I feel like someone has died.
How can you reconcile the open handed welcome of a group of people you sincerely want to be part of with the sadness that I feel right now because I have learned that they don't represent what I had hoped they were?
Perhaps I am more to blame than others because I don't fit the mold.
The issues at hand are personal and tender to me because I have ALWAYS felt like I am living my life on the outside of the group looking in at a setting that I desperately wanted to have, but couldn't.
I am blessed to have family who understands the quirks and character flaws that I am compelled to wade through until I learn to 'do it right' - whatever that means.
Equally a blessing are the friends I have who know me well enough to love me even though I am not worth loving a lot of the time. They have a piece of my heart and likewise, I hope, I have been granted a tiny portion of theirs.
What is so upsetting about this particular loss is that, for the briefest of moments, I felt like I had an online home comprised of people with whom I had much in common. While we do share some things, there are others that totally blindsided me to the point that I am left wondering what I saw to compel my interest in the first place.
Before the pity party leads you to places it shouldn't go, I am guilty as sin when it comes to creating disharmony. Seldom do I intend it. Sometimes, I deliberately seek to make someone feel as they have made me feel, but then the inevitable boat load of guild prevents me from taking any pleasure in the actions I have committed.
More often than not, just me being who I am and seeing the world through my own poor eyes and understanding my limited truth is enough to set other people off into a foaming frenzy.
What I have yet to understand is why my truth is disposeable and their truth is not? What makes them so cocksure of the rightness of their course and the wrongness of mine? Ego? Knowledge? A dynamite infused combination of the two?
And the same can be said of my own volatile nature. More likely to blow up and destroy relationships than to nurture them into a vibrant offering of my care, I tend to make things much harder than they have to be.
Part of that is due to my stupid past which is like an anchor around my feet keeping me tethered to emotions that would best be cut free. But I haven't learned that lesson yet and it doesn't come without a personal price that often affects innocent bystanders who pay a price themselves by just being near me.
Either way, something that could have been good and fine and noble, has been killed. Perhaps it died due to suffocation or it was simply never allowed to grow at all.
No less sad in any of the above options than from the truth that I perceive about the whole thing. The relationship began and ended for the same reason. It began by me trying desperately to move beyond a mere ringside seat and into the action at the Carnival of Life and it ended as I learned that sometimes the tigers DO bite and sometimes the trapeze artists fall.
Now I know why those who run away to the circus seldom stay.
Although it comes to town all colorful posters and exciting noise, it is never what it looks like on the poster and the noise is never as fun ringside when the animals are being whipped and the ringmaster isn't all that he appeared to be.
Maybe that is why moving from child to adult is sometimes a sad process, too. The delicate truth is finally revealed in all of its terrible majesty: life is seldom as advertised and eventually it's time to leave the party and just go home alone.
January 5, 2008
January 4, 2008
Intellectually speaking . . .
Why are those words such a HUGE turnoff?
When people say them, it is as if a fortress has just been erected into a space that was once open, green and verdant. Then, the ever increasing shadow of the fortress of personal wisdom and knowledge of the allegedly intellectual person gradually covers the growth of new ideas until all possibility for the desired speech has been rendered mute.
In a bit of fatal irony, the Lord of the Manor then wonders why the vassals are not thronging to his feet to share their giblets of microscopic intelligence which can be dwarfed by the superior skills of his golden tongue. It is a lesson that the true seekers of power for power's sake never seem to grasp.
Like the golden hind, it darts and dashes just out of reach of the pursuer until even the tongue of the vaunted intellect is silenced by the reproof. You cannot take by force anything that is not willingly sacrificed.
A delightful reminder of this came as we were watching "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" the other day. Regardless of the raging of the Queen (who knew no wrong in her own eyes), the children saw through her posturing brilliantly. Slow to catch on at first was the younger brother who struggled with issues of power and control within his own heart. He wasn't bad, he just hadn't learned what the true good of life really was, nor the source from which it sprung.
It was not until the full measure of the Queen's arrogant posturing came full force across his own face that he came to understand that no one, not even he, was above her reprisals and no one would be allowed to consider her contemptable for her actions. Everything to her was simply a means to an end that she didn't even comprehend.
Power seeking at its finest, the Queen needed to surround herself with those who were of a lesser light, so that her pretended brilliance would seem like a beacon of radiant light. Her intellectual need for superiority was fed by lackeys who couldn't have held the spit bucket for a kindergarten spelling bee. But the willing sycophants are always handily around to join into a battle, even when they don't understand what the fighting is for . . .
Aslan, willing to sacrifice dignity, comfort, safety and all pretence, offers himself as the choice between a relatively innocent child beguiled by the erstwhile serpent in the garden. Striding humbly and nobly into what he KNOWS will be a death scene, Aslan shows what true compassion and love is in an emblematic recreation of the Atonement of Christ.
Like Christ, Aslan suffers scorn and ridicule. And symbolically, with his mane (or glory) stripped from him in a cruel gesture of public humiliation, Aslan serves as a visible reminder that the Savior of All stood in totally and abject silence as those who mocked him were unworthy to hold his pencil box, yet considered themselves to be intellectually superior to the One who would forgive them all that they had done.
As mere mortals, we play with the terms 'forgiveness' and 'repentance' as if they were only shiney baubles for our amusement.
The true intellectual realizes a total dependence upon the mercy and blessing of God and Jesus Christ for ANY spiritual gift that allows him or her to speak, if only for a moment, with 'the tongue of angels'.
So the next time someone offers the opportunity to bask in the reflected glory of personal intellect, I think I am going to look deeply into their eyes, or perhaps, as the case has been all too frequently in my OWN life, I will look deeply into my own, and discover if there is any portion of Christ within.
Only then can true intellectual speech proceed. Because if there is a Light from within, it will not be mine that we are relying upon, but rather, the Intellect of the One who truly knows of what He speaks.
When people say them, it is as if a fortress has just been erected into a space that was once open, green and verdant. Then, the ever increasing shadow of the fortress of personal wisdom and knowledge of the allegedly intellectual person gradually covers the growth of new ideas until all possibility for the desired speech has been rendered mute.
In a bit of fatal irony, the Lord of the Manor then wonders why the vassals are not thronging to his feet to share their giblets of microscopic intelligence which can be dwarfed by the superior skills of his golden tongue. It is a lesson that the true seekers of power for power's sake never seem to grasp.
Like the golden hind, it darts and dashes just out of reach of the pursuer until even the tongue of the vaunted intellect is silenced by the reproof. You cannot take by force anything that is not willingly sacrificed.
A delightful reminder of this came as we were watching "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe" the other day. Regardless of the raging of the Queen (who knew no wrong in her own eyes), the children saw through her posturing brilliantly. Slow to catch on at first was the younger brother who struggled with issues of power and control within his own heart. He wasn't bad, he just hadn't learned what the true good of life really was, nor the source from which it sprung.
It was not until the full measure of the Queen's arrogant posturing came full force across his own face that he came to understand that no one, not even he, was above her reprisals and no one would be allowed to consider her contemptable for her actions. Everything to her was simply a means to an end that she didn't even comprehend.
Power seeking at its finest, the Queen needed to surround herself with those who were of a lesser light, so that her pretended brilliance would seem like a beacon of radiant light. Her intellectual need for superiority was fed by lackeys who couldn't have held the spit bucket for a kindergarten spelling bee. But the willing sycophants are always handily around to join into a battle, even when they don't understand what the fighting is for . . .
Aslan, willing to sacrifice dignity, comfort, safety and all pretence, offers himself as the choice between a relatively innocent child beguiled by the erstwhile serpent in the garden. Striding humbly and nobly into what he KNOWS will be a death scene, Aslan shows what true compassion and love is in an emblematic recreation of the Atonement of Christ.
Like Christ, Aslan suffers scorn and ridicule. And symbolically, with his mane (or glory) stripped from him in a cruel gesture of public humiliation, Aslan serves as a visible reminder that the Savior of All stood in totally and abject silence as those who mocked him were unworthy to hold his pencil box, yet considered themselves to be intellectually superior to the One who would forgive them all that they had done.
As mere mortals, we play with the terms 'forgiveness' and 'repentance' as if they were only shiney baubles for our amusement.
The true intellectual realizes a total dependence upon the mercy and blessing of God and Jesus Christ for ANY spiritual gift that allows him or her to speak, if only for a moment, with 'the tongue of angels'.
So the next time someone offers the opportunity to bask in the reflected glory of personal intellect, I think I am going to look deeply into their eyes, or perhaps, as the case has been all too frequently in my OWN life, I will look deeply into my own, and discover if there is any portion of Christ within.
Only then can true intellectual speech proceed. Because if there is a Light from within, it will not be mine that we are relying upon, but rather, the Intellect of the One who truly knows of what He speaks.
January 3, 2008
Stuff that makes me wonder
How much of what we do really matters in the long run?
Does it matter if I forget to add the bleach to the load of white towels, or can we survive this one load without it?
Does it matter that I have mismatched a couple of pairs of black sox when I folded the clothing?
Does it matter that I have an opinion even if it isn't popular?
Does it matter to anyone that I have existed?
Does it matter to anyone how I have existed?
Would the world consider itself better off or worse off for the imprint I have left in my life? Or have I made no lasting imprint at all.
Does it matter if I forget to add the bleach to the load of white towels, or can we survive this one load without it?
Does it matter that I have mismatched a couple of pairs of black sox when I folded the clothing?
Does it matter that I have an opinion even if it isn't popular?
Does it matter to anyone that I have existed?
Does it matter to anyone how I have existed?
Would the world consider itself better off or worse off for the imprint I have left in my life? Or have I made no lasting imprint at all.
January 1, 2008
2008
A New Year begins.
With that beginning is a host of promise and opportunity.
Then, there is also the inevitable beginning of things best left undone. I cannot help but think that the rush to be accepting of sin as a lifestyle choice is just plain wrong. To encourage by inference and certainly to allow by law the joining of people into marriages who were never meant to be married is just evil.
Marriage is meant to be and ordained by God to be a union of one man and one woman. With the noteable exception of times when God allowed men who were righteous to marry more than one woman to procreate a righteous progeny unto Him, the definition of marriage is one man and one woman united in a solemn ceremony and oath before God.
But now, the politically correct fear reprisals if they stand and say 'that's wrong'.
I don't fear them.
I fear and reverence God.
When can we look forward to a shared presence with Him who created all that we have and are and the joy in the presence of His Son, Jesus Christ, when we have abused their laws?
I firmly refuse to believe that we will be granted any special dispensation to sin just because we aren't hurting anyone's feelings in the short term.
Instead, we will be hurting the feelings of those very people long term to allow by inference and law the very conduct that will hurt them for all eternity.
We can't force the human mind. But likewise we cannot allow that politically correct trap to push our actions into the path of blind stupidity for the sake of popularity.
May this new year offer us the opportunity to be brave enough to say "NO" and be willing to mean it for the long term.
With that beginning is a host of promise and opportunity.
Then, there is also the inevitable beginning of things best left undone. I cannot help but think that the rush to be accepting of sin as a lifestyle choice is just plain wrong. To encourage by inference and certainly to allow by law the joining of people into marriages who were never meant to be married is just evil.
Marriage is meant to be and ordained by God to be a union of one man and one woman. With the noteable exception of times when God allowed men who were righteous to marry more than one woman to procreate a righteous progeny unto Him, the definition of marriage is one man and one woman united in a solemn ceremony and oath before God.
But now, the politically correct fear reprisals if they stand and say 'that's wrong'.
I don't fear them.
I fear and reverence God.
When can we look forward to a shared presence with Him who created all that we have and are and the joy in the presence of His Son, Jesus Christ, when we have abused their laws?
I firmly refuse to believe that we will be granted any special dispensation to sin just because we aren't hurting anyone's feelings in the short term.
Instead, we will be hurting the feelings of those very people long term to allow by inference and law the very conduct that will hurt them for all eternity.
We can't force the human mind. But likewise we cannot allow that politically correct trap to push our actions into the path of blind stupidity for the sake of popularity.
May this new year offer us the opportunity to be brave enough to say "NO" and be willing to mean it for the long term.
December 30, 2007
3 O'clock in the Morning
Monday mornings are generally not greeted with a great deal of elan. They are normally a day to reflect on the chores and obligations that another turn of the calendar page brings to the next new week.
But now, with a boy overseas, Monday also means that on this day off, I can instant message and email with him to see how life is treating my favorite missionary.
I realize that he isn't a child anymore. But I also realize that he will always and forever be MY child. It is a strange and precious thing to think that a tiny baby who entered the world at 8 pounds and some ounces is now on a voyage of discovery of self and sharing of personal testimony with people who prior to November 19th were strangers to him and he to them. And that baby is no longer a helpless baby wiggling on a pastel blanket but a self-assured man who is learning to take his place in the world while leaving room in the world for others, too.
Those few moments at an unseemly hour of the morning are precious moments indeed. A rare commodity lacking in the usual substance of life. It is a time where we just talk. Nothing is offbase or unworthy of the few moments of time where we can share the intersection of his life and mine.
I must admit to also being somewhat greedy in this particular form of communication. I do not awake my husband to share the moment. Perhaps I should, but the specter of his tired eyes trying to drive all over creation for various job related activities is just too much of a danger. And I am plain selfish.
Seeing the little postings is like a tiny reminder that I matter to him as much as he matters to me. Nothing can rob me of that special time and I would gladly sacrifice the sleep anytime just to be able to hear from him if only in this medium at this time.
While we did get to talk to him on the phone at what I am SURE will be an exorbitant cost for Christmas, our next opportunity to speak to him will not occur until May sometime around Mother's Day.
I can wait.
I get to chat with him on Monday mornings. Albeit at 3 a.m.
This week, I have to ask him if he has received word of a transfer. He might have the opportunity to stay in the town he currently serves in and continue the work that has been occupying his time to this point. Or, he may have been given the freshly minted adventure of moving to another port of call to share the teachings of Jesus Christ with an entirely new audience.
Either way, it is only through the voice of the Holy Spirit that those who listen are touched with the truth.
And as the conduit to invite that Spirit to come into the lives and homes of those whom he teaches, my son shares a kindred moment with the Savior, whom he represents. He is standing at their door and knocking, admitted by choice of the resident of the household, and sharing a message that they WANT to receive either in part or in full measure.
It is through this sharing of light, from one lamp to another and from one flickering candle to light the path as we spread the light behind carefully cupped hands, sheilding the tender flame from the winds of adversity that the message of the restoration of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ will fill the world with a light beyond measure.
I think that is why I like Monday the best. I get to hear about his light being spread to those who hold out their candle and wait in the darkness with only hope to help them keep their candle aloft.
But now, with a boy overseas, Monday also means that on this day off, I can instant message and email with him to see how life is treating my favorite missionary.
I realize that he isn't a child anymore. But I also realize that he will always and forever be MY child. It is a strange and precious thing to think that a tiny baby who entered the world at 8 pounds and some ounces is now on a voyage of discovery of self and sharing of personal testimony with people who prior to November 19th were strangers to him and he to them. And that baby is no longer a helpless baby wiggling on a pastel blanket but a self-assured man who is learning to take his place in the world while leaving room in the world for others, too.
Those few moments at an unseemly hour of the morning are precious moments indeed. A rare commodity lacking in the usual substance of life. It is a time where we just talk. Nothing is offbase or unworthy of the few moments of time where we can share the intersection of his life and mine.
I must admit to also being somewhat greedy in this particular form of communication. I do not awake my husband to share the moment. Perhaps I should, but the specter of his tired eyes trying to drive all over creation for various job related activities is just too much of a danger. And I am plain selfish.
Seeing the little postings is like a tiny reminder that I matter to him as much as he matters to me. Nothing can rob me of that special time and I would gladly sacrifice the sleep anytime just to be able to hear from him if only in this medium at this time.
While we did get to talk to him on the phone at what I am SURE will be an exorbitant cost for Christmas, our next opportunity to speak to him will not occur until May sometime around Mother's Day.
I can wait.
I get to chat with him on Monday mornings. Albeit at 3 a.m.
This week, I have to ask him if he has received word of a transfer. He might have the opportunity to stay in the town he currently serves in and continue the work that has been occupying his time to this point. Or, he may have been given the freshly minted adventure of moving to another port of call to share the teachings of Jesus Christ with an entirely new audience.
Either way, it is only through the voice of the Holy Spirit that those who listen are touched with the truth.
And as the conduit to invite that Spirit to come into the lives and homes of those whom he teaches, my son shares a kindred moment with the Savior, whom he represents. He is standing at their door and knocking, admitted by choice of the resident of the household, and sharing a message that they WANT to receive either in part or in full measure.
It is through this sharing of light, from one lamp to another and from one flickering candle to light the path as we spread the light behind carefully cupped hands, sheilding the tender flame from the winds of adversity that the message of the restoration of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ will fill the world with a light beyond measure.
I think that is why I like Monday the best. I get to hear about his light being spread to those who hold out their candle and wait in the darkness with only hope to help them keep their candle aloft.
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