Frustrations of Life

Have you ever tried to log in unsuccessfully after repeated and frustrating attempts only to realize that the "e" was before the "n"? Or that you plugged in your OTHER password instead of the one you currently use the most?

Life is a continuing series of moments like this. It isn't that we have erred but what we do WHEN we err. Because eventually, be it great or small, we ALL err. We all make mistakes. We all screw up. We all fall short and we are ALL sinners. Point blank.

I remember hearing someone talking about how shocked they had been to see a particularly sinful person they knew from their town "actually have the gall to come in and to be sitting in a pew in one of God's houses of worship".

The level of downright moral outrage in her tone of voice let me know that this woman believed that the man in question would have had to be elevated by the angels of God himself in order to reach just to the level of scum in her mind. "How dare he come into this holy place with his filth! Everyone knows what kind of person he is!"

Do they, now?

Because she stalked off to share her outrage with anyone willing to be bitten by the viper of her cruelty, I didn't get a chance to find out, as Paul Harvey says, what was "The Rest of the Story".

I would have also like to ask her a few questions about her own personal relationship to the Savior but considered it imprudent, being a sinner myself.

But, what I didn't get the chance to ask, and really wish now that I had done so, was: how did this other person look at HER when he noticed her warming the family pew at that house of God? Maybe his jaw hit the floor at the same time hers did... was he as shocked to see her there as she was to see him?

I, for one, simply cannot imagine God, the Father, saying "Gee, what a surprise to see YOU here! Are you sure you belong?" to any one of His precious children. I think on those days His tears are ones of joy, for at least in that one moment, that prodigal child has returned home. And with the love and support of the rest of the family of God, they may decide to stay!

Who gets to be the arbiter of which ones of us are 'worthy' to come into church to hope and pray for grace? That's not a job I'd like to have at all. I know that in my current state that I cannot possibly be counted on to act in the capacity or love that God has. I am simply too imperfect.

And just like the woman who wondered 'how he had the nerve to show up here', I have all too often wondered how the people around me manage to get by in this life with all of their 'oh so visible' problems. I know they can see most of mine. And I feel the weight of them on a daily basis. I hate that I do judge others. And I work on it and repent of it when the thoughts cross my mind.

Do I care that others question my worthiness to kneel before the very Throne of Grace and beg to be forgiven, cleansed and made whole through the Blood of the Lamb?

Not much.

My microscope can so accurately see the failings and foibles of another. Yet, while in reverse aim toward my own issues, that same microscope requires greater magnification and scope than the Hubble Space Telescope could provide for a view into my own soul. It is a horrible thought and a worse feeling.

Realizing this brings me no sense of comfort. Rather, it brings a deep sense of shame that I have been imperfect, yet I have expected perfection from those who simply cannot provide nor sustain it. I think that qualifies as idol worship on my part. Sort of a 'put them up on a pedestal and dare them to slip off' test of worthiness in my eyes. Totally not fair.

Sometimes, we are all so enmeshed in the day to day that we are required to slog through, that we miss the moment to moment opportunities to celebrate the wonderful things that God has done in our lives for us and for those who's names we don't know.

I'm glad the disreputable attend church. Without them, I am quite sure our houses of worship would lie dormant, because even the preachers and teachers have not achieved Godhood. And that includes us all.

From listener to nursery child to door greeter, we are all important and we all have issues and frustrations that we are compelled by circumstance to wade through in order to return home, and above all else, we are sinners trying to reconcile our self, through Christ, to God.

I just think we need to deal with our own issues fully before we deal with those ever present "warts and moles" we see so readily on others.

One of my favorite hymns is "Truth Reflects Upon Our Senses" and it really speaks volumes in a few short verses.

And, for the record, the mote in the song is a speck of dust and the beam in the song is a splinter of wood.

Ouch! Please don't sign me up for either one, thank you.

The message is clear, what we perceive as a problem in someone else is probably not nearly as big a deal as our own mess that we are trying to NOT clean up.

To quote Sheri Dew about charity, "Charity . . . isn't about bringing a casserole, this is about the pure love of Christ." Again, ouch. There is seldom anything pure about our love. We have motives and agendas both hidden and seen. We have ideas of how it should be and how we can make it all happen.

Unless we apply the grace and mercy of the Atonement of Jesus Christ to ourselves AND to everyone else, we lose out on everything. We can't just expect to have mercy for ourselves and justice for everyone else. It doesn't work that way!

When we believe it does, we refuse to open the door to The One who stands and knocks and awaits admission into our tiny, Grinch-like hearts. Without the Light of Christ and His all encompassing love and mercy in our behalf, we can't even begin to remove the mote we see in the eyes of another. Without Jesus Christ, there is no hope of grace. In other words, we get to keep that beam in our eye and just hope for the best alone.

No thanks.

I think I'll ask help from the Master Carpenter. He will know how to get rid of the splinter for me. He can bind up my wounds and comfort me as well. And, then in a miracle beyond anything that we can ever totally understand, He can heal me. He already took upon himself my cowardly and selfish behavior and paid for it all.

TRUTH REFLECTS UPON OUR SENSES

1.
Truth reflects upon our senses;
Gospel light reveals to some.
If there still should be offenses,
Woe to them by whom they come!
Judge not, that ye be not judged,
Was the counsel Jesus gave;
Measure given, large or grudged;
Just the same you must receive.

CHORUS:
Blessed Savior, thou wilt guide us,
Till we reach that blissful shore
Where the angels wait to join us
In thy praise forevermore.

2.
Jesus said, "Be meek and lowly",
For 'tis high to be a judge;
If I would be pure and holy,
I must love without a grudge.
It requires a constant labor
All his precepts to obey.
If I truly love my neighbor,
I am in the narrow way.

3.
Once I said unto another,
"In thine eye there is a mote;
If thou art a friend, a brother,
Hold, and let me pull it out
But I could not see it fairly
For my sight was very dim
When I came to search more clearly
In mine eye, there was a beam.

4.
If I love my brother dearer,
And his mote I would erase,
Then the light should shine the clearer,
For the eye's a tender place.
Others I have oft reproved
For an object like a mote,
Now I wish this beam removed,
Oh, that tears would wash it out!

5.
Charity and love are healing;
These will give the clearest sight.
When I saw my brother's failing,
I was not exactly right.
Now, I'll take no further trouble
Jesus' love is all my theme;
Little motes are but a bubble
When I think upon the beam.

The words to this hymn were written by a woman named Eliza R. Snow back in the late 1800's with the chorus for the verses being penned by M.E. Abbey.

If people in those times we consider 'more simple' had trouble with being snarky and worrying about how righteous everyone else was being, then compound the issue by the last 150 years or so.

I want to grow up and be like the old man who saw an obvious 'sinner' coming into their wonderful sanctuary. The story follows:

His name is Bill. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans, and no shoes This was literally his wardrobe for his entire four years of college. He is brilliant. Kind of profound and very, very bright. He became a Christian while attending college. Across the street from the campus is a well-dressed, very conservative church. They want to develop a ministry to the students but are not sure how to go about it.

One day Bill decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans, his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started and so Bill starts down the aisle looking for a seat. The church is completely packed and he can't find a seat. By now, people are really looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything. Bill gets closer and closer and closer to the pulpit, and when he realizes there are no seats, he just squats down right on the carpet.

By now the people are really uptight, and the tension in the air is thick. About this time, the minister realizes that from way at the back of the church, a deacon is slowly making his way toward Bill. Now the deacon is in his eighties, have silver-gray hair, and a three-piece suit. A godly man, very elegant, very dignified, very courtly. He walks with a cane and, as he starts walking toward this boy, everyone is saying to themselves that you can't blame him for what he's going to do.

How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor? It takes a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church is utterly silent except for the clicking of the man's cane.

All eyes are focused on him. You can't even hear anyone breathing. The minister can't even preach the sermon until the deacon does what he has to do. And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the floor.

With great difficulty, he lowers himself and sits down next to Bill so he won't be alone. Everyone chokes up with emotion.

When the minister gains control, he says, "What I'm about to preach, you might never remember. But, what you have just seen, you will never forget."

Attack of the killer puppy

The Assassin dog and I were virtually done with our morning romp toward insanity when this little cute puppy lunged from his porch and attempted a coup right there at the end of his driveway.

It would have been cute except for the fact that this puppy was a rottweiler in training and we were usurpers on HIS turf. Except it wasn't his turf he was defending. It was the ROAD.

Because there are no sidewalks in the older neighborhood at the end of our trail, we walk on the roadway in the government sanctioned, drivers test approved location with the assassin firmly walking in the 'heel' mode. That is, until HE leaped from the porch and came at us with all of the enthusiasm of an ICBM but none of the guidance.

Gypsy (aka: the Assassin) knows nothing but her own little plans of walking and running me into various obstacles along our path. This hairball was nothing more than an obstacle in her mind.
Issuing a few deep growls and showing this little cannibal her teeth, she sent the hound into full retreat mode.

Feeling exceptionally full of herself by this point, the Assassin carefully wove between a power pole and its' guy wire to try and decapitate me. Only a swift yank and sidestep prevented her from calling the lawyers office for the settlement hearing.

She pouted all the way home.

If you haven't ever seen a dog pout, you are missing out on one of life's greatest moments.

Although we have kissed and made up, I know our truce will only last until the leash is snapped into place for our next walk. Those tender brown eyes don't fool me one lick. Behind that gentle facade lies the heart of a killer. Merciless and tough. Afraid of nothing and no one.

That might explain the number of squirrels in our yard.

Yeah, they aren't snacks for her - they are her accomplices.

Can you smell the gravy?

It is cold outside.

Taking the furry assassin out for the morning walk was an exercise in how to get cold and still get through the whole route without pushing myself so hard that I faint.

This time of year makes my bear-like soul think of warm hibernation near a stack of good books and a fireplace that perpetually refills itself and a nice hot mug of spiced cider or hot chocolate. Of course, I have no real proof that is what bears do when they hibernate but I have my suspicions.

We are starting the 'who is hosting the dinner' conversations that typically surround this time of year. While it seems like Thanksgiving is far away, only men truly believe that 23 days is sufficient time to plan, prepare for and carry out a humongous family dinner with a perfect turkey and gravy like on tv.

Women, however, know the truth. Twenty-three days is crunch time. Both for the abs and for the meal planning. In order to justify the day off, the dinner rolls and the gravy, a woman must exercise 73 hours a day and make practice batches of gravy for which the resident canine will be slavishly and eternally grateful.

Dogs don't care, they just love gravy. Unless it is black and on fire. I believe even their claw draws a line in the sand at that point.

Then there is the eternal struggle of how much turkey is just too much turkey. We aren't talking consumption yet, we are talking purchasing. Although the attendees have dwindled in number over the last few years with the realities of life setting in and moving people ever further from the dinner table, we still buy a turkey big enough to virtually guarantee that turkey will be part of every lunch and dinner for at least 3 full days.

I voraciously search for the menu items which will add just the perfect touch to our traditional fare of turkey and dressing, fried okra, green bean casserole, homemade mashed potatoes and the added blessing of the most wonderful gravy mankind has ever eaten at the hands of woman kind. This is the kind of creamy, fluid and smooth gravy that I am quite sure was what Adam REALLY ate in the Garden of Eden. (ladies, one word here: MIXER)

Just think about that hot, fragrant elixer of holiday joy cascading down over the mountain of mashed potatoes and pooling at the edge of your dinner roll like hot and giblety lava. Think about it. What man gets really gets that excited and worked up about eating a piece of FRUIT no matter how forbidden it has been declared. Then again, perhaps the apple had caramel gravy on top? I can see that attracting attention...

The carnivores at our mealtimes are salivating so much before the blessing on the food that 'sneaking' from the kitchen has already been declared an official sport in our household. Only when the women decide that enough encroachment over the line of scrimmage has occured, and the cries of 'foul' begin, are the starving men are ushered from the kitchen in full pout mode to rot in front of the bowl games and instant replays until halftime and the blessing are declared.

Then, there are the hot dinner rolls that become guided missiles during the meal as hapless guests, unfamiliar with traditional behavior, struggle to understand why bread is flying, normally sane people are wearing olives on their fingertips and someone is desperately trying to prevent choking while laughing with a mouthful of food at the latest 'naughty' holiday humor that has been shared under the breath of an adult who really should know better but told the joke anyway.

Mostly, the holidays are about reveling in each others' company in a familiar and easy way that bypasses the angst of life and returns us to a time where we can all just be ourselves without the expectations of the world rushing the play before the whistle sounds.

Every family is different and every family creates their own traditions. Some are a hodge-podge of the things that each spouse brings from their home life as a child. Others are hand crafted from the bits and pieces of observational moments that are lifted from the lives of people we wish we'd been related to, but weren't.

Either way, homespun from years of hand-me-down practices or fashioned from all new components, family gatherings have a way of bringing out elements of your personality that can be good or bad, depending upon how you were raised.

All I know is, there is a sort of easy familiarity in sitting down to the table with hot yeast rolls made from Sister Raveston's recipe, even though only a couple of people there even know who she was, eating the casserole that is more taco than turkey, sharing the life-stories we have all heard a hundred times but want to hear all over again simply because it means 'home'.

May your upcoming thanksgiving be filled with remembrances of all things good in your life.

And, I hope you have plenty of gravy.

World Series and Crying towels

An avid baseball fan (and to be fair, a fan of any sporting event that gets me out of the laundry room), I have to admit I watched the all too brief World Series.

I found myself angry, happy, sad, disappointed and most of all, I felt cheated.

The people and the team as a whole in Boston are dancing in the streets and pouring all sorts of adult beverages over the heads of people whom they barely know. They are hugging and kissing strangers like the end of a war had come and general peace had been declared.

But, in my heart of hearts, I cannot feel anything but cheated - cheated for the series that could have been and should have been. Seven full games of pulse pounding action and tight play at the bags amidst a cloud of dust and gesturing by the ump at home on the plays that only God can call from His vantage point.

Sadly, what we got was a 4 game blowout that left me wondering if they sent the cheerleaders to play because the Rockies were all passed out in the locker room filled with cheap bear and drunk on the division championship.

As if that were somehow the goal.

As if the division was the pinnacle instead of just another plateau towards a greater goal.

Daddy used to say "Any given team on any given day . . ." and I accepted those words as an axiom that somehow defended the underdog and made glorious the conquest in the moment of victory.

But right now, it sounds a bit trite. Especially since any given team didn't even show the power we had rightly expected. They didn't show the pitching we had hoped to see. The crisp play at the bags and in the outfield was as ephemeral as the specters who haunt the graveyard on All Hallows Eve.

Perhaps this is sour grapes. And to anyone who rooted for the Sox, it is sure to sound like a bit of whiny baby, cry in your beer, pout to anyone who will listen talk from a loser.

But I do have to wonder what happened. There is no such animal as fair when it comes to sporting events. There is winning, and there is losing, and then, there is losing ugly.

I'd have to say this was definitely under the category of 'losing ugly'.

No matter how I feel about it personally, I have no dog (or in this case, Rocky) in this fight.

I do want to meditate on how my hero Rocky Marciano might have dealt with the whole ordeal. I believe that even if he were on the ropes, he would have fought until there was simply nothing left in him to fight with. Then, he would have fought on sheer nerve and guts alone.

Although each game is more than the sum of the parts that go into its' makeup, there is a herculean battle for every strike and every out. Even the best of teams can find a way to lose and the underdog can find a way to win.

This time, I believe it all came down to a concept that most people discount like dime store junk. The Sox had something to prove. And the Rockies thought they were already done proving it.

There is always next season. That's what the mature fans say.

But right now, I think I need my crying towel and a few moments to be by myself.