete submission.

Plum and I often wrap a bandana around one of us, the other leads through the room. We follow the other’s voice, try to avoid stubbed toes, cracked heads as we wander about. He thinks it is funny to trick me, his commands often a bit slow as I head for disaster. I pretend horror, anger as I bonk into tables. I shout gladness when I reach the promised land of a safe chair. I am forced to peek a bit to ensure lamps stay upright. I lead him to the couch and soft areas, then of course cover him in pillows. I think he peeks as well. Being in the dark and trusting an ornery guide is certainly not safe. We each trust ourselves more. He thinks we are playing a game, I know we are simulating my life.

I cry out that I cannot see, I bemoan that I am lost, I ask for answers. I am stuck in the Psalms, raging emotions ruling my soul. I don’t know if I will ever stop bumping into my life, if I will ever really turn it all over to God. Jesus still walks with me, listens to my own psalms, holds my hand up the stairs. Maybe one day I will be more of a gospel girl. Today I am still crying out under my blinders. After all, Paul was called to travel and preach but not to parent. He never was called to be a mom. The only way I can survive that calling is to keep the bandana on, feel my way, peek out when I am unsure. I listen for God’s voice to lead me, avoiding the sharp edges, as I head for the promised land.

 

Photo credit to Pastor Pat Sleeth, who has done his share of bonking into things but figured out how to find the Light.