Now I've been told that I'm an enabler, which I'm sure is true.
I like to get people to like me by doing what they ask me to do.
Some call me the fairy godmother, others the wicked witch;
It depends on their perspective, and how I scratch their itch.
I don't build up to a crescendo; I'm here and then I'm gone;
The changes I leave in my wake leave some feeling quite forlorn.
So, I've decided that a little of me time goes a very long way
I usually get into trouble when I'm tempted to stay.
I'm like a walking meth lab, and apparently as dangerous
Explosions happen all around me and I cannot hear the fuss.
Until the toxic waste of these bombs chases all away,
And I'm left with nobody with whom I can play.
So I hide in my room because I don't want anyone hurt,
But when bullies enter the playground, my passions start to perk.
I usually come out flailing to protect the weak
And when the fighting's over, I'm told to take a seat.
The disciplinarians see me as big and strong;
The bullies act so meek, it looks like I am wrong.
But all I want is to make sure that the babies aren't harmed
I didn't know that I could cause such wounds without being armed.
I guess there is a reason they say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Whether spoken or written, it seems the mightiest weapons are words.
I am trying to sit back and stop fighting the battles of others;
I have to keep reminding myself I am not the whole earth's mother.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Healing of the Holy Spirit
Today was Youth Sunday at my daughter's family's church. This meant that the pre-teen and teen-age members of the congregation played all the parts in the service. There were songs written and played by the kids. The sermon expertly delivered by one of the girls that I have known for many years was a sterling example of the type of warm, personal, human testimony that were hallmarks of the sermons given by the former pastor that I heard yesterday on the subject of evangelism.
My first grandchild read the gospel with passion and concise diction, showing a great deal of stage presence. When she stood with the youth and sang, I wept copious tears flashing back to her early days in this same church, with these same families, my beautiful little angel granddaughter belting out her joy in Jesus like a baby Ethel Merman. Thankfully, she still shone as brightly with the glory of her God.
My pre-teen granddaughter had the role of the seemingly self-appointed encourager-in-charge of the various other participants in the program. (I like to believe that she got some of her cheer leading ability from her Granny.)Although she spends much time unsuccessfully attempting to hide her light under a bushel basket, she was masterful on the piano as the congregation "nailed" their burdens onto the cross of Christ. I asked my daughter to bring up my burden of multi-generational wounds, something my mother died praying for.
I was struck by the continuity in the liturgy; it all centered on the forgiving nature of God. The young men who gave the children's sermon had a wonderful way of explaining the importance of not burdening ourselves with shame over our mistakes. What great hope and joy these children exhibited! And what a wonderful legacy of their former pastor's evangelical abilities, which always put me in mind of what I've been taught about the ministry of Jesus.
Something that also struck me, both while I heard the former pastor and as I reveled in the beauty of the next generation's faith, was the lack of focus on confessing our sins against one another to each other and attempting to make amends. I left both gatherings with a heavy heart knowing how much pain is passed on from generation to generation because we don't believe that making the world right entails making amends for our transgressions to the people we have persecuted. And the sins of the parents continue to compound with each non-repentant generation.
My prayer several times each day is, "Holy Spirit, heal our hearts and heads. Oh, and please, Holy Spirit, take my tongue."
My first grandchild read the gospel with passion and concise diction, showing a great deal of stage presence. When she stood with the youth and sang, I wept copious tears flashing back to her early days in this same church, with these same families, my beautiful little angel granddaughter belting out her joy in Jesus like a baby Ethel Merman. Thankfully, she still shone as brightly with the glory of her God.
My pre-teen granddaughter had the role of the seemingly self-appointed encourager-in-charge of the various other participants in the program. (I like to believe that she got some of her cheer leading ability from her Granny.)Although she spends much time unsuccessfully attempting to hide her light under a bushel basket, she was masterful on the piano as the congregation "nailed" their burdens onto the cross of Christ. I asked my daughter to bring up my burden of multi-generational wounds, something my mother died praying for.
I was struck by the continuity in the liturgy; it all centered on the forgiving nature of God. The young men who gave the children's sermon had a wonderful way of explaining the importance of not burdening ourselves with shame over our mistakes. What great hope and joy these children exhibited! And what a wonderful legacy of their former pastor's evangelical abilities, which always put me in mind of what I've been taught about the ministry of Jesus.
Something that also struck me, both while I heard the former pastor and as I reveled in the beauty of the next generation's faith, was the lack of focus on confessing our sins against one another to each other and attempting to make amends. I left both gatherings with a heavy heart knowing how much pain is passed on from generation to generation because we don't believe that making the world right entails making amends for our transgressions to the people we have persecuted. And the sins of the parents continue to compound with each non-repentant generation.
My prayer several times each day is, "Holy Spirit, heal our hearts and heads. Oh, and please, Holy Spirit, take my tongue."
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Peace and the Paraclete
I happen to be a jump-for-joy type;
This isn't to everyone's taste.
Some people require a more peaceful approach;
They get tired of my version of grace.
My daughter calls it "buzzing";
My teachers thought me quite bad.
My grandmothers and mom thought me awful,
And said I was just like my dad.
It was actually my mother who
Had the attention span of a flea.
I'm afraid that she passed her
Hummingbird ways down to me.
I love to be with peaceful people,
But sometimes I just bust a gut,
Trying to hold in my passion
For staying out of a rut.
Rituals make my stomach feel jumpy,
My son said it quite well.
There are many well-churched people
Who think we're both on a path to hell.
I'm trying really hard to stay away
From those who I make itch,
But I sometimes have the feeling that
It's the Holy Spirit making me twitch.
This isn't to everyone's taste.
Some people require a more peaceful approach;
They get tired of my version of grace.
My daughter calls it "buzzing";
My teachers thought me quite bad.
My grandmothers and mom thought me awful,
And said I was just like my dad.
It was actually my mother who
Had the attention span of a flea.
I'm afraid that she passed her
Hummingbird ways down to me.
I love to be with peaceful people,
But sometimes I just bust a gut,
Trying to hold in my passion
For staying out of a rut.
Rituals make my stomach feel jumpy,
My son said it quite well.
There are many well-churched people
Who think we're both on a path to hell.
I'm trying really hard to stay away
From those who I make itch,
But I sometimes have the feeling that
It's the Holy Spirit making me twitch.
Passion and Persuasion
I went with my daughter to hear a beloved former pastor speak on the subject of evangelism. It seems that many churches believe this is a teachable skill. I'm not sure that evangelism is possible without a personal passion burning so brightly that people are drawn to the flame. Those that walk the walk toward joyful Holiness will have others asking to hear the talk.
When Richard and I were in Costa Rica many years ago, the praying mantises would be so drawn to the candlelight on our dinner table that they would reach for it and burn their little "hands". When my grandson was about two years old, he spied the sun setting over the water, jumped off the couch, and as he was drawn like in a trance toward the sight, he said, "Granny, look at the big orange ball. Can I touch it?". With these words, he put out his adorable little fingers with full confidence that he could touch the sun. All life is drawn to the light.
Some people just glow with their glory in God, their joy in Jesus, their happiness in the Holy Spirit, their peace in The Paraclete. How can others resist this power of persuasion? The most blessed with the light are the most needed to walk into the valley of darkness to retrieve the lost. This former pastor seems to be one of these people.
I have had several of my most cherished people facing cancer in the last year. They were at peace while I was dying inside. When I asked how they could be at such a peaceful place in the face of death, they immediately and repeatedly proclaimed that their peace came from their faith in the lessons taught by Jesus. I have faith, but I'm still dying inside at the thought of losing them.
I guess I wouldn't worry so much about missing the faces, voices, hugs, smiles, and smells of my loved ones if I was the one going to God. And I sure hate knowing that they'll be so happy that they'll never miss me as a mere mortal. I am, however, thrilled that they're not adding their own fear to my mourning, and it all comes from a belief in the promise of the Eternal Spirit of Wholeness.
There's an old church song taught to children, "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart..." Live it and they will come, and when they ask how you can be so joyful even in the face of death, be prepared with an answer straight from your heart about the source of your joy.
When Richard and I were in Costa Rica many years ago, the praying mantises would be so drawn to the candlelight on our dinner table that they would reach for it and burn their little "hands". When my grandson was about two years old, he spied the sun setting over the water, jumped off the couch, and as he was drawn like in a trance toward the sight, he said, "Granny, look at the big orange ball. Can I touch it?". With these words, he put out his adorable little fingers with full confidence that he could touch the sun. All life is drawn to the light.
Some people just glow with their glory in God, their joy in Jesus, their happiness in the Holy Spirit, their peace in The Paraclete. How can others resist this power of persuasion? The most blessed with the light are the most needed to walk into the valley of darkness to retrieve the lost. This former pastor seems to be one of these people.
I have had several of my most cherished people facing cancer in the last year. They were at peace while I was dying inside. When I asked how they could be at such a peaceful place in the face of death, they immediately and repeatedly proclaimed that their peace came from their faith in the lessons taught by Jesus. I have faith, but I'm still dying inside at the thought of losing them.
I guess I wouldn't worry so much about missing the faces, voices, hugs, smiles, and smells of my loved ones if I was the one going to God. And I sure hate knowing that they'll be so happy that they'll never miss me as a mere mortal. I am, however, thrilled that they're not adding their own fear to my mourning, and it all comes from a belief in the promise of the Eternal Spirit of Wholeness.
There's an old church song taught to children, "I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart..." Live it and they will come, and when they ask how you can be so joyful even in the face of death, be prepared with an answer straight from your heart about the source of your joy.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Helping Holiness
It has occurred to me that greed and speed
Have convinced us that we have unmet need.
This has been our curse since our beginning,
The opening volley in mankind's sinning.
We talk about trusting in our God,
But I find it to be increasingly odd
That we want to force change in each other,
Not understanding our sisters and brothers.
Everything seems a competition for more,
Instead of accepting what I was meant for.
Faster we push to get there first;
The more we get, things only get worse.
It is not meant for me to save all of man,
But I do have a place in the Infinite Plan.
I'll step back and pray to see my mission;
Only this will clear my clouded vision.
Heal my head and heal my heart
Show me how to play my part
In creating a space for balance and peace,
In this way, helping holiness to increase.
Have convinced us that we have unmet need.
This has been our curse since our beginning,
The opening volley in mankind's sinning.
We talk about trusting in our God,
But I find it to be increasingly odd
That we want to force change in each other,
Not understanding our sisters and brothers.
Everything seems a competition for more,
Instead of accepting what I was meant for.
Faster we push to get there first;
The more we get, things only get worse.
It is not meant for me to save all of man,
But I do have a place in the Infinite Plan.
I'll step back and pray to see my mission;
Only this will clear my clouded vision.
Heal my head and heal my heart
Show me how to play my part
In creating a space for balance and peace,
In this way, helping holiness to increase.
Friday, January 21, 2011
A Winter World
New Orleans in winter with it's many delights,
The food, the passions, the sounds, the sights.
The streetcar rumbling along the track
Calls the city's children to please come back.
Church bells ring out three times a day,
Reminding us to give thanks, ponder, and pray.
In a courtyard, on St. Charles Avenue,
There's a world shared with the blessed few,
The beauty of winter roses in bloom,
The scent of the Sweet Olive's perfume.
Sasanquas are still gracing our eyes
With the winter gardens' most special prize.
The Crepe Myrtle is a flirty tree,
With no winter bark, she's a sight to see,
Enticing with her bare lacy arms
Come June, she'll display all of her charms.
In a secret corner, a magnolia or two
Will scent the summer air with her lemony brew.
Azaleas abound, though they're not in bloom
Dark green a backdrop for the colors coming soon.
People passing in the streets
Saying hello to all one meets.
This city throbs with love for life
Beneath the scars of her ongoing strife.
I want to be here as she rewrites her story
And this Dame in Distress recovers her glory.
The food, the passions, the sounds, the sights.
The streetcar rumbling along the track
Calls the city's children to please come back.
Church bells ring out three times a day,
Reminding us to give thanks, ponder, and pray.
In a courtyard, on St. Charles Avenue,
There's a world shared with the blessed few,
The beauty of winter roses in bloom,
The scent of the Sweet Olive's perfume.
Sasanquas are still gracing our eyes
With the winter gardens' most special prize.
The Crepe Myrtle is a flirty tree,
With no winter bark, she's a sight to see,
Enticing with her bare lacy arms
Come June, she'll display all of her charms.
In a secret corner, a magnolia or two
Will scent the summer air with her lemony brew.
Azaleas abound, though they're not in bloom
Dark green a backdrop for the colors coming soon.
People passing in the streets
Saying hello to all one meets.
This city throbs with love for life
Beneath the scars of her ongoing strife.
I want to be here as she rewrites her story
And this Dame in Distress recovers her glory.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Who Knows Where Life Will Lead Me
I've been feeling very conflicted about returning to the snow country of Coker Creek. We have some business to which we have to attend up there, but I'm very uncomfortable about trying to get emergency medical care during periods of being snow bound. Now I have a good excuse for not going home just yet, but I'll be close enough to possibly come for a visit for a snow-free day or two. Of course, we all know I don't overnight in the forest without my man, but I may make an exception if one of my Atlanta girls will accompany me.
My governor's mansion's chef friend in Atlanta tore up the muscles and tendons in her right arm when she fell on Christmas day. Seeing as she's pretty incapacitated and needing surgery, I've decided to accept her offer to come stay with her at her Atlanta area home for a few weeks. Included in this time will be providing chauffeur services to her and her mom for their before-the-diagnosis scheduled post-op trip to Florida.
While in Florida, my friend will accept her recently deceased husband's award for his work in establishing safety standards for residential window washers at the annual window cleaners convention. Can I be any more selfless than to move in with a renowned chef in a non-snow bound city, and go for a dead-of-winter trip to Florida with a best buddy?
My many-talented man is probably going to stay in New Orleans helping manage the refurbishing of a PT boat for the World War II Museum. The project director's wife is having multiple cancer surgeries, so I may just travel north without my Richard. I may be crazy leaving my man alone in the City of Sin, but I sure like leaving him in the hands of a bunch of boat builders better than with my widow women friends in the forest. I'd hate for them to get to used to having his talents around their houses and decide to keep him for their very own.
Who knows where life will lead me next. All these people in my life certainly make for many adventures.
My governor's mansion's chef friend in Atlanta tore up the muscles and tendons in her right arm when she fell on Christmas day. Seeing as she's pretty incapacitated and needing surgery, I've decided to accept her offer to come stay with her at her Atlanta area home for a few weeks. Included in this time will be providing chauffeur services to her and her mom for their before-the-diagnosis scheduled post-op trip to Florida.
While in Florida, my friend will accept her recently deceased husband's award for his work in establishing safety standards for residential window washers at the annual window cleaners convention. Can I be any more selfless than to move in with a renowned chef in a non-snow bound city, and go for a dead-of-winter trip to Florida with a best buddy?
My many-talented man is probably going to stay in New Orleans helping manage the refurbishing of a PT boat for the World War II Museum. The project director's wife is having multiple cancer surgeries, so I may just travel north without my Richard. I may be crazy leaving my man alone in the City of Sin, but I sure like leaving him in the hands of a bunch of boat builders better than with my widow women friends in the forest. I'd hate for them to get to used to having his talents around their houses and decide to keep him for their very own.
Who knows where life will lead me next. All these people in my life certainly make for many adventures.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)