Shelling peas and a hail storm.

It was Saturday. We were wearing white and black, selling our products at the Farmer’s market. It was a hot, humid day. Clouds hung low over our heads holding the warm air close. The sultry heat drove the customers away early. It was closing time and we were ready to get out of the warmth. We just carried the last boxes to the trailer when the first rain drops splashed the pavement. The wind burst, driving storm clouds over-head. We rushed to help our neighbors pack up. Rain came harder. Pounding in sheets Wind blew fierce. Canopies toppled. Venders scrambled to save their wares. The road was a river of water churning up past our ankles. We were all soaked and struggling to hurry weighed down as we were with rainwater. Then the hail stones came. Solid ice the size of quarters beat down on everything and everyone. Stunned, we tried to keep moving, to keep hauling things to safety. Bags of vegetables, framed pictures, strings of jewelry, and beeswax candles, all of it needed stowed in the vender’s cars. Somewhere under the cover of a building, street musicians played on through the storm. It made me think of the sinking of the RMS Titanic.

Clouds moved letting sun stream through the rain. We smiled at each other through the wet. We were able to help all who needed it. We splashed in the water that reached our knees. We were so thankful. God had sheltered us in the midst of the storm. On a typical Saturday, we usually wouldn’t be packed up so soon. But this time we had every piece packed safely in the trailer before a drop of rain hit. And then He allowed us to help all the other venders caught in the storm. Stories of God’s protection and thankful hugs were sweet gifts to take home with us.

Days after the storm, it was time to harvest the shelling peas. The pea plants were bruised and bent from the storm. Their shells scarred from hail stones.

 

But beneath the damaged shells there hid perfect rows of tender, bright green peas. Breaking the shell open, I slid my finger along the tight row. One by one the peas break off and tumble into the large bowl.

 

It struck me. The storm, like the damaged pea shells, had concealed bright, tender gifts.

How often does God send us gifts wrapped in hail-damaged shells? These gifts take unwrapping to really see all they hold.

I don’t think I’ll ever look at a hail-damaged pea shell quite the same.

 

 

The beautiful ugliness.

Beautiful ugliness.

Do you know what beautiful ugliness looks like? I thought I did. I thought I knew how to look at the awful, broken, and disgusting, to see beauty.

But what about the times when the ugliness spills out of me? Out of you?

Often I feel this happens to me. The pressure, the stress and strain, some of it real, some of it created in my own mind, born of paranoia and fear, comes crashing through my being. Instead of leaving to rest in the arms of my Savior, my stubborn sinful side takes charge. I lash out in anger. I hurt people. I say things I know are not true.

A day not too long ago, all this was poignantly true. In the beginning of the day my eyes were anywhere but on Christ. The "to-do's" crowded in. The pressure of meeting deadlines took precedence in my mind over the far more important care of the eternal souls living around me every day.

And then it all crashed in.

My foundation of sand crumbling. But instead of fighting the tide of sinful nature that comes over me so strong, I succumbed. I gave in to the anger. The selfishness. The pride. I said things I knew were not true.

It all came gushing out. All that ugliness inside of  me that I like to turn away from. It sat crumpled in a heap right in front of me. As I sat looking at it, grief for my sin and anger at myself for not living in Christ welled up. And I wept.

I wept and I pleaded forgiveness. They all forgave me. Those around me who I hurt forgave me in love. My Savior forgave me all and washed me clean. I live in constant awe of the miracle of forgiveness demonstrated in me and around me every single day.

I was broken. Seeing yourself as you really are when you try to do it on your own, is bleak and frightening. But the day was not over yet. Loose ends had to be gathered so that things could be accomplished. I should have already left. A dear friend of ours dropped by as I was trying to pack the stray things I needed. This white-haired friend is dear to me because she's a follower of Jesus Christ and she's truthful. She's so honest with herself, honest with me, and her eye's beg me to be honest with her.

I tried to avoid the honesty. I felt the tears would come fresh if I didn't. I backed out of our driveway, Mary in the car with me, I didn't pause to look. There was terrible screech of grinding metal. I stopped. And I think my heart stopped too. I pulled forward and got out. A crater of a dent starred at me from the side of her car. I felt my insides crumble. I can't believe...

And then a struggle. Should I just leave? Maybe she wouldn't notice the crater? But I knew. I couldn't just leave. I couldn't run away from my mistake. I walked back inside. The words choked my throat and the hot tears came all over again. Her first words were: "are you both alright?" And then she enveloped me in tenderness. Hugging me as I sobbed and choked on my pitiful, "I'm sorry." She didn't even go out to see the damage. She just forgave, loving me and giving me grace I didn't deserve.

I'll never forget how she gave me 'grace.' She gave it like Christ gives it. Freely, abundantly, holding nothing back and asking nothing in return. One day, I pray that I can be the white-haired lady giving grace to the one choking out "I'm sorry."

That night as I lay in the darkness of my room my eyes red from tears; my body tired, I thanked God for such an awful wonderful, beautiful ugly day. At my core I was truly thankful. What if I never had to face the angry, selfish part of me? That part, I wish wasn't there. What if it hadn't spilled out, forcing me to take in its ugliness. If the heat and the fire don't bring the dross to the surface, how will the gold ever be fine?

The fire hurts, and I have thick dross that needs burning. But, I praise God He loves me enough to bring the refining fire.

And that is what the 'beautiful' looks like in the midst of my ugly.

Glory.

Psalm 72:19

Blessed be His glorious name forever;
may the whole earth be filled with
His glory!

Amen and Amen!

 

Today, I've been thinking about God's glory. What it looks like; where I see it. I find that the whole earth really is filled with His glory!

 

I see it in the Spring rain filling the sky with grey tempest, pelting our green fields with wet. I see His glory in a smile, warm and genuine. Glory in reconciliation. Glory in pain that opens our hearts for healing. God's glory in the celebration of His Resurrection. I see His glory in the expanse of stars that hang over me at night. I hear Him in the Psalms put to music. I read His glory in the pages of my Bible. I feel it in hug. In an 'I love you' softly spoken before bed. I find His glory in truth. Truthfulness with myself, with others, with God. His Glory in prayer, that time to be quiet and empty before Him so we can be filled. I see His glory in my weakness, my failures. I see His glory in our neediness, our dependence on Him for all things.

 

His glory is ever-present, all around us. We can be instruments of God's glory if we're surrendered to, and filled by, Him. And Him alone.

This is my desire.

 

Psalm 27:4

One thing I have asked of the Lord,
that will I seek after:

that I may dwell in the house of the
Lord
all the days of my life,
to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord
and to inquire in his temple.

Like a stack of books...

Today, I'm revelling in the small things.

like,

a stack of books.

 

A cold, wet morning.

Dark looming clouds.

A globe.

words.

Someone playing piano on youtube.

Irish books.

A chubby cup of coffee.

Brutal honesty.

Chicken soup bubbling on the stove.
my head full of thoughts.

Agape love.

algebra problems.

Bambi.

Clean floors.

Hugs.

Writing.

Savory pancake breakfast.

pictures of granola.

Reading from Esther and Psalms.

prayers.

Whistling to birds.

kittens.

Stacked rocks.

Wind.

Being a sinner saved by grace.

 

 

 

Old skin.

Am I the same person I was 5 years ago? 2 years ago? 3 months ago?

My answer: I hope not.

13 years ago, the Holy Spirit pierced my black heart for the first time: I believed. I repented, pleading God's mercy and forgiveness. Immediately, He washed me in the pure flood of His Son's blood. I became a new creation. Leaving the old skin behind, I was robed in Christ's righteousness.

But I was still very much human.

In the moment of becoming a new creation, I didn't become a saint.

With Christ inside me, my heart was now a battle-ground of war between the flesh and the Spirit. The old and the new. The human and the holy.

As I ask myself if I'm the same person I once was, my desire is that I can honestly answer no.

Because, I believe God desires us to become new creations every day. He wants us me to shed the old skin with each morning. He desires me to become less of myself, so that He might fill me more fully. He desires His spirit to grow so huge and all-encompassing that the fibres of my wicked nature burst apart. He wants me to daily walk away from my old skin; the carcass of my self.

Like a spider who out-grows his skin, God's spirit inside me needs to out-grow my fleshly desires and wants.
I believe every day, I need to let this shell of myself die, so that Christ Jesus in me, may fully live.

It's a constant war inside of me. My old self raises its ugly, leering head, desperately trying to live. The hardest battles fought, are the ones we can't see. In the midst of the 'everday' can be the hardest time to put to death the 'flesh' inside of me.

Only, with God's strength and mercy can I learn to daily cast off this old skin, so that I can live fully alive in Him!

today.

today.
is one of those days
where the 'to do' lists
loom long.
and the wind blows cold
and hard.
the sky hangs still
and grey.

today.
I chased my golden-colored dog
down the street.
I cleaned.
I folded laundry.
I put on an argyle sweater.
I made mounds of sparkly,
red and pink
valentines.

today.
I want to crawl inside
a book store,
and I may not come out.
I will take french roast coffee with me.
a thick cable-knit sweater.
notebooks.
red pens.
I will find a small little nook
deep inside the bookshelves,
on the top floor
and I will read,
and wonder,
and ask,
and answer,
and watch.

But today.
I still need to make piles of
pastry dough.
cookies with pink
m+m’s in them.
bags of plum tarts
for a party tomorrow.
Spaghetti for dinner.
I still need to add words
to my paper hearts,
and words to white paper
for a blogpost.

the bookstore,
I suppose,
must wait
for another cold,
blustery day…

 

6 July 2012

Imagine a world where time is churning, constant motion. It stops for no one. It waits for nothing. In this world where times moves constant and loud, people are frantic to grab hold of it.

Like a train chugging by, time huffs and puffs down the tracks stopping for no one. Some people clutch their belongings in one hand; with the other they reach out to grasp the time that is moving past them. Like the pink rays of the sinking sun, time slips through the fingers that don't hold it tight.

Some people stand in a constant state of readiness. They jump at a chance. Grasping it tight because they know time won't wait. A man is offered a job as a newspaper editor. He accepts the hour of his offer. A tall boy with dark glasses asks a girl to marry him. She accepts immediately. Her train is here; she figures she better get on. She knows it won't slow down and wait. If she refuses him, he will ask someone else tomorrow.

A girl steps out into the cool of evening air. A field adjacent to her property is filled with the lights of hay trucks. Their metal arms clank and churn as they pluck the hay bales from the ground. Their headlights are steady beams in the glowing dusk. The sound of the machines is constant and echoing in the small valley. The girl realizes that this is the way time is. The churning metal groans louder in her ears. Time won't wait. It's on the move. She walks back inside with determination. She will write her book. She will write it now.

To some, this constant motion of time is terrifying. They stand at the station frozen, watching time steam by them. But they can't gather enough courage to reach out and step aboard. They're paralyzed by fear. By questions.

A man in a checkered bow-tie, clutches his small suitcase. The trains whiz by. They blow his hair in his face. People walk by him. Close by. They brush against him. He doesn't move. Very soon he realizes that the hair he's brushing away from his eyes is grey. He feels weak and sits down on the concrete. Time is closing in. But he hasn't done anything! He stares into the face of a train engine nearing him. He feels his life has been empty.

He perceives the train is not going faster or slower then it ever has. It chugs along. Constant. Moving. Grinding metal gears. It waits for no one. For nothing.