This week I did some reading while I was at work. I started the book “The Cry of the Soul” and someone left a copy of Lucado’s, “It’s Not About Me” at work so I read it, too—in just one day. I think my brain (and probably my spirit) were craving input.
Lucado’s book was a quick read. I like that about Lucado: he doesn’t waste paper talking about what he wants to say, saying it, and then re-saying it to be sure you got it. Here are a few quotes from the book that stood out to me:
-Aren’t we all born with our default drive set on selfishness?
-If you’re looking for a place with no change, try a soda machine.
I also really liked when he explained that the word sometimes translated beholding and sometimes reflecting found in 2 Corinthians 3:18 is both. Paul uses another one of these dual words (in his correspondence to the Corinthians) when he tells them that God’s love constrains/compels them. Double meanings trip us up in the scripture but we use them all the time in our English language. Reflecting and beholding made sense to me when I thought about how the reflecting is the natural response to beholding—like Moses: we just can’t help but reflect God when we have been in His presence.
Allender and Longman’s book is not so quick and easy a read. I had it bouncing around in the back end of my car for a few months. It’s premise is that my emotions, when examined will say much about how I’m feeling about God. They draw on the writings in Psalms.
The thing that really got me to thinking was contemplating that my anger had more to say about how I was feeling about God than about the situation. I’ve been angry a lot over the past months. People have pointed it out to me. I’ve tried not to show it. If they saw me in private, they’d really think I had lost my “saintly side.” At times it’s scared even me. The Psalmist’s question “how long God?” wells up within me and explodes out of me with the explitives of a sailor on leave (not that I’ve known any, it’s just a phrase I’ve heard).
I’ve got a laundry list of questions for God. Why did I have to be born with weak eye muscles? I know it’s not a huge deformity and that others go through far worse, but it was enormous to me because it left scars that won’t go away. Scars in my heart and mind: I was a financial burden to my parents; I never healed; I couldn’t do what was asked of me—I was so far from perfect. Is that why I never felt loved? Is that why they couldn’t cuddle me, hold me, and left me feeling unloved? Is that why I was left with a warped sense of what love is, and an even more deeply wounded understanding of how to show love to others? Is that why I didn’t (until recently) come to trust the love shown to me?
And now my anger is reduced to shame. Or maybe my anger is my cover so you don’t see my shame. Is that why I peal the skin off my hands: I loathe the skin I’m trapped in? Or is it why I’ve never been able to sustain weight loss: thin people are good people and I know I’m not good? Is it why I’ve always expected perfection from myself and been miserably disappointed because I’m so far from perfect?
This week I felt like I was watching myself, a rather dissociative experience. I thought more about my outbursts and my shutdowns. One of the things that really frustrates me is my clumsy klutziness. I hurry and rush everything I do. And I try to do too many things at once: I try to open to many things, carry too many things, put too much on my schedule. Too much too fast always results in something dropped, broken, lost, or missed. I remember being told in CPE that I focused on the end rather than the process. No one would describe me as deliberate or methodical. Sometimes I appear slow, but that’s just procrastination coming from my fear of doing something because I know I can’t do it perfectly.
Writing that paragraph made me smile, laugh at myself. I wear a ring on my left middle finger. I bought it at least five years ago. The ring is three turtles. Why turtles? When life crashed for me in 2001, I did some research on spiritual totems. I was drawn to the turtle. I just went back and read up again on the turtle totem (http://www.sayahda.com/cyc5.html). I think I’m a turtle who wishes it was more of a tortoise—but I doubt they really do that.
Tortoise or turtle, the focus is on focus. I wear the turtle ring to remind me to focus, to slow down. Those are two things that I find very difficult because I have ADD. I have always rushed: through tests, through cleaning, through books. The downside to rushing is a lack of depth and understanding and also things left broken and disrupted. Now pair lack of care and focus with no depth perception and if you can even imagine it you might come close to the frustration I live with daily.
This week as I was gathering everything up to head out the door to work, I paused long enough to think about how ridiculous I must have looked. Where and why did I get the idea that I had to operate at 90mph and act as if it all had to be done at once? I try to carry everything all at once. Somewhere I got the idea that life is a balancing act—and I don’t have any ability to balance. It’s as if Life is like one of those circus performers who can walk across a tight rope balancing everything but the kitchen sink, but I’m from the clown troupe.
Now, I know I’m not a clown 100% of the time, but I need to do more to focus. I also need to work on my issues of shame and anger. The good thing is, I know that it will be a process, a journey of sorts. And I’m really ready for a change!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Luck and Chance
Luck and Chance
Luck is defined as:
-the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities: With my luck I'll probably get pneumonia.
- good fortune; advantage or success, considered as the result of chance
Chance is defined as:
-a possibility or probability of anything happening: a fifty-percent chance of success.
-an opportune or favorable time; opportunity: Now is your chance.
I don’t agree with the first definition: that chance is the absence of any cause of events that can be predicted, understood, or controlled
I have often stated that I don’t believe in luck. I adopted this stance based on what a pastor, that I highly respected, stated once in a sermon. He was so adamant that there was no such thing as luck that he even refused to call the church meal carry-in dinners “Pot Luck” dinners. He called them “Pot Blessings.”
A couple responses to my post about our involvement in a car accident on Saturday prompted me to contemplate what I really do believe about luck. One person said that we were “lucky” that nothing worse happened; while another was commiserating with us over our seeming stream of “bad luck.” Oddly, I was even wondering about the forces at work since we had contemplated going to a couple different restaurants (both in the other direction). What were the “chances” of us getting into an accident if we had gone to a different place to eat? Was it my fault for picking the wrong accident?
We “run into” people all the time—not literally, but we all use the phrase to describe “chance” encounters with people at the grocery or when we’re out and about. Are those “chance encounters” really chance or divinely appointed opportunities? Were we supposed to run into this lady—or was she supposed to run into us? Isn’t it odd that just two days ago I mentioned that worship group in another post (see potofmanna.blogspot.com) and actually had been thinking about the group who had been so incredibly supportive during that really rough period in our journey?
Nelson and I were just talking about this. A couple paragraphs up, I meant to write, “Was it my fault for picking the wrong RESTAURANT” not “ACCIDENT.” How Freudian was that? Nelson had reflected on the accident and had thought about what if we had gone to one of the other restaurants, what if the vehicle that hit us was a semi and not a mini-van? He could have died. In light of that, he was thankful that we went the way we did.
The matter begs that we ask the question about sovereignty. I believe that God has an active will, but because he has given us free will, there is also the aspect of permissive will. I don’t pretend to be able to explain these—they are a mystery that I will choose to accept and live with.
Luck is defined as:
-the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities: With my luck I'll probably get pneumonia.
- good fortune; advantage or success, considered as the result of chance
Chance is defined as:
-a possibility or probability of anything happening: a fifty-percent chance of success.
-an opportune or favorable time; opportunity: Now is your chance.
I don’t agree with the first definition: that chance is the absence of any cause of events that can be predicted, understood, or controlled
I have often stated that I don’t believe in luck. I adopted this stance based on what a pastor, that I highly respected, stated once in a sermon. He was so adamant that there was no such thing as luck that he even refused to call the church meal carry-in dinners “Pot Luck” dinners. He called them “Pot Blessings.”
A couple responses to my post about our involvement in a car accident on Saturday prompted me to contemplate what I really do believe about luck. One person said that we were “lucky” that nothing worse happened; while another was commiserating with us over our seeming stream of “bad luck.” Oddly, I was even wondering about the forces at work since we had contemplated going to a couple different restaurants (both in the other direction). What were the “chances” of us getting into an accident if we had gone to a different place to eat? Was it my fault for picking the wrong accident?
We “run into” people all the time—not literally, but we all use the phrase to describe “chance” encounters with people at the grocery or when we’re out and about. Are those “chance encounters” really chance or divinely appointed opportunities? Were we supposed to run into this lady—or was she supposed to run into us? Isn’t it odd that just two days ago I mentioned that worship group in another post (see potofmanna.blogspot.com) and actually had been thinking about the group who had been so incredibly supportive during that really rough period in our journey?
Nelson and I were just talking about this. A couple paragraphs up, I meant to write, “Was it my fault for picking the wrong RESTAURANT” not “ACCIDENT.” How Freudian was that? Nelson had reflected on the accident and had thought about what if we had gone to one of the other restaurants, what if the vehicle that hit us was a semi and not a mini-van? He could have died. In light of that, he was thankful that we went the way we did.
The matter begs that we ask the question about sovereignty. I believe that God has an active will, but because he has given us free will, there is also the aspect of permissive will. I don’t pretend to be able to explain these—they are a mystery that I will choose to accept and live with.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Humbled
Of all the days to find the batteries dead in the Palm Keyboard—of course I felt like writing. I woke up feeling melancholy today. I’m not depressed. I looked it up on the internet: sober thoughtfulness and pensive. I am thought-full. Seems all I do lately is think. I don’t have much opportunity to talk. Fern isn’t big on conversation. I try, but her responses are short. She seems to prefer her own thoughts.
So early in the week I was feeling pretty lost, a deep sense of grief. I remembered a lecture I received from the expert on sexual offenders. She was evaluating me at the request of my PO. I was new in the county (this was fall 04). She concluded that I wasn’t humble enough.
There are some phrases that stick and some that sting. Some become labels, others banners and others the sticks we continue to beat ourselves up with.
When this woman, who I had just met, made this pronouncement I was stunned. How could she say such a thing? I was wallowing in brokenness and shame, mixed with a huge dose of grief, and mingled with large amounts of self-loathing. But I needed to be more humble.
This week, when I was reminded of that encounter, I was in the middle of an inner conversation where I was about where I was about to tell my former boss off for firing me last June. All of a sudden instead of wanting to blast him I said, “Thank you.” To say it again, right now, brings tears to my eyes.
What sense does it make to thank my employer who I trusted, who I worked hard for, who I stood up for, and who in my dark time of need dumped me without so much as a thank you for your service and dedication or any kind word.
For the past eitht months I’ve thought of plenty reasons to be angry and feel betrayed. Initially I told him off daily in my mind, but I soon realized this was poisoning to my spirit so I committed to pray for the ministry each time they came to mind. And let me tell you they came to mind a lot since my supervisor lives directly across the street from us. You can’t tell me God doesn’t possess a great sense of humor and is the master of irony.
Coming this this week to my own awareness of thankfulness was a totally unexpected move. It happened while I was at work at my elder-sitting job. I took the position because I needed a paycheck. I thought it was going to make me crazy at first. This job reminds me of baby-sitting for a teenager. They resent you because they think they can handle life on their own and for the most part they are right, but there are those occasional moments when they need help. The greater need is for the parents who want peace of mind while they are away. I provide the peace of mind for this woman’s children. True to form, she resents my being here. I can’t do anything right, no matter how well or often I do it. I can’t make her happy and that is really hard on me, so I strive to just not make her any more unhappy.
The day of my epiphany Fern was just in one snit after another. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t about me. Well it kind of was, but not me personally. I was sitting in the window seat, laying low, and staying out of her line of sight. I was working on a cross-stitch project for my brother. It was so far from what I was trained to do; so far from what used to feel passionate about.
Passion. The word felt foreign to me. I don’t feel passionate about anything. I used to ache to teach and speak. I used to think that if I didn’t do those things that I would just die. Not anymore.
When I turned myself in and life changed so dramatically, I didn’t have any idea what life was going to hold for me. The people who cared about me, who believed in me and God, told me over and over that God wasn’t through using me yet. I didn’t know how to believe them. Then I was hired to work with the re-entry ministry. I felt like I was making a difference for the Kingdom. God was using me. But it’s all in the past now. I feel like Moses wandering in Midian. I don’t have sheep. I have a little Alzheimer’s lady and a couple of cross-stitch projects. I really feel like God is done with me.
I’ve sat here for a couple minutes staring at that sentence. I don’t like the way it sounds. But I would have thought that it would stir some kind of emotion in me, but it doesn’t. When I learned I would no longer be writing the devotions at church, it was as if someone turned out the light in my heart. I just don’t feel anything about it.
I think I’ve been humbled.
So early in the week I was feeling pretty lost, a deep sense of grief. I remembered a lecture I received from the expert on sexual offenders. She was evaluating me at the request of my PO. I was new in the county (this was fall 04). She concluded that I wasn’t humble enough.
There are some phrases that stick and some that sting. Some become labels, others banners and others the sticks we continue to beat ourselves up with.
When this woman, who I had just met, made this pronouncement I was stunned. How could she say such a thing? I was wallowing in brokenness and shame, mixed with a huge dose of grief, and mingled with large amounts of self-loathing. But I needed to be more humble.
This week, when I was reminded of that encounter, I was in the middle of an inner conversation where I was about where I was about to tell my former boss off for firing me last June. All of a sudden instead of wanting to blast him I said, “Thank you.” To say it again, right now, brings tears to my eyes.
What sense does it make to thank my employer who I trusted, who I worked hard for, who I stood up for, and who in my dark time of need dumped me without so much as a thank you for your service and dedication or any kind word.
For the past eitht months I’ve thought of plenty reasons to be angry and feel betrayed. Initially I told him off daily in my mind, but I soon realized this was poisoning to my spirit so I committed to pray for the ministry each time they came to mind. And let me tell you they came to mind a lot since my supervisor lives directly across the street from us. You can’t tell me God doesn’t possess a great sense of humor and is the master of irony.
Coming this this week to my own awareness of thankfulness was a totally unexpected move. It happened while I was at work at my elder-sitting job. I took the position because I needed a paycheck. I thought it was going to make me crazy at first. This job reminds me of baby-sitting for a teenager. They resent you because they think they can handle life on their own and for the most part they are right, but there are those occasional moments when they need help. The greater need is for the parents who want peace of mind while they are away. I provide the peace of mind for this woman’s children. True to form, she resents my being here. I can’t do anything right, no matter how well or often I do it. I can’t make her happy and that is really hard on me, so I strive to just not make her any more unhappy.
The day of my epiphany Fern was just in one snit after another. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t about me. Well it kind of was, but not me personally. I was sitting in the window seat, laying low, and staying out of her line of sight. I was working on a cross-stitch project for my brother. It was so far from what I was trained to do; so far from what used to feel passionate about.
Passion. The word felt foreign to me. I don’t feel passionate about anything. I used to ache to teach and speak. I used to think that if I didn’t do those things that I would just die. Not anymore.
When I turned myself in and life changed so dramatically, I didn’t have any idea what life was going to hold for me. The people who cared about me, who believed in me and God, told me over and over that God wasn’t through using me yet. I didn’t know how to believe them. Then I was hired to work with the re-entry ministry. I felt like I was making a difference for the Kingdom. God was using me. But it’s all in the past now. I feel like Moses wandering in Midian. I don’t have sheep. I have a little Alzheimer’s lady and a couple of cross-stitch projects. I really feel like God is done with me.
I’ve sat here for a couple minutes staring at that sentence. I don’t like the way it sounds. But I would have thought that it would stir some kind of emotion in me, but it doesn’t. When I learned I would no longer be writing the devotions at church, it was as if someone turned out the light in my heart. I just don’t feel anything about it.
I think I’ve been humbled.
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