Friday, August 11, 2017
Friday, August 4, 2017
Today I am Writing: On the Seedbed of My Heart
He challenges me. (Why is He always challenging me?)
Every week I go to see the friend who counsels me. We peer into the places I can't seem to unpack on my own, and he applies all of his training and all of his listening wisdom. And every week we hit the wall that says: I will not allow access into this place. To anyone.
My friend says, "Lauren, do you trust God?"
I say, "Don't be rude, of course I do."
But we both know that in this place, I do not;
when it comes to this place, I say, No.
My friend says, "Lauren, the presence of God is so real when we meet!" He wants me to remember how the Holy One is fighting for me, desiring for me.
But I say, "Whatever."
I say "whatever" a lot these days.
My friend says, "Lauren, you have got to pray. You have got to go to the places you have not gone before. You cannot have the Amen without the Yes."
He starts to preach, he starts to praise. I just watch him. Everything about me says: Unavailable. Everything about me says unavailable, but it comes down to my heart. Unwilling.
I say, "I'm so glad you're having such a good time over there..."
And then I go home.
I hear Jesus: "He's telling you the truth, you know..."
And I see the walled off compartment of my heart,
a seedbed of who-even-knows-what.
This morning He tells me that in this now moment there is a call to be a woman I have not yet been. He leads me to Proverbs 31, the "Proverbs 31 woman" that I am just a bit tired of hearing of, in Christian culture overplayed and substance underdone. I read the list of all the things this woman accomplishes in her day, and then I hear that whomping challenge, come down from above:
"It's about her heart," He says.
It's not what she does; it's about her heart. How she does it.
I think about a woman I know, whose surface polished and perfect is but a thin veil covering hatred and hostility. The fruit reflects the seedbed. Her seedbed is not good.
I think: Is mine? And am I willing to let Him change it?
I don't know. (I'm thinking about it.)
Every week I go to see the friend who counsels me. We peer into the places I can't seem to unpack on my own, and he applies all of his training and all of his listening wisdom. And every week we hit the wall that says: I will not allow access into this place. To anyone.
My friend says, "Lauren, do you trust God?"
I say, "Don't be rude, of course I do."
But we both know that in this place, I do not;
when it comes to this place, I say, No.
My friend says, "Lauren, the presence of God is so real when we meet!" He wants me to remember how the Holy One is fighting for me, desiring for me.
But I say, "Whatever."
I say "whatever" a lot these days.
My friend says, "Lauren, you have got to pray. You have got to go to the places you have not gone before. You cannot have the Amen without the Yes."
He starts to preach, he starts to praise. I just watch him. Everything about me says: Unavailable. Everything about me says unavailable, but it comes down to my heart. Unwilling.
I say, "I'm so glad you're having such a good time over there..."
And then I go home.
I hear Jesus: "He's telling you the truth, you know..."
And I see the walled off compartment of my heart,
a seedbed of who-even-knows-what.
This morning He tells me that in this now moment there is a call to be a woman I have not yet been. He leads me to Proverbs 31, the "Proverbs 31 woman" that I am just a bit tired of hearing of, in Christian culture overplayed and substance underdone. I read the list of all the things this woman accomplishes in her day, and then I hear that whomping challenge, come down from above:
"It's about her heart," He says.
It's not what she does; it's about her heart. How she does it.
I think about a woman I know, whose surface polished and perfect is but a thin veil covering hatred and hostility. The fruit reflects the seedbed. Her seedbed is not good.
I think: Is mine? And am I willing to let Him change it?
I don't know. (I'm thinking about it.)
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Today I am Writing: On The Little Bit by Little Bit
My yard is crawling with men.
Today is "clean up the landscaping, and demolish every derelict weed" day, and my yard is crawling with men. I hear them, calling to each other: "It's looking good!" "We're making good progress!" "We're getting there!" I imagine high-fives being thrown through the air from bush to tree and back to bush.
I look out expecting to see all this progress and think:
What are they so geared up about? This place is a mess.
It reminds me of last week, where every day a group of Amish men drove their trucks and trailers into my yard, and climbed up on the roof of my landlord's house. They ripped off shingles and then they stapled them back on, day by day.
These were the same days where my kitchen was put to the use of feeding some visiting family members, resulting in piles of glassware and dishware and bowls and pans. Everywhere. The next few days were busy, and the end of the week had me slated for feeding a largish group of friends. The meal was to be held elsewhere, but I went to the store and loaded up my grocery bags. I took them home and there they sat, interspersed in any open spaces left between all the rest. And when I returned from the dinner late Friday night, I put the bags right where they'd been, full of things I'd pulled from my pantry, all needing to be put away.
I turned my back on it all, and went to bed.
Saturday morning I arose. I made the coffee. I sat for a bit out on the porch steps, gathering my breath. And then, little bit by little bit, I began to deal with the mess. I put the salt and pepper in their place. I moved the dishes in the drying rack to the cabinets and washed what was in the sink. I poured lentils into a jar and tucked it into the pantry. I recycled the recipe sheets, crumpled up and stained. And little bit by little bit, it began to clear out. It took me all day, the little bit by the little bit. I took moments in between to drink deep of the air outside, to make my bed, to run the errands and meet up with the friend. But little bit by little bit, all returned to order. Almost without my noticing.
It's analogous to my internal life too, the fragments of me all twisted and roaming, getting little bit by little bit restored to the order in which they were made to be.
I look outside again and see that those men have actually made some of that progress they keep claiming.
And I think: Sometimes all it takes is setting your mind, to the little bit. So I take a deep breath, and keep going.
Today is "clean up the landscaping, and demolish every derelict weed" day, and my yard is crawling with men. I hear them, calling to each other: "It's looking good!" "We're making good progress!" "We're getting there!" I imagine high-fives being thrown through the air from bush to tree and back to bush.
I look out expecting to see all this progress and think:
What are they so geared up about? This place is a mess.
It reminds me of last week, where every day a group of Amish men drove their trucks and trailers into my yard, and climbed up on the roof of my landlord's house. They ripped off shingles and then they stapled them back on, day by day.
These were the same days where my kitchen was put to the use of feeding some visiting family members, resulting in piles of glassware and dishware and bowls and pans. Everywhere. The next few days were busy, and the end of the week had me slated for feeding a largish group of friends. The meal was to be held elsewhere, but I went to the store and loaded up my grocery bags. I took them home and there they sat, interspersed in any open spaces left between all the rest. And when I returned from the dinner late Friday night, I put the bags right where they'd been, full of things I'd pulled from my pantry, all needing to be put away.
I turned my back on it all, and went to bed.
Saturday morning I arose. I made the coffee. I sat for a bit out on the porch steps, gathering my breath. And then, little bit by little bit, I began to deal with the mess. I put the salt and pepper in their place. I moved the dishes in the drying rack to the cabinets and washed what was in the sink. I poured lentils into a jar and tucked it into the pantry. I recycled the recipe sheets, crumpled up and stained. And little bit by little bit, it began to clear out. It took me all day, the little bit by the little bit. I took moments in between to drink deep of the air outside, to make my bed, to run the errands and meet up with the friend. But little bit by little bit, all returned to order. Almost without my noticing.
It's analogous to my internal life too, the fragments of me all twisted and roaming, getting little bit by little bit restored to the order in which they were made to be.
I look outside again and see that those men have actually made some of that progress they keep claiming.
And I think: Sometimes all it takes is setting your mind, to the little bit. So I take a deep breath, and keep going.
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