Last year, for the very first time, I chose #olw, or as the non-hashtaggers know it, one little word.
I liked the idea of choosing a word to live the year by - a mantra to set my heartbeat to. And if I'm being completely bare and honest, it was super trending in the facebookinstagrampopulargirlssquare.
And at that point, for all the wrong reasons, I really wanted to trend.
All the cool kids were doing it.
And I was struggling, struggling to find my place in friendships and groups so I followed. If it was good enough for the cool kids, well, it was good enough for me too.
The word I chose was "INTENTIONAL". Which is really laughable when my reasons for choosing it (reread above and picture my eye roll) were so far from it.
Can you guess how well it went?
I failed. Like, big time.
The sad part is I may not have even noticed if someone hadn't pointed out how completely UN-intentional I was treating some tiny people I love.
I sat with that realization for a good bit, chewed on it, let it get under my skin and into the marrow of my bones.
Flash towards the eve of 2017 and the #olw was trending yet again.
This time I was not even close to wanting to roll with any cool kids. I almost nixed the idea of "one little word" altogether but my reasons for that would have been just as impulsive and wrong as the first time around.
I thought about the past year of my life. What had I learned? what had hurt? what had healed? What had I contributed to the building up, or the tearing down, of ALL the relationships surrounding me? Where did I want my efforts to go?
Tough questions require answers brave enough to not just shake hands, but to take my shoes off, trudge through the mud in my bare feet and THEN splash in the streams. I am learning (always always always learning) the best relationships include both. A relationship with depth and life and conversation must be wide enough to hold the sticky mess and the happy clean.
Otherwise it's just a convenience. You don't get one without the other.
guilty. and also, enough of that.
So this year I picked my word with a lot more thought and a whole lot of intention. (It took a year but I finally got the real meaning of that one.)
C U L T I V A T E.
1. to prepare or prepare and use for the raising of crops. also (and I really love this. I mean, really really love this) to loosen or break up the soil
(All the praise hands here. I mean seriously, WHO ELSE prays this alldayeveryday ? Break it up, Jesus. All that rock. All the hard earth clay that is unyielding and useless. Grab a hoe, a rake, a shovel, heck - let's get some jackhammers and make a real mess here. Break it up. Prepare me. Prepare all of me for CROPS. I can practically see all the lettuce heads popping up with people's faces on them. LOVE THESE. WATER THEM.)
2. to foster the growth of
(I mean, YES. this also seems like it should have a "duh" at the end.
Grow.
grow in love. grow in faith. grow in being teachable and let's get some of that forgiveness and grace in there too. Yeah? The people who need grace the most are the ones you don't want to give it to.
The conundrum being - then how will they know what it is???) DUH.
3. to IMPROVE by LABOR, CARE, or STUDY
(Labor. WORK. Cultivating is not automatic. It is not second nature. Maybe not even fourth or fifth.
To cultivate, to love, to foster growth, to care for and to allow yourself to be loosed and broken, requires a whole heck of a lot of work, and don't for a second think that work is like, cracker jack easy.
Oh no.
Grab your antiseptic and some tissues. It's going to hurt at first. You will bleed. You will ask yourself, "holy heck - IS THIS EVEN WORTH IT?"
The answer is YES.
Yes it is.
Then you'll see it. Green. Growth. Buds of life and love and friendship and family pushing through so much you want to weep in thankfulness and joy)
I pray every day God helps me to do this. I know I will not always be successful. I'm human. I get tired and selfish and hurt and I've never made any secrets of how BLACK my heart is.
BUT.
(and this is when the BUT is oh so good)
Jesus loves my black heart. Period. YOU may not love it. I may not love it. But HE does.
And.
He also knows how much this black heart wants to LOVE
and forgive (well, most of the time. some people. I'm still working on this.)
and WRITE
and be free
and laugh
and really just fly itself all the way up to heaven,
singing
at the top
of its lungs.
XO
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Jan 19, 2017
Feb 6, 2015
Tree
I love trees.
I love when they tower over me in shadows and green.
I love the denseness, the smooth moss that grows over the scarred bark.
I love the way the sun can glint and make a single leaf sparkle.
I love to hear the birds I cannot see, to listen to their song and chatter of joy.
I love being covered.
Hidden.
Cocooned.
Listening only to my footsteps on dirt, crunching through pebbles.
My breath.
Labored
but alive.
I have a picture of a tree hanging on the wall in my bathroom.
It is black and white.
There is not room for color in this photo.
Only stillness.
Only a message.
Only the stand.
You can see that the tree was traumatized when it was very small.
Something happened.
Something pushed it off its course, and instead of growing up ....
it leans to the side.
It leans to the side, barely keeping itself off the ground, barely keeping itself from giving up.
It leans.
I wonder what happened to you Tree?
Did someone cut you? Did someone come and try to rip you apart?
Maybe you were in the way, Tree.
Maybe you were in the way when another was cut and torn and as it rolled down, thumping and skidding on dead leaves and broken branches, maybe it hit you. Maybe it didn't mean to, Tree. You were just there.
And so small.
Barely seen.
Maybe it couldn't stop itself, Tree. Maybe it tried.
Maybe it cried, Tree, when it knocked you and hurt you, not knowing if you would survive.
Maybe it whispered, in the black and white forest, "I'm so sorry."
Maybe it said a prayer as it slid past you, farther to the bottom, "please be ok."
Maybe it knew in the center of its marrow, in the sap running out, that you would.
I see you, Tree.
I see you leaning.
I see you holding on.
And then, there you are, Tree, reaching up ...
reaching up to the sky,
reaching for the sun.
You are so beautiful, Tree.
Stretching up, in all your pain and all your sorrow.
Determined.
Strong.
Tree.
You grew!
You didn't stay low to the ground.
You grew.
Straight up to the sky
blooming
with leaves.
And, I know, with color.
This tree hangs in my bathroom.
A reminder.
I gave this tree to my mother.
It hangs in her room.
A reminder.
The courage to grow despite wounds.
XOXO
NOTE: I first saw this tree at a conference, a conference for survivors of abuse, a conference I did not want to go to but am so grateful I did. I sat in a room, full of women and a smattering of men, all of us crying, shaking our leaves for the damage done, and then straightening with the strength of what we knew.
We had survived.
We had grown.
Despite wounds.
Sallie Culbreth wrote a poem about this same tree, called The Courage Tree. It is beautiful. It is what she sees when she looks at this tree.
I am writing what I see.
Photogragh by Dave Dietrich Young.
I love when they tower over me in shadows and green.
I love the denseness, the smooth moss that grows over the scarred bark.
I love the way the sun can glint and make a single leaf sparkle.
I love to hear the birds I cannot see, to listen to their song and chatter of joy.
I love being covered.
Hidden.
Cocooned.
Listening only to my footsteps on dirt, crunching through pebbles.
My breath.
Labored
but alive.
I have a picture of a tree hanging on the wall in my bathroom.
It is black and white.
There is not room for color in this photo.
Only stillness.
Only a message.
Only the stand.
You can see that the tree was traumatized when it was very small.
Something happened.
Something pushed it off its course, and instead of growing up ....
it leans to the side.
It leans to the side, barely keeping itself off the ground, barely keeping itself from giving up.
It leans.
I wonder what happened to you Tree?
Did someone cut you? Did someone come and try to rip you apart?
Maybe you were in the way, Tree.
Maybe you were in the way when another was cut and torn and as it rolled down, thumping and skidding on dead leaves and broken branches, maybe it hit you. Maybe it didn't mean to, Tree. You were just there.
And so small.
Barely seen.
Maybe it couldn't stop itself, Tree. Maybe it tried.
Maybe it cried, Tree, when it knocked you and hurt you, not knowing if you would survive.
Maybe it whispered, in the black and white forest, "I'm so sorry."
Maybe it said a prayer as it slid past you, farther to the bottom, "please be ok."
Maybe it knew in the center of its marrow, in the sap running out, that you would.
I see you, Tree.
I see you leaning.
I see you holding on.
And then, there you are, Tree, reaching up ...
reaching up to the sky,
reaching for the sun.
You are so beautiful, Tree.
Stretching up, in all your pain and all your sorrow.
Determined.
Strong.
Tree.
You grew!
You didn't stay low to the ground.
You grew.
Straight up to the sky
blooming
with leaves.
And, I know, with color.
This tree hangs in my bathroom.
A reminder.
I gave this tree to my mother.
It hangs in her room.
A reminder.
The courage to grow despite wounds.
XOXO
NOTE: I first saw this tree at a conference, a conference for survivors of abuse, a conference I did not want to go to but am so grateful I did. I sat in a room, full of women and a smattering of men, all of us crying, shaking our leaves for the damage done, and then straightening with the strength of what we knew.
We had survived.
We had grown.
Despite wounds.
Sallie Culbreth wrote a poem about this same tree, called The Courage Tree. It is beautiful. It is what she sees when she looks at this tree.
I am writing what I see.
Photogragh by Dave Dietrich Young.
Jan 19, 2015
Awestruck
I could not take my eyes off the lightening. It stretched and ripped across the night, making everything else fall back into the peripheral. I turned my head to blurt out to the guy sitting next to me, "Hey! Did you see that?" But his headphones were on and his eyes were closed and he wouldn't have seen it anyway - I had the window seat. I looked around to check if anyone else had their face glued to the 1x1 pane but no, people were nodding off, reading, staring at the tv, completely oblivious to what was happening outside, high up in the air with us.
I turned back to the window. I must have stared in silence for five minutes. The lightening didn't look any farther away; in fact, it looked closer. Like it was dancing towards us, a zigzag salsa, a rolling of the hips, a tease in its legs.
"I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now I'm not." Step back. "I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now, I'm not." Step back.
The black turned gray and pinkish against the clouds as the lightening sliced through the air again.
Almost at the same time, the plane rocked.
What?
I must be imagining things.
Again, the lightening flashed.
Again, the plane rocked.
My heart thumped. I closed my eyes.
I gripped my armrest.
There it was again!
And we rocked, again.
I am not a flyer. I mean, I will fly if needed and I don't have to be completely inebriated to do so, but I prefer to drive. Oh, I know the statistics, you're far more likely to get into a car crash than a plane crash and blah blah blah, but I can't help it. There is something especially terrifying about hanging in the air in a metal tube. I mean, if a bird the size of my foot can take it down if it gets caught in the fan blade ... how safe can it be? And I don't care how many times I see a flight attendant demonstrate how your seat becomes a raft if you hit the ocean; I for one, will pray for an immediate heart attack. I don't even think I would have to pray. It would just happen. My heart will thump so fast in terror it will literally thump itself out and I will squeeze my eyes and meet Jesus before anything crashes, explodes, or gets sucked into the ocean full of giant sharks to match their giant teeth.
I opened my eyes.
Yes. The lightening was definitely closer.
It shot across the sky, eerily defined, it seemed like I could make out each electrical pulse.
The plane rocked ...
and then dipped down.
People began shifting in their seats. I could hear them murmuring, "Whoa! Did you feel that?"
Yes, yes I did.
And then with each flash across the sky:
f e a r.
It's as if it had been waiting on the floor, hiding under the seats, staying out of sight until it was ready to make its move. And move it did.
I felt it start in my toes as they clenched and squished in my flip flops. I felt exposed, like I needed a blanket, or at least some socks. Up it crept, until my hands were clammy and my heart was racing and panic prayers erupted in my skull.
What's a panic prayer? This is a panic prayer.
"Oh my Jesus. Oh my Jesus. I don't want to die. helpme helpme helpme ..."
Perhaps you have said these before too.
I normally have them when I wake from a nightmare, get a call from the school principal, or when I ride in airplanes with lightening right outside my window.
I was starting to FREAK OUT.
I did the only thing I know how to do when things are bigger than me.
I began to pray.
Something slightly more literate than a panic prayer, but not much.
And then I was reminded of a boat that rocked and bounced in the storm while Jesus slept. I was reminded of how the disciples panicked as they saw the waves and the black sky. I was reminded of what they said to Jesus.
"Wake up! Save us! Oh Lord, don't you even care that we are going to die?!"
A panic prayer if I have ever heard one.
Oh sure, we can try and justify ourselves by saying, "Well, Jesus was right there. He was with them! Why would they panic?"
But isn't He right there with us too? Wasn't he with me?
“You of little faith, why are you so afraid?”
And then I wasn't.
Just like that.
Praise God.
I looked back out the window.
The lightening was still striking. (I know - biggest storm ever it seems like.)
The plane still rocked.
But now I could see how beautiful it was.. how magnificent. I noticed all the color in the clouds as the lightening went through them. It was so ... pretty. My fear had been replaced by awe. The awesomeness of God and the power of his majesty. My mouth hung open just a little.
I wonder.
How many times do we allow the Enemy (because that's where fear comes from) to keep us so focused on that one thing, and make us so afraid, that we fail to see the beauty of our situation? And there is beauty. In all things.
You may think there isn't, that there couldn't possibly be ... but that is the Enemy.
God says,
I will turn beauty from ashes.
My mercies are new every morning.
Great is My faithfulness.
And great it is my friends. Great it is.
XOXO
I turned back to the window. I must have stared in silence for five minutes. The lightening didn't look any farther away; in fact, it looked closer. Like it was dancing towards us, a zigzag salsa, a rolling of the hips, a tease in its legs.
"I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now I'm not." Step back. "I'm coming for you." Step forward. "Now, I'm not." Step back.
The black turned gray and pinkish against the clouds as the lightening sliced through the air again.
Almost at the same time, the plane rocked.
What?
I must be imagining things.
Again, the lightening flashed.
Again, the plane rocked.
My heart thumped. I closed my eyes.
I gripped my armrest.
There it was again!
And we rocked, again.
I am not a flyer. I mean, I will fly if needed and I don't have to be completely inebriated to do so, but I prefer to drive. Oh, I know the statistics, you're far more likely to get into a car crash than a plane crash and blah blah blah, but I can't help it. There is something especially terrifying about hanging in the air in a metal tube. I mean, if a bird the size of my foot can take it down if it gets caught in the fan blade ... how safe can it be? And I don't care how many times I see a flight attendant demonstrate how your seat becomes a raft if you hit the ocean; I for one, will pray for an immediate heart attack. I don't even think I would have to pray. It would just happen. My heart will thump so fast in terror it will literally thump itself out and I will squeeze my eyes and meet Jesus before anything crashes, explodes, or gets sucked into the ocean full of giant sharks to match their giant teeth.
I opened my eyes.
Yes. The lightening was definitely closer.
It shot across the sky, eerily defined, it seemed like I could make out each electrical pulse.
The plane rocked ...
and then dipped down.
People began shifting in their seats. I could hear them murmuring, "Whoa! Did you feel that?"
Yes, yes I did.
And then with each flash across the sky:
f e a r.
It's as if it had been waiting on the floor, hiding under the seats, staying out of sight until it was ready to make its move. And move it did.
I felt it start in my toes as they clenched and squished in my flip flops. I felt exposed, like I needed a blanket, or at least some socks. Up it crept, until my hands were clammy and my heart was racing and panic prayers erupted in my skull.
What's a panic prayer? This is a panic prayer.
"Oh my Jesus. Oh my Jesus. I don't want to die. helpme helpme helpme ..."
Perhaps you have said these before too.
I normally have them when I wake from a nightmare, get a call from the school principal, or when I ride in airplanes with lightening right outside my window.
I was starting to FREAK OUT.
I did the only thing I know how to do when things are bigger than me.
I began to pray.
Something slightly more literate than a panic prayer, but not much.
And then I was reminded of a boat that rocked and bounced in the storm while Jesus slept. I was reminded of how the disciples panicked as they saw the waves and the black sky. I was reminded of what they said to Jesus.
"Wake up! Save us! Oh Lord, don't you even care that we are going to die?!"
A panic prayer if I have ever heard one.
Oh sure, we can try and justify ourselves by saying, "Well, Jesus was right there. He was with them! Why would they panic?"
But isn't He right there with us too? Wasn't he with me?
“You of little faith, why are you so afraid?”
And then I wasn't.
Just like that.
Praise God.
I looked back out the window.
The lightening was still striking. (I know - biggest storm ever it seems like.)
The plane still rocked.
But now I could see how beautiful it was.. how magnificent. I noticed all the color in the clouds as the lightening went through them. It was so ... pretty. My fear had been replaced by awe. The awesomeness of God and the power of his majesty. My mouth hung open just a little.
I wonder.
How many times do we allow the Enemy (because that's where fear comes from) to keep us so focused on that one thing, and make us so afraid, that we fail to see the beauty of our situation? And there is beauty. In all things.
You may think there isn't, that there couldn't possibly be ... but that is the Enemy.
God says,
I will turn beauty from ashes.
My mercies are new every morning.
Great is My faithfulness.
And great it is my friends. Great it is.
XOXO
Jan 10, 2015
Who do you say ?
"But what about you?", he asked. "Who do you say that I am?" Peter answered, "You are the Messiah."
Let me start by saying, I in no way feel prepared to write this blog. I am not a scholar, a bible historian, a Jesus expert, a theology major, or a Sunday School teacher. I am just me. Just a woman who is trying to run the race God has set before her. I can feel it in my bones, in my chunky fingers with chewed up nails; I am supposed to write this.
I have prayed.
I have asked God to direct my words, my thoughts.
I have asked him to help me be as honest and open as He wants me to be so that maybe, just maybe, if you aren't sure of how to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" ... maybe I can help you.
My Life Group meets every Thursday night. In an email, the Life Group leader challenged us to come prepared to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" (meaning Jesus), but threw in a twist... Not only should we say who we say He is now .. but who did we say He was before?
Before, what?
Before.
Before you saw his face and recognized him.
Before you started attending church and life groups and women's ministries and food banks and became so involved with where you are going that you forgot where you came from.
Before.
When you were a hot mess... and I mean this in a bad way, not the hip, slang way it's thrown across a t-shirt. (And yes, I desperately want that t-shirt!)
Before.
When you woke up in a bed you didn't know, in a room you didn't recognize, with a person you couldn't remember.
Before.
When your past haunted you and no matter how fast you sprinted, it was right there, breathing down your neck, laughing at you, mocking you, tripping you and leaving you flat on your face with a black eye and bloody nose, unable to get up, unable to crawl away.
Before.
The room became instantly quiet as we all pondered the question. Jesus isn't messing around when he asks you - Who do you say that I am? It's not flippant. It's not easy. It requires an answer from your heart; from the very center of YOU.
When it was my turn, I began to cry.
Just like I am crying right now.
You see, some of my group, they weren't sure at all about who God was before,whether he was real or just some "big guy in the sky" their parents used to keep them in line, get them out of the house.
But I knew different. I knew God was real from a very small age. One of my most treasured memories is sitting on my Grammy's lap while she read me bible stories and would tell me, "Oh yeees DAH-ling," in her southern drawl, "my sweet, sweet Shannon, Jesus loves you so very much!", and she'd squeeze me tight into her squishness and I felt safe there. I felt cocooned.
And so when the bad things started to happen; when my grandpa would take naps with me, when I would be forced to climb up into his bed, when he would put a pillow over my face while i cried, when he would tell me after, "You better go pray now and ask God to forgive you ... You are a naughty girl." And I would believe him, because he was an important man at the church, an important man around town, He definitely knew God more than me,
and I....
I was just a small girl.
A small girl who believed God was real. A small girl who would pray and ask God to forgive her,
to help her, to save her, to make all the bad stuff stop.
A small girl who stopped believing God was good when none of her prayers were answered.
Who did I say God was?
I said if he was a man, if God was really this Jesus and this Jesus was God and God came as a man, I would never
ever
ever
ever.
The thought of asking a man to forgive me for my sins made me want to vomit in my rage.
If i could have torn off the skin from face with my own fingernails to stop hearing it, stop seeing it, stop feeling anything at all; I would have.
Who did I say God was?
Every foul word you can think of and more.
And now?
I am grateful to my marrow that he never struck me dead on the spot for all the abomination I felt and spewed and spread and draped myself in.
Something happens when we meet Jesus.
The real Jesus, not the one people use an excuse for their ignorance or hate or agenda or own moral code of living.
Jesus.
The one that wept when his friend died.
The one that got hungry when he walked in the desert.
The one that time after time, and woman after woman, showed compassion and love and gentleness and acceptance - quite unlike most of the men mentioned in those same stories, mind you. I think that's when I really started to like him.
Prostitute? He loved her. Adulteress? He loved her. Diseased and banned from society? He loved her. And then he healed her.
And with each and every one of these women, he faced a group of men and took a stand for her - not approving what she had done or what had happened - but stood for her, as a person deserving of respect and wholeness and love.
Jesus.
He made the playing field equal. Men were no longer superior because they had a penis.
Jesus.
Who was beaten, spit on, laughed at, mocked (who's going to help you now? If you are God - save yourself!), stripped, naked, exposed ...
Bleeding and shredded ... He hung on a cross and said, "My God, My God - why have you forsaken me?"
I used to look at people like they had lost. their. mind. when they would say Jesus understood everything I went through.
But in that .. in those last days when he was arrested and abandoned by those closest to him,
in those last moments while he hung there, exposed and humiliated,
in that last desperate breath full of agony and isolation,
I knew he understood. I knew he got it.
He had felt everything I had felt. He asked the same thing I did.
My God, My God, ... why have you forsaken me?
"But what about you, Shannon?"
Insert your name there.
Whoever you are.
what
about
you?
Who do you say I am?
I say Jesus is my Healer.
Every awful thing, every black spot, he has covered in His love and I no longer twist in agony from my past.
I say Jesus is my Man.
The very first man to wait until I said ok, the very first man that was gentle and asked permission, the very first man to not take my love and twist it inside out and hold it to my throat like a knife.
I say Jesus is my Redeemer.
I needed redemption ya'll. Just take my word for it.
I say Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah, God, love in human form, forgiveness, grace, mercy, and forever.
Jesus is forever.
But what about you? Who do you say he is?
Not what you have heard, not the rumors, not the jokes, not a news story, not what one group or another may say, who do YOU say?
I recently transferred Starbucks stores. The store I left, I loved so much. The store I went to - I heard awful things. About the store, about the manager, and I have got to be honest, it made it hard to be objective, to see, and meet, and get to know, without a preconceived notion. People talk trash.
Right?
I mean, we buy magazines that talk trash, we are glued to our trash talkin' tv shows and post about them on Facebook, laugh about them during pedicures. I've enjoyed an episode or two myself of TMZ and US Weekly and The Bachelor, ok? But let's be real - I don't know Britney Spears or Jennifer Lawrence or Drew Barrymore. I only know about them.
Take whatever you have heard about Jesus and throw it out of your brain, flush it down the toilet, set it on fire.
And then get to know him yourself. I'm sure every person reading this has had people say not-so-nice things about you to others.I know I have.
Imagine if no one ever took the time to actually meet you.
So, Go.
Meet Him. See who He really is.
And then answer.
It's the most important question you'll ever have to examine.
Reflect well.
XOXO
*For further reading and getting to know Jesus, I am including below where you can read about the stories of Jesus and the interactions with the women mentioned in today's blog.
John 8 - Woman caught in adultery
Luke 7:11-18 - Woman who's son died (not mentioned in blog - bonus!)
Luke 7:36-50 the Prostitute
Luke 8:40-55 Woman who was healed
Let me start by saying, I in no way feel prepared to write this blog. I am not a scholar, a bible historian, a Jesus expert, a theology major, or a Sunday School teacher. I am just me. Just a woman who is trying to run the race God has set before her. I can feel it in my bones, in my chunky fingers with chewed up nails; I am supposed to write this.
I have prayed.
I have asked God to direct my words, my thoughts.
I have asked him to help me be as honest and open as He wants me to be so that maybe, just maybe, if you aren't sure of how to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" ... maybe I can help you.
My Life Group meets every Thursday night. In an email, the Life Group leader challenged us to come prepared to answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?" (meaning Jesus), but threw in a twist... Not only should we say who we say He is now .. but who did we say He was before?
Before, what?
Before.
Before you saw his face and recognized him.
Before you started attending church and life groups and women's ministries and food banks and became so involved with where you are going that you forgot where you came from.
Before.
When you were a hot mess... and I mean this in a bad way, not the hip, slang way it's thrown across a t-shirt. (And yes, I desperately want that t-shirt!)
Before.
When you woke up in a bed you didn't know, in a room you didn't recognize, with a person you couldn't remember.
Before.
When your past haunted you and no matter how fast you sprinted, it was right there, breathing down your neck, laughing at you, mocking you, tripping you and leaving you flat on your face with a black eye and bloody nose, unable to get up, unable to crawl away.
Before.
The room became instantly quiet as we all pondered the question. Jesus isn't messing around when he asks you - Who do you say that I am? It's not flippant. It's not easy. It requires an answer from your heart; from the very center of YOU.
When it was my turn, I began to cry.
Just like I am crying right now.
You see, some of my group, they weren't sure at all about who God was before,whether he was real or just some "big guy in the sky" their parents used to keep them in line, get them out of the house.
But I knew different. I knew God was real from a very small age. One of my most treasured memories is sitting on my Grammy's lap while she read me bible stories and would tell me, "Oh yeees DAH-ling," in her southern drawl, "my sweet, sweet Shannon, Jesus loves you so very much!", and she'd squeeze me tight into her squishness and I felt safe there. I felt cocooned.
And so when the bad things started to happen; when my grandpa would take naps with me, when I would be forced to climb up into his bed, when he would put a pillow over my face while i cried, when he would tell me after, "You better go pray now and ask God to forgive you ... You are a naughty girl." And I would believe him, because he was an important man at the church, an important man around town, He definitely knew God more than me,
and I....
I was just a small girl.
A small girl who believed God was real. A small girl who would pray and ask God to forgive her,
to help her, to save her, to make all the bad stuff stop.
A small girl who stopped believing God was good when none of her prayers were answered.
Who did I say God was?
I said if he was a man, if God was really this Jesus and this Jesus was God and God came as a man, I would never
ever
ever
ever.
The thought of asking a man to forgive me for my sins made me want to vomit in my rage.
If i could have torn off the skin from face with my own fingernails to stop hearing it, stop seeing it, stop feeling anything at all; I would have.
Who did I say God was?
Every foul word you can think of and more.
And now?
I am grateful to my marrow that he never struck me dead on the spot for all the abomination I felt and spewed and spread and draped myself in.
Something happens when we meet Jesus.
The real Jesus, not the one people use an excuse for their ignorance or hate or agenda or own moral code of living.
Jesus.
The one that wept when his friend died.
The one that got hungry when he walked in the desert.
The one that time after time, and woman after woman, showed compassion and love and gentleness and acceptance - quite unlike most of the men mentioned in those same stories, mind you. I think that's when I really started to like him.
Prostitute? He loved her. Adulteress? He loved her. Diseased and banned from society? He loved her. And then he healed her.
And with each and every one of these women, he faced a group of men and took a stand for her - not approving what she had done or what had happened - but stood for her, as a person deserving of respect and wholeness and love.
Jesus.
He made the playing field equal. Men were no longer superior because they had a penis.
Jesus.
Who was beaten, spit on, laughed at, mocked (who's going to help you now? If you are God - save yourself!), stripped, naked, exposed ...
Bleeding and shredded ... He hung on a cross and said, "My God, My God - why have you forsaken me?"
I used to look at people like they had lost. their. mind. when they would say Jesus understood everything I went through.
But in that .. in those last days when he was arrested and abandoned by those closest to him,
in those last moments while he hung there, exposed and humiliated,
in that last desperate breath full of agony and isolation,
I knew he understood. I knew he got it.
He had felt everything I had felt. He asked the same thing I did.
My God, My God, ... why have you forsaken me?
"But what about you, Shannon?"
Insert your name there.
Whoever you are.
what
about
you?
Who do you say I am?
I say Jesus is my Healer.
Every awful thing, every black spot, he has covered in His love and I no longer twist in agony from my past.
I say Jesus is my Man.
The very first man to wait until I said ok, the very first man that was gentle and asked permission, the very first man to not take my love and twist it inside out and hold it to my throat like a knife.
I say Jesus is my Redeemer.
I needed redemption ya'll. Just take my word for it.
I say Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah, God, love in human form, forgiveness, grace, mercy, and forever.
Jesus is forever.
But what about you? Who do you say he is?
Not what you have heard, not the rumors, not the jokes, not a news story, not what one group or another may say, who do YOU say?
I recently transferred Starbucks stores. The store I left, I loved so much. The store I went to - I heard awful things. About the store, about the manager, and I have got to be honest, it made it hard to be objective, to see, and meet, and get to know, without a preconceived notion. People talk trash.
Right?
I mean, we buy magazines that talk trash, we are glued to our trash talkin' tv shows and post about them on Facebook, laugh about them during pedicures. I've enjoyed an episode or two myself of TMZ and US Weekly and The Bachelor, ok? But let's be real - I don't know Britney Spears or Jennifer Lawrence or Drew Barrymore. I only know about them.
Take whatever you have heard about Jesus and throw it out of your brain, flush it down the toilet, set it on fire.
And then get to know him yourself. I'm sure every person reading this has had people say not-so-nice things about you to others.I know I have.
Imagine if no one ever took the time to actually meet you.
So, Go.
Meet Him. See who He really is.
And then answer.
It's the most important question you'll ever have to examine.
Reflect well.
XOXO
*For further reading and getting to know Jesus, I am including below where you can read about the stories of Jesus and the interactions with the women mentioned in today's blog.
John 8 - Woman caught in adultery
Luke 7:11-18 - Woman who's son died (not mentioned in blog - bonus!)
Luke 7:36-50 the Prostitute
Luke 8:40-55 Woman who was healed
Jan 3, 2015
Just Not There
Here I am Lord, Send Me.
Isaiah 6:8. A scripture that has become a popular tattoo, Facebook cover photo, Pinterest pin, necklace print, and Christian motto that gets thrown into conversation with excitement and promise. We picture in our mind all the places the Lord is going to send us; exotic countries, new business ventures, church ministries, and yes, blogs, along with all the people that are going to be moved away from the rock inside their heart or set free from addiction and fear, and even saved, by what we are doing.
But what happens when we are sent somewhere we don't want to go? I can tell you what happened to me, what is happening....
I move throughout the day feeling a lot like Jonah.
For anyone who doesn't know who Jonah is, a quick recap. Jonah was a prophet in the Old Testament days.. a guy the Lord would speak to and off Jonah would go to wherever God told him, to deliver news of repentance, faith, and restoration. Jonah had a pretty good gig going on. I imagine his track record was excellent and numbers were up. I imagine he took some pride in where he went and what happened once he was there.
Until God said, "Go to Nineveh."
Say, what?
Nineveh?
Are you sure, God? Because those people are jacked up. (Not Old Testament terminology but you get the essence here, right?)
Jonah did not want to go. These people in Nineveh; they weren't his cup of tea. A reputation proceeded them and Jonah thought "hey - let them get what they deserve. Sure God ... you can send me .. just not there."
Eventually Jonah ended up going but not until he faced an angry ocean and a large fish. If you want to see a quick synopsis that gets right to the point - watch VeggieTales. It will catch you up real quick.
I always found it a little easy to judge Jonah. ( I know - gasp! - the "J" word) but let's be honest. No one wants to think they would be found in his company.
And when you do .. it's really uncomfortable.
You see, I think we all picture we will gladly say "Yes!" That we will pick up our cross (or our suitcase, our apron, our dollar bills) and set off towards whatever God-adventure lies ahead with gusto and a smile to match. But I also think we picture the God-adventure is something we will want to say Yes to. It will align with our own dreams, desires, wants. And yes, while God does place dreams in us and gives us the ability to make them a reality, there is something He cares about far more than that.
People.
God cares about people.
He cares about you, me, our family, our church family... but He also cares about the homeless guy that asks for money on the corner and he might not buy food with that money; it is quite possible he will buy beer. He cares about the woman who stands outside your grocery store with her small children and pretends to be homeless but drives off later in a BMW. He cares about the guy who works hard to provide for his family but when he comes home he's exhausted and irritable and can only knead his brow and drink his beer when the kids start screaming. He cares about the woman who has excelled and becomes so successful in her business yet goes to bed feeling empty and lost and wondering what her purpose is. He cares about the teenagers that are smoking pot around the corner, behind 7-11, who laugh too loud and curse too much. He cares about the ministry leader at your church that is burnt out and beat up but keeps smiling, keeps pushing, and keeps asking Jesus, "Is this enough? Is this? Am I making a difference for you, God?"
It's not about us. It's not about me.
That's kind of a tough truth to swallow, isn't it?
Sure, we say we know this, but when we are asked to make our words a verb, when we need to step waaaay out of our comfort zone and go somewhere that makes us cringe, we sure don't act like we believe it.
I know I don't.
It's been two weeks since I've started to look at Jonah with a little more compassion, a little more empathy; considering him as a human and not just some backwards hero in the bible. Isn't it funny how God does that? The way he flips a mirror of all the things we dislike about other people and reveals those same things stamped across our own face, written inside the secret places of our own heart?
It's called pruning. The bible talks a lot about that too. Getting rid of the branches that don't produce any fruit to make way for ones that do.
Pruning hurts. I mean, have you ever pruned a rosebush or cut the branches on your trees? The shears are sharp, sure, and final. They don't leave room for halfway or uncertainty. No one can slice off an eight of a branch - it's all or nothing.
That's how God wants us when we say, "Here I am Lord, send me!" He wants it all.
I was recently promoted at work .. but for the promotion I have to leave a store that I know, people that I love, and go to one that has a not-so-good reputation, with a boss of not-so-good character. They are not all of ill regard. Not all, mind you. But enough. Enough to make my stomach twist and my feet drag and my mouth grimace and my palms sweat.
Just. Not. There.
I knew as soon as I was offered the position that I would accept it. I knew because I was laughing inside at how God is ... He isn't going to put me where I want, He's going to move me where I'm needed.
I keep trying to be grateful for it.
I am not always up to the task.
I recently started reading Jesus > Religion by Jefferson Bethke. He makes a statement on Page 10 that I wish I could have highlighted to infinity. He writes, "In the scriptures, Jesus isn't safe."
Let that sink in for a minute.
"In the Scriptures,
Jesus
isn't
safe."
It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Isn't it?
So many of us are in awe of Paul, Peter, John, Mary, David, Moses, Noah, Jesus .... and the list goes on and on. We are struck by their courage, their steadfastness, the persistence and dynamic faith they all demonstrate. Not one of them did anything safe.
Can you imagine being in any of their prayer circles? Can you picture praying for Moses before he parted the Red Sea or Noah before he built the Ark in preparedness for rain no one had ever seen before, and pray for safety? The immediate act of what they were doing already nixed safety. In the middle of miracles, there's not a sliver of room for safety. I would bet, you would probably get laughed at, for even suggesting such a thing.
Why do I expect any different?
No. I'm not parting a sea, or leading an army, or speaking in front of kings. But I am moving forward, one foot in front of the other, towards people that are lost, hardened, cynical ... people that need to know they are loved just as they are, right where they are. And if you have ever felt unloved or unacceptable, you know how hard it is to be convinced that you are.
So I am praying. I am praying my heart is right before God. I am praying for God to help me do this work.
I am praying that I am worthy of the task before me. And because I know I am not ... I am praying that God's grace and love and light will be more and more evident for all to see.
Isaiah 6:8. A scripture that has become a popular tattoo, Facebook cover photo, Pinterest pin, necklace print, and Christian motto that gets thrown into conversation with excitement and promise. We picture in our mind all the places the Lord is going to send us; exotic countries, new business ventures, church ministries, and yes, blogs, along with all the people that are going to be moved away from the rock inside their heart or set free from addiction and fear, and even saved, by what we are doing.
But what happens when we are sent somewhere we don't want to go? I can tell you what happened to me, what is happening....
I move throughout the day feeling a lot like Jonah.
For anyone who doesn't know who Jonah is, a quick recap. Jonah was a prophet in the Old Testament days.. a guy the Lord would speak to and off Jonah would go to wherever God told him, to deliver news of repentance, faith, and restoration. Jonah had a pretty good gig going on. I imagine his track record was excellent and numbers were up. I imagine he took some pride in where he went and what happened once he was there.
Until God said, "Go to Nineveh."
Say, what?
Nineveh?
Are you sure, God? Because those people are jacked up. (Not Old Testament terminology but you get the essence here, right?)
Jonah did not want to go. These people in Nineveh; they weren't his cup of tea. A reputation proceeded them and Jonah thought "hey - let them get what they deserve. Sure God ... you can send me .. just not there."
Eventually Jonah ended up going but not until he faced an angry ocean and a large fish. If you want to see a quick synopsis that gets right to the point - watch VeggieTales. It will catch you up real quick.
I always found it a little easy to judge Jonah. ( I know - gasp! - the "J" word) but let's be honest. No one wants to think they would be found in his company.
And when you do .. it's really uncomfortable.
You see, I think we all picture we will gladly say "Yes!" That we will pick up our cross (or our suitcase, our apron, our dollar bills) and set off towards whatever God-adventure lies ahead with gusto and a smile to match. But I also think we picture the God-adventure is something we will want to say Yes to. It will align with our own dreams, desires, wants. And yes, while God does place dreams in us and gives us the ability to make them a reality, there is something He cares about far more than that.
People.
God cares about people.
He cares about you, me, our family, our church family... but He also cares about the homeless guy that asks for money on the corner and he might not buy food with that money; it is quite possible he will buy beer. He cares about the woman who stands outside your grocery store with her small children and pretends to be homeless but drives off later in a BMW. He cares about the guy who works hard to provide for his family but when he comes home he's exhausted and irritable and can only knead his brow and drink his beer when the kids start screaming. He cares about the woman who has excelled and becomes so successful in her business yet goes to bed feeling empty and lost and wondering what her purpose is. He cares about the teenagers that are smoking pot around the corner, behind 7-11, who laugh too loud and curse too much. He cares about the ministry leader at your church that is burnt out and beat up but keeps smiling, keeps pushing, and keeps asking Jesus, "Is this enough? Is this? Am I making a difference for you, God?"
It's not about us. It's not about me.
That's kind of a tough truth to swallow, isn't it?
Sure, we say we know this, but when we are asked to make our words a verb, when we need to step waaaay out of our comfort zone and go somewhere that makes us cringe, we sure don't act like we believe it.
I know I don't.
It's been two weeks since I've started to look at Jonah with a little more compassion, a little more empathy; considering him as a human and not just some backwards hero in the bible. Isn't it funny how God does that? The way he flips a mirror of all the things we dislike about other people and reveals those same things stamped across our own face, written inside the secret places of our own heart?
It's called pruning. The bible talks a lot about that too. Getting rid of the branches that don't produce any fruit to make way for ones that do.
Pruning hurts. I mean, have you ever pruned a rosebush or cut the branches on your trees? The shears are sharp, sure, and final. They don't leave room for halfway or uncertainty. No one can slice off an eight of a branch - it's all or nothing.
That's how God wants us when we say, "Here I am Lord, send me!" He wants it all.
I was recently promoted at work .. but for the promotion I have to leave a store that I know, people that I love, and go to one that has a not-so-good reputation, with a boss of not-so-good character. They are not all of ill regard. Not all, mind you. But enough. Enough to make my stomach twist and my feet drag and my mouth grimace and my palms sweat.
Just. Not. There.
I knew as soon as I was offered the position that I would accept it. I knew because I was laughing inside at how God is ... He isn't going to put me where I want, He's going to move me where I'm needed.
I keep trying to be grateful for it.
I am not always up to the task.
I recently started reading Jesus > Religion by Jefferson Bethke. He makes a statement on Page 10 that I wish I could have highlighted to infinity. He writes, "In the scriptures, Jesus isn't safe."
Let that sink in for a minute.
"In the Scriptures,
Jesus
isn't
safe."
It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Isn't it?
So many of us are in awe of Paul, Peter, John, Mary, David, Moses, Noah, Jesus .... and the list goes on and on. We are struck by their courage, their steadfastness, the persistence and dynamic faith they all demonstrate. Not one of them did anything safe.
Can you imagine being in any of their prayer circles? Can you picture praying for Moses before he parted the Red Sea or Noah before he built the Ark in preparedness for rain no one had ever seen before, and pray for safety? The immediate act of what they were doing already nixed safety. In the middle of miracles, there's not a sliver of room for safety. I would bet, you would probably get laughed at, for even suggesting such a thing.
Why do I expect any different?
No. I'm not parting a sea, or leading an army, or speaking in front of kings. But I am moving forward, one foot in front of the other, towards people that are lost, hardened, cynical ... people that need to know they are loved just as they are, right where they are. And if you have ever felt unloved or unacceptable, you know how hard it is to be convinced that you are.
So I am praying. I am praying my heart is right before God. I am praying for God to help me do this work.
I am praying that I am worthy of the task before me. And because I know I am not ... I am praying that God's grace and love and light will be more and more evident for all to see.
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