I laugh when I hear people say that Christianity is a crutch, because though that sentiment is meant to be an insult it’s actually the understatement of . . . well, eternity.
It’s not my crutch. It (or He, Jesus Christ) is my entire life support system. Without him, I’m dead. I’m helpless. I’m hopeless. I’m hellbound. But since I trusted solely in His death in my place, He is my life (Colossians 3:4).
Just a crutch?? Ha!
It’s going on as I write, and I’m rooting for the underdog N.L. (of course). They haven’t won an All-Star Game since ’96. Last year they lost a nail-biter on a play at the plate in the 15th inning. Good grief!
I’m also feeling somewhat vindicated for voting for Shane Victorino in the Final Vote (he of the single and game-tying run in the 3rd).
OK, back to the game . . . ah, baseball. Happy sigh.
[she] is teachable.”
That’s something my pastor said in his message yesterday from Titus 1:9. I admit, I hate criticism and correction (my parents can attest to this). But I believe the Bible when it tells me that instruction and reproof is necessary and a good thing (see 2 Timothy 3:16-17).
He’s still working on me, and I’m still learning to take it with the right attitude. Good thing one of God’s attributes is patience!
Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
– F. Lehman
I John 1:19 We love because he first loved us.
Are we to love God? Of course! But the emphasis of Scripture is clearly on his incomprehensible love for us.
Our love for him is flimsy and changes by the moment; his love for every one of us sinners is as steady, infinite, and eternal as he himself is.
a.k.a. 07/08/09, is this year’s sequential date!
Wrap your arms around it and squeeze the life out of this unique day. You can slog through tomorrow, but today, Carpe Diem!
(And I’m just kidding about tomorrow.)
So, I’m studying Spanish. I avoided the learning the language with all my might through high school and college. Not that I really had anything against it, but EVERYONE studies Spanish, and I wanted to be different.
Duh, Katie.
There’s a reason EVERYONE studies Spanish. A lot of people in this country (and in my city) speak it. This fall I will be transferring to a school smack-dab in the heart of the Hispanic section of Milwaukee. Many of my kids won’t have good English proficiency. I’ll work with an interpreter, but my days of avoiding Espanol are officially over.
My friend Erika from grad school agreed to be my L.A. (language assistant); in essence, she’s my Spanish teacher. And I’m learning little by little how to hear and speak basic Spanish. Much of what I’m learning is directly related to classroom activities. I know how to say “Be quiet”, “listen”, “come here”, “walk”, and”stop”, among other things. These are essential phrases, as any educator will tell you.
It feels good to exercise the 2nd language part of my brain. Now if only that pesky Swahili would stop sneaking out.
Inertia is a powerful force. Once I start writing, it’s easy to keep going. When I stop . . . well, it’s extraordinarily easy to stay stopped.
I just didn’t know I’d stopped for so long. Time to get the ball . . . or words . . . rolling again. As it is summer break, my goal is to write daily, or nearly daily, again through the end of August.
Tomorrow: my thoughts on Spanish. Betcha can’t wait, huh?
See ya then!
Tonight I want to go home – real home, with my Savior. I want the tears of a million losses, some small, some way too big, to be wiped from my face by the One with eternally nail scarred hands. I want to see Him, to gaze on His glory. I want to never say goodbye again. I want to never sin again. I want to rest.
I’m tired and my heart hurts.
It’s not a depression. I’m not suicidal. I don’t have a death wish. I simply desire with all my heart and soul to be where I was intended to be, as I was intended to be, with whom I was intended to be.
And I take comfort in knowing that it’s only a matter of time.
Philippians 1:23 ” . . .I desire to be depart and be with Christ, which is better by far . . .”
Author Doris Lessing once said that she was “preoccupied by a feeling that words are too thin for our experience”, and I would tend to agree with her. Language is a wonderful gift. Words are treasures, but they are truly as thin as the pages they are printed on.
I’ve become aware of this over the past few thousand days, as I have spent most of them far from home and the faces dearest to me. We miss so much when all we have are words. Experiences can never be fully – or even mostly – shared, by words.
Last night, I went to the beach at Lake Michigan with some friends. It was a warm day in Milwaukee, the first in months, so we got out to enjoy it before the temps plummeted back into the 40s today. We played two-hand touch football and talked and laughed. The wind was wild, whipping sand into my eyes and hair. I could smell the lake and marijuana from somewhere down the beach. The guys grilled up brats and burgers. Someone brought fresh strawberries that were big and sweet and perfect. My brat seemed to be equal parts meat, ketchup, bun, and sandy grit. It tasted like summer.
I read what I just wrote, and it feels so not what happened. The night was much more vibrant than my words. And even if you never thought about it before, I’m sure you’ll agree with Ms. Lessing and me. Think about your life, your experiences. Words are just too thin, aren’t they?
Still, these little semi-meaningful squiggles on the screen are what we’ve got, so I’ll keep sharing as best I can.
They are building a median in the street by my apartment, which apparently requires an irritatingly regular pounding of the ground. My building is literally shaking every couple of seconds. I’m guessing 3.78 on the Richter Scale.
Good thing I bought Tylenol on my way home from work. My head appears to be trying to match the pounding outside.
If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know I love Phillies baseball. Today the legendary voice of the Phillies, Harry Kalas, died at the age of 73. Fittingly, he was in the broadcast booth prepping for this afternoon’s Phils-Nats game at the time.
I’m sad. Very sad. I was surprised by the depth of my feelings when I heard the news, and the logical side of me kept telling me it was goofy to miss – so much – someone I never met. But then I realized that Harry wasn’t just the voice of the Phillies, he was the voice of my childhood. Even now, in my late 20s, whenever I hear(d) his smooth comforting voice (my brother Pete described it as “a warm blanket”), I slid back into little girl land.
I lost that today.
A while ago, I wrote this poem – it pretty much sums my thoughts up.
Summertime Lullaby
On those nights when the heat overwhelmed
And the stickiness of the air made it hard to think,
Dressed in my thin cotton nightgown,
I’d sit at the table and wait for Daddy
To flip the switch on the radio
And turn the dial to my
Summertime lullaby.
But the voices that I heard on my way to sleep
Didn’t sing softly in mesmerizing tones, didn’t sing at all.
They shouted and chatted and groaned and joked
And when they talked, I was there
As the ball thunked – “He struck ‘im out!” – into the catcher’s mitt
Or squirted between the shortstop’s legs
Or was “OUTTA HERE! Home run, Michael Jack Schmidt!”
And in my young mind the dream was always alive,
No matter what the standings or how late it was in the season,
Back when the Phillies and Harry and the crew were my
Summertime lullaby.
Now I’ve moved on and discovered that no one else
Quite gets it right – not the way they did, the way they do.
So I still listen in from half a country away and
Something in the familiar rhythm of the game comforts me
And takes me back to when I was a little girl
Sitting at the table and waiting to hear
The latest version of my
Summertime lullaby.
I have discovered of late that most of my anxieties in life don’t come (first) from a lack of faith but from selfishness. I can’t remember a time that I ever feared that God did not hear a prayer of mine, or that he would not answer. I believe that he is my Father. I believe completely that he does answer the prayer, no matter how small (popsicles – see the previous post) or how big (salvation of a friend).
Still my heart is often anxious. I’m selfish. I’m afraid that God won’t answer the prayer the way I want him to, with the timing I want, or in the place I want. I know in my heart he will give me what is best for me, but in my myopic selfish moments, I don’t want his best. Too often, I want what I want, even if what I want is not what’s ultimately the best for me, as decreed my an omniscient God.
Yikes. There were a lot of “I”s in that paragraph. That’s why I’m thankful for grace – grace that is greater than all my sin, all my wretched selfishness, all my foolish anxiety.
Ephesians 1:7-8 In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace, which he lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight”
My friends Pierce and Natalie got married today in a beautiful gospel-proclaiming, Jesus Christ- honoring ceremony. It was in the low 50s during the afternoon, with partly cloudy skies. That was a definite blessing, because this being Wisconsin in early spring, the weather is pretty much a toss-up. Today’s meterological niceties bump up against tomorrow’s wind and sleet and 4 inches of snow.
During prayer time at church on Wednesday, my friend Julie prayed specifically for “temperatures between 50 and 60 and partly cloudy skies [which are good for pictures]”. And God answered equally specifically. When I left home to head out to the wedding, the temperature was 50.4 degrees, the sun was shining between the clouds, and I imagined Him smiling.
He is my Father after all, and like any father, he delights in heaping blessings on his children. So why not ask? And what do little children ask for? Yes, they may ask for the “big things”, like food and clothing, but they often request those special little items.
“Daddy, can I have a popsicle?” “Daddy, can you read Fox in Socks to me?” “Daddy can you push me on the swings?” “Daddy, can you make it between 50 and 60 degrees and partly cloudy on Saturday so it’s nice for the wedding?”
Nothing is too big for God. And nothing is too small, or too specific. As today’s events clearly show, my Father loves giving his children popsicles.
Psalm 68:19 “Blessed be the Lord, who daily loads us with benefits, the God of our salvation!”
Today was not a good day. This morning, I was barely 4 hours into the work week and I was already feeling beaten down, idiotic, and incompetent. This feeling is to be expected occasionally when you’re in your first year of a profession, so I wasn’t surprised. Still, I definitely needed encouragement.
During lunch, I grabbed my Bible from my desk drawer and turned to my favorite book whenever I’m in a brokedown place – the Psalms. I opened up right where I needed to be:
Psalm 56:8-9 “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book? Then my enemies will turn back in the day when I call. This I know, that God is for me.”
Now, my circumstances are nowhere near as dire as David’s when he wrote these words, but that beautiful truth is just as true. I love knowing that whoever is against me, my GOD is for me.
Today I was talking to one of my friends about field hockey. We got on the topic whilst discussing tennis, in which skirts are worn and I mentioned that there is another sport where women wear skirts. Sadly, my friend had never heard of field hockey despite coming from Minnesota, which is like the capital of ice hockey in America or something. Of course, green sports fields not located in domes are hard to come by in the Great White North, so I guess I can’t really blame her ignorance.
That said, hockey was beyond a doubt my favorite sport in high school. I discovered it in 10th grade during P.E. class and became somewhat obsessed. For the unintiated among us, field hockey is played on a soccer-like field with a round ball (which weights a bit more than a baseball) and wooden sticks that are flat on one side and rounded on the other. You can only use the flat side for contact with the ball. The object is to get the ball into the goal which is a good deal smaller than a soccer goal – maybe half the size. Pretty straight-forward, no?
I never made the actual school team, but had a great time playing intramural hockey on the dusty field as well as the grittier version we played in the gym on Sunday nights. During those games, the ball skittered at high speeds across the floor and few people wore shin or mouth guards. The boys played too, which always added an element of danger. I well remember the sharp clack of the sticks hitting one another and the blister-inducing rub of the taped-up wood in my hand. I also still have the tender area on the bone just above my ankle where someone swung hard, missing the ball but making excellent contact with my shin.
Ah, hockey. I miss it.
That’d be the 16th President.
He’s 200.
And this is what he said back in 1863:
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
I don’t often put my poetry on here for various reasons, but some of my dear ones are going through a tough time, and this one expresses my heart:
Psalm 34:18 “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
There are days when God takes this child
Through a storm so strong and wild
That the pain blinds me
And the disappointment binds me
With cords of numbness
And confusing lostness.
I weep through the rolling thunder,
As my storm-battered heart wonders
How is this trial ever going to end –
Will my upset world make sense again?
Yesterday I saw a clear blue sky
With whispers of clouds that floated by.
Today it turned dark shades of gray
And I’m afraid – I’ve lost the way.
Then a tender voice I hear,
Whisper gently in my ear,
“Do not fear My little one,
I know that you can’t see the sun,
All you feel is waves and wind,
But trust Me, child, I know the end.
I have brought you to this place,
You’re surrounded by My grace.
You’ve no one to trust but Me alone,
So rest, My child, I’ll take you home.”
I look around, and there I see
The oceans of His love for me
They spread about me, vast, deep, and wide
I could not measure them if I tried.
So in this dark and dreary day
I’ll trust in Him, He’ll lead the way.
He alone is truly good
And these things that are not understood
Pale as I grasp this verse anew
And know deep down that it is true,
“Whoever trusts in Him
Will never be disappointed.”
– from Made for Eternity: Reflections on Time and Timelessness © 2006
My sister sent me this dire message last night:
help me understand my college assignments! From tonight’s reading: “It follows from this that to understand a text must be to understand both the intention to be understood, and the intention that this intention should be understood, which the text itself as an intended act of communication must at least have embodied.” huh?
To which I replied:
It follows that my implicit reasoning for expressly expressing my thoughts to you is in order that you may infer all inferences that you wish to infer, regardless of my intention (or lack of direct intention {though presumably, at the very least, an inkling of intention would be noted in the reasoning with which I embarked upon this current communique}) and my desire that the meaning of my expressly expressed thoughts would in no way be obfuscated by the sudden and unintentional (though, it may be possible that in some ways it was intentional) logorrhea that has poured incessantly (although, cessation may be soon be in the offing) from the fertile lexicon of my cerebrum.
Hope this helps.
The scary thing is, writing intelligent sounding drivel ain’t all that hard . . .
Nearly completely lost in the adoring (worshipful?) coverage of the pre-inaguaration events is the fact that today is Mr. Bush’s last day in office. This makes sense for a few obvious reasons – we are a forward-looking country, the media loves (loves, loves) Barack Obama, and the media hates (hates, hates) George Bush.
So I want to take this opportunity to thank my President on his final day. I’m not one of those who agreed with everything he did. I cringed a few times. But, Mr. Bush, thank you.
Thank you for taking on the nearly impossible job of leading our nation. Thanks for being tough on terrorists. Thank you for protecting the youngest among us. Thanks for not always doing the popular thing, but what you thought was the best thing. Thank you for supporting Israel.
Tomorrow Mr. Obama will become my President. My prayer is that in four years, or eight years, I will have much to thank him for as well.
And though we’ve never deserved it, may God continue to bless this land that I love.
Ah, this is the time of year when it’s good to be a Philadelphia sports fan, but not good to live any further north than, well, Texas. I was walking to work this morning when the air was still and the ambient temperature (i.e. not including wind chill) was six degrees. And I found myself thinking, this isn’t all that bad. That is until you add another 6-8 inches of snow by Wednesday, the mercury loses sight of zero (on the wrong side) for a while, and the wind kicks that “real feel” temp down to -40.
I’m just sick of global warming. Stupid greenhouse gasses. We need to cool off already!
Made for Eternity 