Category: spiritual (Page 2 of 10)

Cracked Pots

[box] “My understanding is not that there’s a devil outside, prowling Pali Park or the Parkade. But that there’s something inside that’s always bored, that beckons us, knowing what it is we each want most desperately. And adolescents have fewer defenses.”
“Do you think that we’re wired this way? With the devil inside?”
“Yeah, in the same way we’re wired for God. But not to the same extent. I think it’s tiny, and insidious. Like hairline cracks that let in the water that shatters the rock.” (From Imperfect Birds by Anne Lamott) [/box]

There is a man, an acquaintance, someone who shared a small (but yet significant) space in our lives for a brief time. After a tough season in his marriage and consequent divorce, perhaps some work concerns and definitely some personal issues, he stood on shaky ground with his immediate family. Rather than hearing he has climbed his way out of a dark place, he seems to instead be burrowing deeper. Most recently his mother died of a terminal illness; while sitting at her bedside he used the opportunity take his sick mother’s phone and send hurtful texts about his ex-wife.

My heart became overwhelmed with one question: How does a person get to that place? One consumed with competition, anger, control, so much that he would miss out on pivotal and significant moments in life in exchange for the brief and fleeting feeling of victory over others (or whatever the drug of choice may be for a particular person).

In our family’s past we’ve dealt with another person, one who seemed to carry a leaking darkness with him through the world. My soul became conflicted on how to feel about the person: on the one hand, he is a child of God, created in His image. On the other hand, my inner spirit could feel something dripping from him that was not of God. I couldn’t put a finger on it, the intangible quality went deeper than the drugs or poor life decisions.

Yet we encounter those other people. The ones you meet at a random gathering and you want to sit at their feet and let their goodness seep into your clothes, hoping to carry home its scent the way Grandma’s soft fragrance of candy and Skin So Soft might stay with you if you hugged her long enough. Our world is equally full of people permeating our atmosphere with the good, the holy, the yes-that’s-it!-ness of life. Let us not be quick to forget that.

I can’t believe that God would make some people, for lack of better words, more virtuous and others, not so much. Something in me wants to believe we all get some semblance of a fair shot. Not equal – many overcome more obstacles in their path – but dark and light can’t be pre-determined in people.

Anne Lamott writes in Imperfect Birds about the devil not being “out there” in the world, an issue for humanity as a whole to overcome, but rather hairline cracks that let in the water that shatters the rock. Is that how it happened with those fellas? As the darkness, the hate, the ugh! of this world slipped in, it created bigger holes. Eventually, often, comes a shattering point.

Perhaps our fragile, imperfect and cracked condition makes it hard to stand up to the darkness. But what if. What IF! What if we filled that vessel of our lives with something else, something good, something stronger than ourselves. The Light on the inside stands up to the pressures of the outside, rejecting the parts and pieces we would rather leave behind.

[box] For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,”made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. (2 Corinthians 4:6-9)[/box]

I wonder if every decision we make is a matter of choosing good or evil, light or darkness. When we succumb to the pull of our selfish nature, it widens the cracks. Conversely, when we choose to live by light, it pushes the pressure outward and seals up those cracks and makes it harder for the waters of darkness to flood inward where we might drown.

No one wakes up in the morning determined to live by cruelty and anger. He or she gets there one decision at a time until our vessel shatters.

Love in a garage sale group

My friends Kristy and Megan turned me toward the County Garage Sale trend at differing times, but now I regularly browse through the Facebook groups to see what’s offered that I need love. And, much like the rest of my life, it’s become a huge science experiment. Y’all, people are fascinating.

But now I’m sad.

First, there was this:

garage sale church.jpg

 

This one caught my eye first because it was about church and, on the whole, I seem to be about church. But the more I got to thinking about it, the more this post broke my heart.

Here was this person living through a difficult time. She decides that she needs to go to church to see if that won’t help – a noble and not always easy decision.

And she doesn’t know a single real-live person to ask where to go.

She asks a bunch of people who buy and sell junk together.

My friends, this is a problem.

It’s not a problem because the Garage Sale sites need to become our next marketing target – it’s a problem because the people going to the 109 churches of Miami County don’t know her personally, or not one of them has made it known to this woman that they do indeed attend and that she is welcome to join. Our circles don’t connect or even touch. The only place she can find someone who *might* go to church is on a garage sale site.

My science experiment moved forward a few weeks later:

garage sale need

Right there, among the Longaberger baskets, was a kind woman trying to help a family with children who had nothing. They needed food, clothes, toothpaste and all the very things we keep in stock because it’s on sale. And when looking for people to help contribute, the coordinator turned to: the garage sale site. Of course. Because people who sell crap are known among the world for helping the down and out. The church has no history there.

*Hangs head in shame.*

Finally, when my heart was already torn, a post stomped it into oblivion. It said, “are there any shelters in Troy for women and children?”

Until I joined a garage sale site, I didn’t realize how I surrounded myself with people who were just like me. I inadvertently thought we were all parents of toddlers who liked buying and eating local. I’ve realized I’m basically only around people who want to live into a better world and have the money to make decisions that will help them do it. We talk about our love for maxi skirts and disciplining kids and how hard it is to live your values. I wanted to believe we all have our “differences” but really, that comes down to meaningless stuff like if we were sprinkle-baptized or dunked, or maybe we choose to eat dairy-free instead of McDonalds.

Yesterday, along with these sites, revealed to me just how unlike Jesus I really am.

If all you do is love the loveable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that.

It’s not my lack of helping people unlike myself. It’s not even my good intention-paved road.  It’s my lack of knowing people unlike myself that keeps me from living the gospel.

Grieving her spirit

Miss M is a kind, helpful soul. Of any child, she is quickest to lend a hand even without repeating myself. In her heart she wants to be a part of something big – and good. 

Except last night. 
Bedtimes have been a battle over here as the two ladies who share a room both hover at the Year 3 mark – one coming in and the other going out – which historically is the Year of the Worst Bedtimes Ever. (Seriously, someone could make a living putting 3-year-olds to bed. Parents would gladly pay for that service). So when one creates a ruckus, the other plays off it nicely. I think they secretly call it their 1-2 punch. I feel like it’s a full court press. 
Because Lady C is just growing into the Threes, I have more grace for her. It’s that phase when they learn some independence and want you to know their separateness while lacking confidence and wanting you nearby. So they want to lie in bed by themselves yet come down every 5 minutes to check on you. Just to see if you’re still angry that they’re not asleep.
While Miss C wades through these waters, Miss M is a seasoned swimmer. She knows by now, which makes it all the more frustrating to see her in action. In fact, I woke with a sad heart. It bothered me beyond the lack of sleep and the extra energy to walk up the stairs 14 times. In some sense, I was grieving her performance. 
Part of my heart cried for her a little. She’s not living the beautiful life that is in her, I felt. She knows there is more – she has tasted, has seen. Yet she chose this contrary spirit. The rebellious heart. 
I recently reread the verse in Ephesians 4 that says And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. I’ll be honest, for most of my life this made no sense to me. Grieve? The spirit? Don’t make it sad? I don’t get it. It’s such an other-wordly concept to me. 
Last night gave me a taste of that. My spirit was grieved because I knew my child had another spirit in her yet she chose not to live by it. She chose selfishness and pride. She chose her own agenda, even when she knew the one given provided far better opportunity, more space for a generous and joyous life. 
I’m not asking for perfection. I’m seeking a heart without contention, that’s all. I can deal with slips of the hand or turtle-paced progress toward growth. A rebellious spirit, however, might do me in. 
Now I find myself face down, knowing my heart hardened with the same calloused attitude, feeling the familiar buck of the head backwards… it’s clear that this apple didn’t fall far from its tree. God has felt a similar grief, far beyond what my heart can bear, and still came back for me when the sun rose on the third day.
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