Bedtime

As one should not shop while hungry, one should not post blogs while tired and weary. At least that seems like common sense at the moment. However, I´m so at the verge of hilarious tears of weariness that I feel the creative juices flowing in spite of myself. I´m once again feeling the pull between my dreams and expectations and what is reality.

I have this vision of bedtime- that is, the children´s bedtime. You know, the warm glow of lamplight, the softly read bedtime story, the sweet kisses and recitation of memory verses. Of pajamas that smell of Snuggle and hair that smells like Johnson´s and Johnson´s. Children that sweetly gaze into my eyes, and say, "Good night, Mother Dear. Thank you for all you´ve done today!" OK, so the last part is COMPLETE fantasy.

When I was a kid, bedtime was mainly sneaking a final read of my favorite book, and since I slept with a kid sister who was much younger, I generally fell asleep with a human octopus wrapped around my body. My daddy did sometimes do something special- he would tuck me in- literally. It was just a joke, and when he left, I looked like a quilt-clad mummy. Once in a while, bedtime was spiced up by a brother who had snuck into the room to leap upon me from a dark closet or from under the bed. So my fantasy definitely doesn´t come from past experience.

When Kathryn was just a baby, I bought an oil lamp. Yes, people- an OIL lamp, thinking what a nice tradition it would be to always read bedtime stories by an oil lamp. I received funny looks from family members who saw me reading bedtime stories to my 4 week old. Somewhere along pregnancy week 32 with Alex, I realized my peaceful dreamlike bedtime ritual was probably about to disappear. The oil lamp stunk, the book fell apart.

Reality looks something like this: have children clean their rooms (this means Kathryn throws everything on top of her bed and we sort it, and Alex comes in after every toy he puts away, yelling "I did it!"), if they haven´t already had a bath due to playing in mud, a nasty blowout diaper, or a mishap with a marker, they get one. Oh, yes, then we simply must have a bedtime snack. Many times, Mr. Tumnus (how I am changed to a goat-man, I´m not sure, but I´ve perfected the tippy-toe walk while delivering milk and muffins to the table) has tea with sardines with Edmund and Lucy. And then we brush teeth, say our verses (maybe 3 out of 7 nights :( ), pray away the bad dreams, read a story, deliver that tiny sip of water, get kid out of bed for last minute peepee, spank other child for sneaking out of bed, turn on sleepytime CD (which is SUPPOSED to hypnotize children within 30 seconds max), leave the room, come back after shrieks of terror to shut the closet door, deliver favorite stuffed animal that has crept into the kitchen, and you get the idea.

And then I´m so, so tired. Truth be told, I long for a simple, hygienic, cozy, loving bedtime routine. Maybe, just maybe, if I´m lucky, I´ll hear a little 2 year old voice piping out of a darkened room: "Night, night, mommy. No mon-ters?"

Praying to be Faithful at the Edge

Thy Brother´s Blood - A Vision for Souls
by: Amy Carmichael

The tom-toms thumped straight on all night, and the darkness shuddered ‘round me like a living, feeling thing. I could not go to sleep, so I lay awake and looked; and I saw, as it seemed, this:

That I stood on a grassy precipice, and at my feet at crevice broke down into infinite space. I looked, but saw no bottom; only cloud shapes, black and furiously coiled, and great shadow-shrouded hollows, and unfathomable depths. Back I drew, dizzy at the depth.

Then I saw forms of people moving in single file along the grass. They were making for the edge. There was a woman with a baby in her arms and another little child holding onto her dress. She was on the very verge. Then I saw that she was blind. She lifted her foot for the next step…it trod air. She was over, and the children over with her. Oh, they cry as they went over! Then I saw more streams of people flowing from all quarters. All were blind, stone blind; and all made straight for the crevice’s edge. They were shrieks as they suddenly knew in themselves that they were falling, and a tossing up of helpless arms, catching, clutching at empty air. But some went over quietly and fell without a sound.

Then I wondered with a wonder that was simple agony, why no one stopped them at the edge. I could not, I was glued to the ground. And I could not call; though I strained and tried, only a whisper would come.

Then I saw that along the edge there were guards set at intervals. But the intervals were too great; there were wide, unguarded gaps between. And over these gaps the people fell in their blindness, quite unwarned; and the green grass seemed blood-red to me, and gulf yawned like the mouth of hell.

Then I saw, like a little picture of peace, a group of people under some trees with their backs turned towards the gulf. They were making daisy chains. Sometimes when a piercing shriek cut the quiet air and reached them, it disturbed them and they thought it a rather vulgar noise. And if one of their number started up and wanted to go and do something to help, then all the others would pull that one down. “Why should you get all excited about it? You must wait for a definite call to go! You haven’t finished your daisy chain yet. It would be really selfish,” they said, “to leave us to finish the work alone.”

There was another group. It was made up of people whose great desire was to get more guards out; but they found that very few wanted to go, and sometimes there were no guards set for miles and miles of the edge.

One girl stood alone in her place, waving the people back; but her mother and other relations called, and reminded her that her furlough was due; she must not break the rules. And being tired and needing a change, she had to go and rest for a while; but no one was sent to guard her gap, and over and over the people fell, like a waterfall of souls.

Once a child caught at a tuft of grass that grew at the very brink of the gulf; it clung convulsively, and it called — but nobody seemed to hear. Then the roots of the grass gave way, and with a cry the child went over, the two little hands still holding right to the torn-off bunch of grass. And the girl who longed to be back in her gap thought she heard the little one cry, and she sprang up and wanted to go; at which they reproved her, reminding her that no one is necessary anywhere; they gap would be well taken care of, they knew. And then they sang a hymn.

Then through the hymn came another sound like the pain of a million broken hearts wrung out in one full drop, one sob. And a horror of great darkness was upon me, for I knew what it was; the cry of the blood.

Then thundered a voice, the voice of the Lord. And he said, “What hast though done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto Me from the ground.”

The ton-toms still beat heavily, and darkness still shuddered and shivered about me. I heard the yells of the devil-dancers and weird, wild shrieks of the devil-possessed just outside the gate.

What does it matter, after all? It has gone on for years; it will go on for years. Why make such a fuss about it? — God forgive us! God arouse us! Shame us out of our callousness! Shame us out of our sin!

Amy Carmichael, Thy Brother’s Blood Crieth:
(India: The Dohnavur Fellowship).
Obtained from an article from Bethany Fellowship, Inc.
Minneapolis, MN.

Symbols of Suffering, Marks of Grace and a Book Review


Melodie Sankey recently posted this picture on her Facebook. The chunk of asphalt that very nearly robbed her of her husband, Marc. I´m pretty sure that Marc´s blood is visible in this picture- it takes my breath away. I´ve heard a lot of talk and thought a lot of thoughts about the great and mysterious theology of suffering in the last week since the accident. These are familiar thoughts for me. I´ve been in my own valley of questions. With my own trauma- one that seems a bit like a friendly toasting-marshmallow flame against his roaring bonfire (although on principle I refuse to compare trials with others- as each is specifically our own). My symbol of suffering is below:


I´m hearing the same questions I asked myself five years ago. At the risk of sounding heretical, I didn´t like God very much after my little experience. Oh, I knew He was all-powerful, sovereign. That wasn´t very soothing at the moment. I just wanted to know if He was good. I wouldn´t feed one of my children to dogs, or allow a rock to crush their forehead. I read a lot of Job, since I related to the feeling of meaningless, senseless suffering. I was afraid to pray to this Person I thought I knew, so I read instead. After living in Job for those pain-filled weeks, I stumbled across a secondary resource: When God Weeps: Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty by Joni Eareckson Tada. I don´t know about you, but "Just trust the Lord" sounds different coming from a person who hasn´t been in pain. Joni speaks the truth of God from a living hell (in my opinion). Let me say in all caps: GET THIS BOOK IF YOU WANT TO ENCOUNTER A LIFE-CHANGING THEOLOGY OF SUFFERING!!!! If you don´t want to pay the two bucks for a used version on Amazon, check it out at your library.

I don´t want to risk being the blade that opens the can of worms, so I´m not going to go into my personal theology of suffering overmuch. I would like to share two thoughts, though. The first is that after Job and Joni´s book, I walked away (literally) from my own experience with a motto for life: "There are no lapses in the goodness of God." I know this heart, soul and mind. Really know it. Number two is from Romans 12:1. You know, the whole "presenting your body a living sacrifice" passage. How many, many times have we heard that in a sermon on consecration, sanctification? I´ve presented myself for His service, "anything you want, I´ll do, Father." I´m sure many of you have been at that same altar in your life. But what about our actual body? Can we come to the point of presenting our physical body, with all its sensitive nerve endings, its potential for suffering and pain, and say, "Here, do with it as it glorifies You most"? That´s a scary place to be when you´re Marc Sankey. Or when you´re anyone else.

I´ve come to see my skirt, tucked away in storage, as a mark of grace. I´m certain that with time, that piece of asphalt will similarly transformed. I´d like to share some lyrics with you from Point of Grace:

I used to wish that I could rewrite history
I used to dream that each mistake could be erased
Then I could just pretend
I never knew the me back then

I used to pray that You would take this shame away
Hide all the evidence of who I've been
But it's the memory of
The place You brought me from
That keeps me on my knees
And even though I'm free

Heal the wound but leave the scar
A reminder of how merciful You are
I am broken, torn apart
Take the pieces of this heart
And heal the wound but leave the scar

I have not lived a life that boasts of anything
I don't take pride in what I bring
But I'll build an altar with
The rubble that You've found me in
And every stone will sing
Of what You can redeem

Heal the wound but leave the scar
A reminder of how merciful You are
I am broken, torn apart
Take the pieces of this heart
And heal the wound but leave the scar

Don't let me forget
Everything You've done for me
Don't let me forget
The beauty in the suffering

Heal the wound but leave the scar
A reminder of how merciful You are
I am broken, torn apart
Take the pieces of this heart
And heal the wound but leave the scar.

And the chorus I sang to myself over and over by Al Denson:
If you need a pillow for your sorrow
If you need a blanket for your soul
If you need a place your broken heart can be made whole
He'll be your strength to face tomorrow
And when the night seems dark and cold
Fall into the arms that won't let go
Fall in to the arms that won't let go

Alex´s Dedication and Fall Time



I can feel the bloggin´ bug beginning to bite again. Ah, Facebook is fine, with little snippets of life from a few hundred friends each week, but it´s such quick fix. I kind of seeing blogging as the front porch sitting of the internet. Time to think, to write, to pass around the photo album, to indulge in some cyber-coffee.

I thought I´d start off with a few pictures from the last roll of film that came through. Alex and his cousin Stephen were dedicated together by Rev. Darrell Stetler in September at the Burlington Bible Methodist Church. Bro. Stetler did such a good presentation, even including a charge to the older siblings, which I thought was neat. It was once again a time for remembering why it is we do what we do, for lifting the eyes above loads of laundry and piles of leaves to those sweet children in our lives. To the eternality of their souls. Speaking of which, Kathryn informed me and her daddy that she asked Jesus to live in her heart. This was the last week of September. She´s not a public performer, so true to her nature, this is something she did privately, without even us. But upon questioning and observing, we feel that she is indeed growing in grace. So exciting!

And it´s FALL. F-A-L-L, Fall! as Buzby (Alex´s favorite Hermie character) would say (in his best Elvis voice). I am so loving it! For all you flavored coffee drinkers out there, you HAVE to try the new seasonal liquid Coffeemate Caramel Apple flavor. Yummy!!! Make sure you have a slice of carrot cake or a pumpkin muffin to go with it. More pictures below...

HAPPINESS IS...

Ah-ha! Happiness is getting your blog a new look! Now I feel motivated to actually post something on it again. Pictures coming later on today! And now all of you can choose to be subjected to my electic musical tastes. I picked a playlist that makes me smile. Hope it brings some cheer to your day.

Love to all!
Charity

Playing with layouts... pardon the mess...

O, Love That Will Not Let Me Go

Yes, I´m still planning to finish the series on self-control. Life has been a wee bit insane of late, so I´d just like to share the hymn that´s been on my mind this week with a bit of background I found. If your hymn knowledge is a bit scarce, look it up on Youtube. I found a nice Glad-style acapella arrangement on the first hit.

George Matheson published the words to this in Jan. 1882 in the Church of Scotland´s magazine Life and Work. He said of this poem, "My hymn was com­posed in the manse of In­ne­lan [Ar­gyle­shire, Scot­land] on the ev­en­ing of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s mar­ri­age, and the rest of the fam­i­ly were stay­ing over­night in Glas­gow. Some­thing hap­pened to me, which was known only to my­self, and which caused me the most se­vere men­tal suf­fer­ing. The hymn was the fruit of that suf­fer­ing. It was the quick­est bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the im­press­ion of hav­ing it dic­tat­ed to me by some in­ward voice ra­ther than of work­ing it out my­self. I am quite sure that the whole work was com­plet­ed in five min­utes, and equal­ly sure that it ne­ver re­ceived at my hands any re­touch­ing or cor­rect­ion. I have no na­tur­al gift of rhy­thm. All the other vers­es I have ever writ­ten are man­u­fact­ured ar­ti­cles; this came like a day­spring from on high." (info courtesy on cyberhymnal.org)

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

Self-Control, Part III

So. Is it something I work out in myself or is it something I sit back and watch as God produces in me? Nathan says the Christian life is like being a branch grafted onto a vine (Jesus Christ). At the juncture of the two, there is a "valve." As we obey the Spirit and His Word, the valve stays open, allowing Christ´s life and power to flow through us producing the fruit of the Spirit. Disobedience begins closing the valve, and continued disobedience can actually kill us spiritually, as we starve ourselves of His life and power. Philip used the word "synergy" when I talked with him about this. It is us actively taking steps to be self-controlled, while we depend on the Holy Spirit´s power in us to accomplish what we could not otherwise. That dependence is KEY! Philippians 4:13. I can do all things THROUGH HIM who gives me strength.

My personal opinion is that we can ´fertilize´ ground we´re growing in, or fill it with toxins. In other words, we can take steps to make obedience easier or massively difficult. If I have a problem with my tongue, I can make my life more difficult by staying on the phone all day. If I have a problem with food, I can make myself miserable by having stuff in the house I KNOW I shouldn´t eat (which will call my name LOUDLY all day long). Perhaps, there is ignorance involved. Mindless, head-long rushing into self-indulgence or sin. In that case, the Bible encourages that we seek wisdom and understanding. Learn about nutrition, exercise, time management. There are websites such as the FlyLady that can give all sorts of good tips on housecleaning. Doing common sense things to slow us down and cause us to think before we act can create a healthier environment in which our Spirit-filled ´branch´ can thrive.

Proverbs 25:28 says that a man (woman) without self-control is like a city with broken down walls. Poor Nehemiah, upon inspecting the broken-down walls of the city, encountered so much rubble his horse couldn´t even walk through. I´m trying to think of this issue in this light: My lack of self-control leaves me vulnerable to attacks from the Enemy. Satan will take full advantage of my lack of defense. Next post, I want to look at the GOALS of self-control. What are they? Any thoughts?