I used to wonder how long an encounter with the divine would sustain someone. I thought of Isaiah and the burning coal that touched his lips. How long did he remember that pain? Did the memory last as long as the memory of the pain of childbirth? Was it brought up more as a story to inspire awe or garner guilt? Or, did that pain linger like the constant ache of arthritis in a joint? Did the pain serve as a constant reminder of the holiness of our God?
Then, I think of Elijah. I understand him so well. One minute he was the strongest of all the prophets. He talked and God listened. The next moment he’s running, terrified of a woman. It seems that he forgot the encounters with God as soon as they happened.
What of Mary? The word says she treasured these things in her heart. Did she draw on the vision of the angel on those days when the world was just too much? Did she take a moment in the corner of her house to remember holding the baby Jesus and find peace in that memory?
And what of my own encounters with the divine? How long do I remember? After the incident, I shoved all memories of the divine Father into a little space in the back of mind. I started stuffing everything I could into that little pocket back there. The piles of trash stuffed into that space started to fill the soft inner parts of me with rocks. I used those rocks to build walls.
Time and circumstance allowed me to quit talking to God. The enemy used that separation to lead me down dark paths. I wanted so badly to rekindle that spark of power I had felt when the spirit was alive in me. I thought I could find it in the “supernatural”.
In college, I took classes where I learned that the poor and powerless would turn to witchcraft in order to gain control over an uncontrollable world. All around me the world would spin so far out of control and I knew there should be order. Philosophy classes filled my mind with wonderful connections. Connections that proved beyond any doubt that the bible and its stories were myths that had counter parts in all cultures. Oh I felt superior in my knowledge. This world was mine. I could control the elements. My will could be rationally imposed on the cosmos. I, as a human, was god!
I still see the vague outlines of His hand on my life. As I tried to cross lines, an overwhelming presence would tell me to stop. Somewhere deep inside I knew not to cross that line. From time to time, I would remember a bit of the vision from the library window. I would remember that I had a job. From time to time, my heart would leap in response to a hymn playing on tv. From time to time but little more.
These were the cold dark days. Days of driving the streets of Boise wrapped in a blanket of depression. Days of trying to sing to my baby but not having the strength to put words to music. Days of fear because the man I married refused to buy heating oil and it was Boise with a foot of snow on the ground. Days of longing as I drove by the softly lit churches. Days of failure after failure.
I’ve told the story before of my deliverance. I had lost my job and desperately sought another teaching position. In pure desperation, I applied at a Pentecostal private school. I don’t know why they even interviewed me but I made it to the third round. I had to go to the preacher’s office. I quickly realized he wouldn’t hire me. But then, he prayed over me. That touch I hadn’t felt in years tapped my heart. A touch of life and of spirit awakened my dead soul. But I am a hard headed woman and I tried hard to shut it down.
God said it was time to come home.
I came home and began my great journey on 3211. 3211 became the metaphor for my reunion with the Savior. During that reunion, the memory of the divine came back full of life and of joy. I was healed. I was blessed. I learned “It Is Well”.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
It Happened
There comes a time when speaking in circles and metaphors don’t serve the purpose of the story. This is the point where the beauty of words intersects with harsh reality. The point in space and time where there is no more cover and in order for the story to move on to its delightful end, the nasty inciting incident has to occur.
This is that point. It is a point I very rarely come to. There are so many fears and failures that happen after and because of this point. But, the important thing to remember is that this point is only the inciting incident. This point is not the climax. It is simply (but only after all these years) the place where I began to step off the path.
Hot summer nights wrapped themselves around my brothers and I. Record heat cut through the lazy boredom of summer. We couldn’t go out much so we stayed inside and watched the new tv with the amazing colors. It was too hot to sleep in my attic room. Mom was working out of town. Dad didn’t have as many rules. We fell asleep in the living room with the tv blaring. I was the oldest so I got the couch. The boys slept in the pallets on the floor.
I woke up deep in the night. I could hear the 700 club in the background. My nose filled with the smell of old cigars. I realized I couldn’t breath. Then I realized the hand over my mouth and nose was preventing my breath. I felt his weight and could hear his voice.
Even now, thirty years later the memory causes my heart to race. Evil and fear and in the background I heard “Praise the Lord”. He left without accomplishing his full mission but the impact was permanent. An assault on the physical self creates the beginning of a crack in the soul. The crack would grow wider and wider and I would fall deeper and deeper into it.
I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how to string those words together. I just knew that now I was alone. I was alone and so very afraid. I wandered through the next year in a daze that blocked out everything. Somehow we moved. I left behind the back yard with its snakes and trees. I left behind the magical world. I took the night gown I had worn that night and buried it behind the asparagus plant. I buried the evil done to me with it. Buried it and moved away to a new city.
We moved into an ordinary suburban neighborhood. We moved into an ordinary house. We went to an ordinary school with no library with windows that opened into a vision-filled blue sky. For some reason, we quit going to church. I started reading. I read and I read and I read. I filled my head with the stories. I lost the path to my Jesus. I started to forget the Bible stories. I started to forget the comfort I had found in them. I read more and more about witches and vampires and dark magic.
And yet, sometimes in the deep of night, when I woke up covered in sweat with that smell in my nose, I could see my Jesus. I could see Him telling me I was His.
This is not the climax and it is not the end. This is still only the beginning. This does not define who I am or what I do. It did for awhile like it does for most victims. Trying to decide how to take the pieces and put them back together was harder than I ever imagined. Of course, what need does anyone have to imagine such a thing.
I don’t know all the theological answers to the “once saved, always saved” question but I know this-despite my every effort to separate myself from my God, He never left me. Even in the bits that follow this incident when I walked a million miles away, He never left me. The crack in my soul that swallowed me, that blocked out every other light, did not remove me from Him. What greater proof of the Word is there than the testimony of a girl who divorced God but could still feel His gentle hand in her time of greatest need. This incident was not my time of greatest need. It was just the beginning.
And, if any others who have been hurt like this feel it is, I offer this word. You are loved. There is nothing, no one who can separate you from the Love of the Father. Jesus will make you whole again. Jesus will make you pure again. This incident is not the end. It is just a step in your journey.
This is that point. It is a point I very rarely come to. There are so many fears and failures that happen after and because of this point. But, the important thing to remember is that this point is only the inciting incident. This point is not the climax. It is simply (but only after all these years) the place where I began to step off the path.
Hot summer nights wrapped themselves around my brothers and I. Record heat cut through the lazy boredom of summer. We couldn’t go out much so we stayed inside and watched the new tv with the amazing colors. It was too hot to sleep in my attic room. Mom was working out of town. Dad didn’t have as many rules. We fell asleep in the living room with the tv blaring. I was the oldest so I got the couch. The boys slept in the pallets on the floor.
I woke up deep in the night. I could hear the 700 club in the background. My nose filled with the smell of old cigars. I realized I couldn’t breath. Then I realized the hand over my mouth and nose was preventing my breath. I felt his weight and could hear his voice.
Even now, thirty years later the memory causes my heart to race. Evil and fear and in the background I heard “Praise the Lord”. He left without accomplishing his full mission but the impact was permanent. An assault on the physical self creates the beginning of a crack in the soul. The crack would grow wider and wider and I would fall deeper and deeper into it.
I couldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how to string those words together. I just knew that now I was alone. I was alone and so very afraid. I wandered through the next year in a daze that blocked out everything. Somehow we moved. I left behind the back yard with its snakes and trees. I left behind the magical world. I took the night gown I had worn that night and buried it behind the asparagus plant. I buried the evil done to me with it. Buried it and moved away to a new city.
We moved into an ordinary suburban neighborhood. We moved into an ordinary house. We went to an ordinary school with no library with windows that opened into a vision-filled blue sky. For some reason, we quit going to church. I started reading. I read and I read and I read. I filled my head with the stories. I lost the path to my Jesus. I started to forget the Bible stories. I started to forget the comfort I had found in them. I read more and more about witches and vampires and dark magic.
And yet, sometimes in the deep of night, when I woke up covered in sweat with that smell in my nose, I could see my Jesus. I could see Him telling me I was His.
This is not the climax and it is not the end. This is still only the beginning. This does not define who I am or what I do. It did for awhile like it does for most victims. Trying to decide how to take the pieces and put them back together was harder than I ever imagined. Of course, what need does anyone have to imagine such a thing.
I don’t know all the theological answers to the “once saved, always saved” question but I know this-despite my every effort to separate myself from my God, He never left me. Even in the bits that follow this incident when I walked a million miles away, He never left me. The crack in my soul that swallowed me, that blocked out every other light, did not remove me from Him. What greater proof of the Word is there than the testimony of a girl who divorced God but could still feel His gentle hand in her time of greatest need. This incident was not my time of greatest need. It was just the beginning.
And, if any others who have been hurt like this feel it is, I offer this word. You are loved. There is nothing, no one who can separate you from the Love of the Father. Jesus will make you whole again. Jesus will make you pure again. This incident is not the end. It is just a step in your journey.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
The Beginning part 2
Beginnings are rarely one dimensional. Beginnings tend to gather like tiny cells and once gathered divide and specialize. Like the embryo knit together in the womb-two separate pieces become one and a spark of beginning, of unity, becomes a fire of division which burns into a pile of ashes. Or, something like that.
There was a little more to the beginning. Quantum physics has realized that looking at the pieces of something tells only part of the story. The story isn’t seen in the separate bits. The story isn’t seen in the whole. The story is seen in the spaces where relationships play out, the places between the separate bits. This is where God is seen too. Like Moses glancing out of the space between the rocks to see Him. Or the times when the mystics slip between the breathes of reality and see something those bound by time never see.
That year was magic. The backyard was attached to a rock house with an attic. My room was in the attic. Up in that space, the eight track stereo didn’t bother anyone else. Up in that space, I searched the places between childish things and the mysteries of becoming a teenager. There my life was lived in space between reality.
I knew my Jesus there. He had become a good friend of mine a few years before. I went to church faithfully and prayed fervently. One day I was working in the library at school. It was a beautiful place, the second story with a broad row of windows at the perfect height. I spent hours there every day. It was a refuge from the tedium in the classes below me, these classes where everyone else had known each other for years and I was new. Not only was I new, I was a little different. (I can hear my family laugh and say “a little?”) I was ok with that. I had my attic room, my magical backyard, and my Jesus. I was good.
Anyway, it was a bright beautiful day and the sky was its normal brilliant blue that day in the library. I stood for a moment watching a cloud float by and then… Then the sky opened. The sky opened and there was my Jesus surrounded by angels with flowing robes and a million other people and creatures. I said “I’m ready Lord. Take me.” He said “No, your job isn’t finished yet. I will be back for you.” Then the noise faded away and the sky cleared and I looked around. I looked around and seeing I was still in the library I went back to shelving books.
This was the world in which I lived. A world where in the space between thoughts miracles just happened. Miracles and normal experience were as routine as day and night.
Then the beginning happened. The beginning of the snakes and pure fear. Fear that locked me inside the little kitchen with its almost antique stove. Every runner of grass looked like the snake that was coming to get me. It was coming to get me and it was bringing a million friends. I could almost hear them rustling in the asparagus, slipping through the juniper branches, hissing to each other. But nothing is ever as easy as it looks at first glance. Fear mingled with other sparks and the fire that began choked out my Jesus and my God. It choked out understanding, faith, trust, and sent love crawling under my bed. The life of fear replaced the magic life where Jesus and I had visited in the places between the minutes.
The beginning became like our new tv. I didn’t know what was so special about our new tv. Then I heard dad exclaim that the colors were so real. It dawned on me then that the other tv had been black and white. In that moment of realization, I lost the ability to see the colors on the black and white tv. The beginning became a void that swallowed the beauty that surrounded me.
There was a little more to the beginning. Quantum physics has realized that looking at the pieces of something tells only part of the story. The story isn’t seen in the separate bits. The story isn’t seen in the whole. The story is seen in the spaces where relationships play out, the places between the separate bits. This is where God is seen too. Like Moses glancing out of the space between the rocks to see Him. Or the times when the mystics slip between the breathes of reality and see something those bound by time never see.
That year was magic. The backyard was attached to a rock house with an attic. My room was in the attic. Up in that space, the eight track stereo didn’t bother anyone else. Up in that space, I searched the places between childish things and the mysteries of becoming a teenager. There my life was lived in space between reality.
I knew my Jesus there. He had become a good friend of mine a few years before. I went to church faithfully and prayed fervently. One day I was working in the library at school. It was a beautiful place, the second story with a broad row of windows at the perfect height. I spent hours there every day. It was a refuge from the tedium in the classes below me, these classes where everyone else had known each other for years and I was new. Not only was I new, I was a little different. (I can hear my family laugh and say “a little?”) I was ok with that. I had my attic room, my magical backyard, and my Jesus. I was good.
Anyway, it was a bright beautiful day and the sky was its normal brilliant blue that day in the library. I stood for a moment watching a cloud float by and then… Then the sky opened. The sky opened and there was my Jesus surrounded by angels with flowing robes and a million other people and creatures. I said “I’m ready Lord. Take me.” He said “No, your job isn’t finished yet. I will be back for you.” Then the noise faded away and the sky cleared and I looked around. I looked around and seeing I was still in the library I went back to shelving books.
This was the world in which I lived. A world where in the space between thoughts miracles just happened. Miracles and normal experience were as routine as day and night.
Then the beginning happened. The beginning of the snakes and pure fear. Fear that locked me inside the little kitchen with its almost antique stove. Every runner of grass looked like the snake that was coming to get me. It was coming to get me and it was bringing a million friends. I could almost hear them rustling in the asparagus, slipping through the juniper branches, hissing to each other. But nothing is ever as easy as it looks at first glance. Fear mingled with other sparks and the fire that began choked out my Jesus and my God. It choked out understanding, faith, trust, and sent love crawling under my bed. The life of fear replaced the magic life where Jesus and I had visited in the places between the minutes.
The beginning became like our new tv. I didn’t know what was so special about our new tv. Then I heard dad exclaim that the colors were so real. It dawned on me then that the other tv had been black and white. In that moment of realization, I lost the ability to see the colors on the black and white tv. The beginning became a void that swallowed the beauty that surrounded me.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Beginning
This is the beginning-the place where things start. The most amazing things begin in this space. This is the space where now, the future, and what was all intersect. This is the sharp intake of breath the moment before the smoke covers your eyes. Not the moment when the smoke hits. That moment is the end. This is the moment when it begins.
This is the beginning of the story. It is a story that begins and ends in one breath and it is a breath that paused for years. It is the story of a road traveled daily. It is the story of love and growth and pain and joy. It is the story of one life. In all honesty it is the story of one very small life in the grand scheme of things. In all humility it is the story of one life lived in relation to a million other lives. But ultimately, it is a story of our Father’s love and salvation found in the Son.
God is found in the paradox. He is so simple. I AM. That is all that we need to understand. How though do we understand I AM? Within that simple statement are so many bits and pieces to ponder. Like the bit about creation- or even more difficult to consider-Jesus. And if we, in a moment of divine clarity, grasp a tiny bit of that concept there are a million more to consider: snakes, tornados, roses, cookies, wine, shrimp, mothers, baklava, onions…a million more to consider.
So in the paradox we find the Father. He isn’t found in the obvious but He is always present. For the beginning we can start with something easy.
I’m not sure where anyone else keeps their memories. I try to keep mine wrapped up neatly in a box off the left side of my mind. They don’t stay there. They pop out unexpectedly. Like the night I tasted strawberry ice cream and became that little girl I was sometime in years past. Other times, they refuse to even peek out of the box. I try desperately to remember an event and the memory sits stubbornly just out of reach. But there was some point to this, some point beyond memory. Ah yes, the beginning.
There was a time before I knew about snakes. I knew about Eve and her issues with serpents but I didn’t personally know about snakes. I’m not sure why I decided that snakes were awful. Maybe it was the picture in my children’s Bible. The picture of the beautiful woman and man standing beside the tree holding an apple while the snake looked straight into their eyes. Or, perhaps it was the story of the mongoose and the awful cobras.
But the beginning happened one summer day in the neighborhood with streets lined in magnolia trees. The back yard was amazing. I would step out on the concrete back steps with the swirly iron railings. On my left was a thick line of juniper trees with their brilliant lacy green leaves and complicated blue berries. To the right was an enormous pecan tree. Directly in front was a white garage that divided the front part of the yard from the back. The passage way to the back was lined with asparagus plants. They were magnificent. They were the perfect hiding place for fairies and angels. The far side of the garage was lined in blackberry bushes.
It was the in the blackberry bushes where the beginning happened. One summer day in my magical neighborhood I reached my hand into the bush to grab a berry. One quick bite before dinner and no one would ever know. As I reached in, a snake slithered through the branches and over my toes.
In that moment, I took flight. In that moment, I realized that the beauty surrounding me was tainted. It was tainted beyond any hope of reconciliation. My back yard that held so many intricate examples of God’s creation held the most horrible of all the creations. How was I supposed to step foot in that yard ever again? The rest of the summer I lurked just inside the kitchen door looking out the small window at my playground terrified that if I were to step out there the snakes would swarm.
And that was the beginning. It is a somewhat sad, almost pathetic beginning but it was the beginning. Up to that point, God was easy. God was there. God created us. God loved us. God would protect us. There was safety. Then, in that moment, all safety was removed. The terror of the unknown washed over me and held me. That though was just the beginning. The rest of the story is much happier. Well, it ends well anyway.
This is the beginning of the story. It is a story that begins and ends in one breath and it is a breath that paused for years. It is the story of a road traveled daily. It is the story of love and growth and pain and joy. It is the story of one life. In all honesty it is the story of one very small life in the grand scheme of things. In all humility it is the story of one life lived in relation to a million other lives. But ultimately, it is a story of our Father’s love and salvation found in the Son.
God is found in the paradox. He is so simple. I AM. That is all that we need to understand. How though do we understand I AM? Within that simple statement are so many bits and pieces to ponder. Like the bit about creation- or even more difficult to consider-Jesus. And if we, in a moment of divine clarity, grasp a tiny bit of that concept there are a million more to consider: snakes, tornados, roses, cookies, wine, shrimp, mothers, baklava, onions…a million more to consider.
So in the paradox we find the Father. He isn’t found in the obvious but He is always present. For the beginning we can start with something easy.
I’m not sure where anyone else keeps their memories. I try to keep mine wrapped up neatly in a box off the left side of my mind. They don’t stay there. They pop out unexpectedly. Like the night I tasted strawberry ice cream and became that little girl I was sometime in years past. Other times, they refuse to even peek out of the box. I try desperately to remember an event and the memory sits stubbornly just out of reach. But there was some point to this, some point beyond memory. Ah yes, the beginning.
There was a time before I knew about snakes. I knew about Eve and her issues with serpents but I didn’t personally know about snakes. I’m not sure why I decided that snakes were awful. Maybe it was the picture in my children’s Bible. The picture of the beautiful woman and man standing beside the tree holding an apple while the snake looked straight into their eyes. Or, perhaps it was the story of the mongoose and the awful cobras.
But the beginning happened one summer day in the neighborhood with streets lined in magnolia trees. The back yard was amazing. I would step out on the concrete back steps with the swirly iron railings. On my left was a thick line of juniper trees with their brilliant lacy green leaves and complicated blue berries. To the right was an enormous pecan tree. Directly in front was a white garage that divided the front part of the yard from the back. The passage way to the back was lined with asparagus plants. They were magnificent. They were the perfect hiding place for fairies and angels. The far side of the garage was lined in blackberry bushes.
It was the in the blackberry bushes where the beginning happened. One summer day in my magical neighborhood I reached my hand into the bush to grab a berry. One quick bite before dinner and no one would ever know. As I reached in, a snake slithered through the branches and over my toes.
In that moment, I took flight. In that moment, I realized that the beauty surrounding me was tainted. It was tainted beyond any hope of reconciliation. My back yard that held so many intricate examples of God’s creation held the most horrible of all the creations. How was I supposed to step foot in that yard ever again? The rest of the summer I lurked just inside the kitchen door looking out the small window at my playground terrified that if I were to step out there the snakes would swarm.
And that was the beginning. It is a somewhat sad, almost pathetic beginning but it was the beginning. Up to that point, God was easy. God was there. God created us. God loved us. God would protect us. There was safety. Then, in that moment, all safety was removed. The terror of the unknown washed over me and held me. That though was just the beginning. The rest of the story is much happier. Well, it ends well anyway.
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