Do you ever have those days when it seems like the world keeps sitting on your head, and by sundown you're a few inches shorter?
Me too. Yesterday was not the finest of my professional life. It certainly wasn't the worst, but it was difficult. And there was a personal element of challenge as well.
And I didn't have any chocolate ice cream nearby to share the burden with. Just a bottle of water. Water is not a good way to drown sorrows, just so you know.
So, since I couldn't bury my troubles under a pint of Phish Food, I took them to Jesus. Its not an original concept and yet somehow it always seems novel when I get to the point of truly casting my cares upon His big ol' shoulders. I know God loves me. I know He's really the only One with the power to do much about a lot of what concerns me, and yet still I have this fear that my cares will slide down His broad back and get dumped somewhere and no one will be tending them. Then where would I be?
So yesterday, I chugged some water, grimaced, then heaped my cares on Jesus. He took them and in return gave me peace. Not the overwhelming, "I've officially solved your problems as of...now," kind of peace, but the "I've got this, dear. Trust me," kind.
About twenty minutes later I began to worry my cares had fallen and I should go collect them. So I went back to Jesus and there they were, still propped on his shoulder, as He and I cruised with Dirk the Blue Impala through Oklahoma. And since we were on the road, it didn't take long before I had nothing better to do than try and collect worries. But, when I checked yet again, Jesus still had them. He gave me more peace and He didn't roll his eyes or say, "Geesh, I created the known and unknown universe. I can handle your piddly career, already, not to mention the rest of your junk. Back. Off." Or, "You want your worries so badly? You take them, then. See if they make better company on your drive. I'll meet you in Stillwater." No, he just reassured me and we kept on driving.
Which made me realize this morning how grateful I am that Jesus is patient. I mean, He is awesome in countless ways. I will never fully get it on this planet because there's just too much about Him to glorify, and that thought itself is stirring.
But even on the days when I don't give Him credit for all that I know Him to be, on the days when doubts creep in, or when worry tries to become my master, even then He is patient, gentle, and with me. Thank you, Oh Lord for your graciousness. For your strong shoulders and your willingness to take on them the burdens that bend my spine. Thank you for doing so out of love. Not obligation, not pity, but your patient, endless love for me. Your grace astounds. All my love.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Things I learned in Colorado, Part II
When I was very young and lived in Oregon, I thought waterfalls were as common as apple trees, but as soon as we moved I realized how special the unique beauty they offered truly is. First you hear the rumble, then the roar. It's a natural sound of power, similar to wind tossing about in mighty trees. Then you come upon it. Rocks have fallen in the water's path, immovable obstacles. The very foundations of the earth. But the water will not be stopped. It surges over and around the boulders, seething with the effort, rising when necessary. Though it may falter, it will find a way. Water, the very stuff we rely upon, that we bathe our infants in, exerts its might.
And over time, the sharp edges of the rocks begin to dull. Some may tumble away, some never will, but still the water flows. And when it has passed the drop, moved over the boulders, it collects, crystal clear and ice cold in a pool as still and silent as the trees that watch over it.
The image struck me as a physical example of what love is in this world. It is not always well received. It often faces immovable barriers. Hate and terrorism may not listen, and they may strike with a violence that is sharp and heavy. But over time, love will win. It cannot be stopped, it cannot be smothered. And it is, in it's quiet persistence, the most powerful force on earth.
My Lord, I love you. I love that you're love. And I love that although the ugly in this world may strike with the speed of hateful vengeance, your love is stronger and your love wins. Thank you for the beauty you put in this earth to remind us of you. Wash me in your love, oh my Dearest. All my heart, all my self, is yours.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Things I learned in Colorado, Part I
In Colorado, the Arkansas river runs cold. Much colder than it runs in Arkansas. But I hardly noticed as we careened over the frothy swells of white water and around the glossy heads of boulders that jutted above the surface. I was too busy listening for Ryan, our instructor to yell, "Forward two! Forward two!"
The all-day whitewater rafting trip started with a safety talk. We all snugged our yellow helmets on our heads, had a professionally trained rafter tighten the straps on our life vests, and climbed aboard an out-to-pasture school bus where a guy with spacers in his ears told us what to do in the worst case scenarios. It's a good thing they don't have that talk until the bus is moving...
One of the most important things he said was that if you see a rock wall approaching and your guide says paddle, do it. If you lean in and away from the obstacle, you will hit it and maybe fall out. If you don't want that to happen, you have to dig in and paddle hard.
Easy enough, right?
A few hours later, we'd worked our way through a couple rapids and I'd started to notice something. When you look at the river ahead, your mind processes which way you think the water will push you. You plot the course in your head and prepare for the swells and dips it will involve. You're ready for that ride.
Only, that's not what happens. Because behind you is a raftmaster with a rudder paddle who influences the path. When you think the boat will go straight, it moves sideways. When you think it will hit, it evades.
And sometimes, when you think the water should push you forward, it guides you gracefully toward a jagged rock wall. The shadows eat you first, and the gorge looms and you know you're about to get a nasty bump. It would make sense to brace for it.
But then, Ryan yells, "Forward two!" And you have a choice. Either duck, or wedge your paddle in the narrow three-foot gap that separates you and that jagged wall and pull for all you're worth.
I pulled hard. Then again. It didn't make sense. The way the boat was pointed, I might well be hurrying us toward a rocky end. The woman in front obviously thought so as she braced her paddle like a jousting stick and tried to push us off the rock. It didn't work.
But then, just as I was about to close my eyes and rehearse what I would say to the EMTs to ensure I was taken to an in-network hospital, the boat darted forward with a graceful ease, away from the wall and toward the center of the river, now crystal clear and sparkling with sunlight.
Huh.
Even then I saw the parallel. In life, we let God steer, but we think we know the path we're on. We see some bumps, anticipate others based on the way things flow, and brace ourselves. But then, the path we saw gets lost in the rapids. We're moving in ways we never anticipated. Thrilling ways. Sometimes dangerous ways. And every once in a while, this new path hurtles us toward a rock wall.
It doesn't make sense. I've followed God. I've gone where he's called me. Okay, mostly. But still, when he said row, I rowed and now I'm about to become a smudge on the side of a gorge. Then he calls out to row and hard. Really, God? Are you trying to send me headlong into a rock face? I have a choice. I can do it, I can row and know that if I go out it will be in a blaze of His glory, or He might save me. Or I can try and shove the wall away. I can deny it, I can run for it, I could even jump from the boat if I wanted and float the rest of the way in my trusty life jacket and helmet.
If I base my decision on what I can see, that might be the wisest course. But I can't see the One steering. I don't know what He's doing to direct this course, only what He's asking me to do. There's no time for Him to explain what actions he's taking and how they will impact the position of the boat. I can trust...or not.
And the times when I trust, when I dig in and use my whole core to move forward in the direction I'm told, those times are always a precious. They are sometimes scary as all get out, but they are best.
Thank you, Lord, that you are always with me. Even in gorges, when rocky walls loom, you are there. You see what I can't, you know what I never will, you love me like I can't hardly believe. Your call is ever for your glory, and in that I find the hugest blessing ever. You never try to pitch me from the boat, you want to ride it with me. And thank you that even when I panic, you are with me. When I fail, you are gracious. Give me the courage to row hard wherever you point me. I trust you.
The all-day whitewater rafting trip started with a safety talk. We all snugged our yellow helmets on our heads, had a professionally trained rafter tighten the straps on our life vests, and climbed aboard an out-to-pasture school bus where a guy with spacers in his ears told us what to do in the worst case scenarios. It's a good thing they don't have that talk until the bus is moving...
One of the most important things he said was that if you see a rock wall approaching and your guide says paddle, do it. If you lean in and away from the obstacle, you will hit it and maybe fall out. If you don't want that to happen, you have to dig in and paddle hard.
Easy enough, right?
A few hours later, we'd worked our way through a couple rapids and I'd started to notice something. When you look at the river ahead, your mind processes which way you think the water will push you. You plot the course in your head and prepare for the swells and dips it will involve. You're ready for that ride.
Only, that's not what happens. Because behind you is a raftmaster with a rudder paddle who influences the path. When you think the boat will go straight, it moves sideways. When you think it will hit, it evades.
And sometimes, when you think the water should push you forward, it guides you gracefully toward a jagged rock wall. The shadows eat you first, and the gorge looms and you know you're about to get a nasty bump. It would make sense to brace for it.
But then, Ryan yells, "Forward two!" And you have a choice. Either duck, or wedge your paddle in the narrow three-foot gap that separates you and that jagged wall and pull for all you're worth.
I pulled hard. Then again. It didn't make sense. The way the boat was pointed, I might well be hurrying us toward a rocky end. The woman in front obviously thought so as she braced her paddle like a jousting stick and tried to push us off the rock. It didn't work.
But then, just as I was about to close my eyes and rehearse what I would say to the EMTs to ensure I was taken to an in-network hospital, the boat darted forward with a graceful ease, away from the wall and toward the center of the river, now crystal clear and sparkling with sunlight.
Huh.
Even then I saw the parallel. In life, we let God steer, but we think we know the path we're on. We see some bumps, anticipate others based on the way things flow, and brace ourselves. But then, the path we saw gets lost in the rapids. We're moving in ways we never anticipated. Thrilling ways. Sometimes dangerous ways. And every once in a while, this new path hurtles us toward a rock wall.
It doesn't make sense. I've followed God. I've gone where he's called me. Okay, mostly. But still, when he said row, I rowed and now I'm about to become a smudge on the side of a gorge. Then he calls out to row and hard. Really, God? Are you trying to send me headlong into a rock face? I have a choice. I can do it, I can row and know that if I go out it will be in a blaze of His glory, or He might save me. Or I can try and shove the wall away. I can deny it, I can run for it, I could even jump from the boat if I wanted and float the rest of the way in my trusty life jacket and helmet.
If I base my decision on what I can see, that might be the wisest course. But I can't see the One steering. I don't know what He's doing to direct this course, only what He's asking me to do. There's no time for Him to explain what actions he's taking and how they will impact the position of the boat. I can trust...or not.
And the times when I trust, when I dig in and use my whole core to move forward in the direction I'm told, those times are always a precious. They are sometimes scary as all get out, but they are best.
Thank you, Lord, that you are always with me. Even in gorges, when rocky walls loom, you are there. You see what I can't, you know what I never will, you love me like I can't hardly believe. Your call is ever for your glory, and in that I find the hugest blessing ever. You never try to pitch me from the boat, you want to ride it with me. And thank you that even when I panic, you are with me. When I fail, you are gracious. Give me the courage to row hard wherever you point me. I trust you.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Uncommon Grace
You might be a clutz if you trip over the carpet. The industrial flat kind.
You might be a clutz if you get bruises and don't recall where they came from.
If you occasionally run into doorframes, you might be a clutz.
You might be a clutz if you have poured your own water in your lap because you tip the glass too early.
And if you automatically extend your arms for balance every time you walk down a hill.
You might be a clutz if the combination of tile floors and high heels cause you to chant Psalm 121.
And lastly, (drumroll) you might be a clutz if your name is Kimberly Buckner!
It's true. I have done every one of those things. I have very little natural grace. I have cultured the amount I do have, which usually lasts for a finite period before I trip over...nothing. I can be poised, but that requires a combination of great focus and attention to the placement of my appendages to ensure none of them goes flying into a wall or object or other person. And dancing? Let's just say the world is a better place since I rarely bust a move outside of my apartment. Well, except for the occasional dance party in Dirk the Blue Impala.
And, it may be my very lack of grace that makes me appreciate it so much when I see it in others. One of my favorite shows, So You Think You Can Dance, had their season finale recently. Ten shock-and-awe young talents performed the best dances of a season filled with great dances. I'm telling you, I felt my scalp tingle, my jaw unhinge and a little drool gather in the corner of my lip. I nearly poked my eye out trying to wipe it away. Just kidding...ahem.
I definitely love words. But even the finest crafted combination of words can only go to my heart. And I hate it that, especially in English, I can say I love cheese and I love God. Both are true but in vastly different ways.
But when you take well crafted words and set them to a soul-wrenching melody...then I feel the meaning, feel the depth, feel the emotion that the words convey. And if you add to that two incredible dancers who express through physical movement the effect of those words....it brought tears to my eyes. And I am not not not a cryer.
Man, it made me so grateful that God knew that one medium of expression would never be enough to express the deepest things. And grateful that he made us in such a way that we can experience deep things. I'm grateful for the killer abilities and uncommon grace he's given some dancers and choreographers and musicians and song writers.
And I'm grateful for Hulu.
You might be a clutz if you get bruises and don't recall where they came from.
If you occasionally run into doorframes, you might be a clutz.
You might be a clutz if you have poured your own water in your lap because you tip the glass too early.
And if you automatically extend your arms for balance every time you walk down a hill.
You might be a clutz if the combination of tile floors and high heels cause you to chant Psalm 121.
And lastly, (drumroll) you might be a clutz if your name is Kimberly Buckner!
It's true. I have done every one of those things. I have very little natural grace. I have cultured the amount I do have, which usually lasts for a finite period before I trip over...nothing. I can be poised, but that requires a combination of great focus and attention to the placement of my appendages to ensure none of them goes flying into a wall or object or other person. And dancing? Let's just say the world is a better place since I rarely bust a move outside of my apartment. Well, except for the occasional dance party in Dirk the Blue Impala.
And, it may be my very lack of grace that makes me appreciate it so much when I see it in others. One of my favorite shows, So You Think You Can Dance, had their season finale recently. Ten shock-and-awe young talents performed the best dances of a season filled with great dances. I'm telling you, I felt my scalp tingle, my jaw unhinge and a little drool gather in the corner of my lip. I nearly poked my eye out trying to wipe it away. Just kidding...ahem.
I definitely love words. But even the finest crafted combination of words can only go to my heart. And I hate it that, especially in English, I can say I love cheese and I love God. Both are true but in vastly different ways.
But when you take well crafted words and set them to a soul-wrenching melody...then I feel the meaning, feel the depth, feel the emotion that the words convey. And if you add to that two incredible dancers who express through physical movement the effect of those words....it brought tears to my eyes. And I am not not not a cryer.
Man, it made me so grateful that God knew that one medium of expression would never be enough to express the deepest things. And grateful that he made us in such a way that we can experience deep things. I'm grateful for the killer abilities and uncommon grace he's given some dancers and choreographers and musicians and song writers.
And I'm grateful for Hulu.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Light
My apartment has three rooms total, counting the bathroom. Between those, I had four light bulbs out. For someone who loves to have all the lights on, this is a problem. Today a nice maintenance man came and replaced them! So, I'm currently enjoying twice the foot-candles I was yesterday.
Not long ago, the power went out and I lit a half dozen candles and prayed for God's power to come upon my laptop battery. Being in the dark like that made me realize anew how much I love the light.
The analogy is not complex here. The dark times are hard. They can feel heavy and oppressive. But when a light shines in the darkness, that is something to see. It is the dark moments that make the joy so precious. Some famous person said once that without pain there is no joy.
Today I'm not grateful for the darkness. I am grateful for the light. For the new bulbs that are shining overhead, and for the souls who shine brightly in dark times.
Not long ago, the power went out and I lit a half dozen candles and prayed for God's power to come upon my laptop battery. Being in the dark like that made me realize anew how much I love the light.
The analogy is not complex here. The dark times are hard. They can feel heavy and oppressive. But when a light shines in the darkness, that is something to see. It is the dark moments that make the joy so precious. Some famous person said once that without pain there is no joy.
Today I'm not grateful for the darkness. I am grateful for the light. For the new bulbs that are shining overhead, and for the souls who shine brightly in dark times.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Definitions
You know how you learn a word with a simple definition, and then with a new experience, the meaning of that word evolves? For instance, a donut is a round bready thing with sprinkles. And then you have a Krispy Kreme and a donut becomes a warm, crispy-soft bite of sweet joy that melts on your tongue.
Or the ocean is the blue part on the map. Until you go to the beach, and the ocean becomes an entire foreign realm of which we can only know the shallowest bit.
Well, over the past summer, my vocabulary grew in depth like this. Namely, my experiential understanding of the word hot changed. It used to mean pitting out, getting thirsty, and feeling the tingle of heat on your skin. Now, having experienced 114 degrees, it means the feeling of the skin melting off your face, the taste of your own medium-rare tongue, and the sound of sweat boiling the minute it pops up on your forehead.
It's not fun. Hot is a four letter word. Which made this morning so incredibly blessed.
Where I live there are all these big trees and I love it when the wind blows because their long limbs sway and writhe and contort. It makes this heady sound and they look like they're having a good ol' time. It makes me think of a praise service at one of those churches where women still wear hats and hose.
Well, I was sitting here on the couch trying desperately to fight of the glummies and start my day with God in a good spirit. And out of nowhere, the morning sky dimmed and the trees began to undulate in waves. Great gusts of wind whipped through stirring them into a frenzy, carrying individual leaves high into the air like confetti. Thunder ate the sky and the clouds frothed until the sky grew so dark that the trees were vibrant black silhouettes dancing in front of the barest edge of bright blue sky still visible along the horizon.
I stood on my patio and let the wind finger my hair and the leaves gather at my feet as fat drops plonked on the pavement. A charge wove through even the air.
I got hot-cold goosebumps at that moment. I love nature and in it I see me. Us. I saw the trees caught in the wind, their limber arms pushed about but their trunks unbending because they're grounded. I saw the sudden change of circumstances, the clouds that roiled in an instant. The way the promise of blue sky was visible, but just barely. And I felt the raw power in it all.
It probably sounds silly, but I felt God in that. In a moment I saw His massive power. I saw how when I look up and am surrounded by naught but gray, when I am pulled in a hundred directions, and I stretch towards heaven anyway, the storm often brings what I most desperately need. And through it all and above it all, the deep, powerful voice of the Most High--who I call my own. My own!--can be heard if I will listen.
I will not try to describe the effect of that moment other than to say that the glummies lost. It was a beautiful gift. One of many my sweet Lord has offered special to me in a hard moment when they are so treasured.
My God, may I never forget who you are, or who I am to you. I love that you know what I need before and better than I do. I love that you are a God of beauty and symbolism and might and grace and power and gentleness. I love it when we have special moments, when an experience with you deepens my understanding of you. Thank you for this one. All my love.
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