“I won’t know what to do with myself.”
My friend laughs. He knows me too well and smiles. This is an adventure already with lots of twists and turns. Next Saturday I walk the stage. Tonight I cross a threshold when I hand in my final exam and tell my professor this is my last class. She smiles and I cry as I walk in the cool dark air into the parking lot back to my car.
“I won’t know what to do with myself.”
I pray in the car on the way home and am grateful for the events that led me back to school, for the people who encouraged me and made a way. I am grateful I have persevered for 6 years and have finished with honors. I ask God what He wants to do with all this? What’s next?
For now, I just want to lean back, read a book of my choosing, finish some drawings, and learn to really use my camera, decorate the house for Christmas, and breathe deep. I know this is a gift from God, the whole thing. I have a better understanding how He has fashioned me during this time. I had someone whisper in my ear last weekend that my life is just beginning, get ready. I am ready to take off, to flourish and thrive. I am ready for what’s next. I am expectant.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Psalm 91
I have been telling people for the last few days that God is faithful and that I will be returning to work soon. In faith a gave Bryant more money for his mission trip to India. I said it was a faith builder for him and for me. He didn't know I was not working, he might not have agreed to come and pick up the cash. Instead he prayed for me. I sent a check for Colin's trip to Mexico. We are planning a celebration for when Scott gets in from Austin.
Not to presume... but if I go back to work it will not have set me back at all. In fact I will be better off. You do the math... I can't explain it or why when I got out of my car today I notice a car with the licence plate 91 PSLM as I was going into the building for an interview. And I knew the Psalm because I memorized it when I was ill and it was God's promise for provision and protection. No harm has come to me, God has provided.
So I am telling you... no harm has come to me. God will provide because I trust in Him.
Not to presume... but if I go back to work it will not have set me back at all. In fact I will be better off. You do the math... I can't explain it or why when I got out of my car today I notice a car with the licence plate 91 PSLM as I was going into the building for an interview. And I knew the Psalm because I memorized it when I was ill and it was God's promise for provision and protection. No harm has come to me, God has provided.
So I am telling you... no harm has come to me. God will provide because I trust in Him.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Assignment One: As Far Back as I Can Remember
Ketchup
Mrs. Barry has long slender legs and jet black hair. She is married to Captain Jack Barry who is an Air Force pilot. Mrs. Barry brought her soft southern accent all the way from Tallahassee to Ohio where the Captain is stationed. Suzie her youngest daughter is my best friend. Suzie inherited a full head of jet black curls from her mother along with her confidence. By four years old it is plain that I am inconquerorably shy and awkward. Mrs. Barry, Jackie, to her peers always frightens me a little with her directness, saying exactly what is on her mind.
My mother leads my sisters and I down the front porch stairs. The four of us are wrapped in our matching bathrobes and slippers. The four of us shuffle across the asphalt drive way across the grass, on to the Barry’s driveway, up to the front porch. Mrs. Barry is on the porch holding the screen door open. It is June and the air smells like roses. I enter the door, slip my slippers off and walk across the cool wooden floor planting myself on the couch next to Suzie. She leans close to me. Suzie’s older sister Lynn soon joins us. She is my oldest sister’s best friends. We are families of girls and very close. I am used to both my mother and Mrs. Barry watching us as we play outside or as we go house to house looking for something new and interesting to do. Cartoons are on and I don’t hear what my mother and Mrs. Barry are discussing. Instead I am mesmerized by the black and white images on the screen whose familiarity help me settle into what we know so far of moving day.
My mother leaves as the moving van pulls up to the front of our simple cracker box house tucked away in a cul-de-sac near the runway of the airbase. We have all grown accustomed to the sound of the planes taking off. We are even familiar with the crack above us as aircraft break the sound barrier. The cul-de-sac is our little world and the huge truck is rattling it by the front curve. At Mrs. Barry’s instructions I get up and come over to the door and peer out at the behemoth of a truck. With a clear strictness Mrs. Barry instructs us. “Girls you are not to go outside. The moving van is here. You may watch it from the door or at the kitchen window.”
I do not have an ounce of desire to move out from behind the screen door to encounter this truck that I see is being opened and readied to carry off all my things and take them to the new house. We only visit our mysterious new house in the dark by the light of my father’s flashlight. Every so often as it is being built we bundle up and are taken by car to this new destination after my father gets off work at the men’s clothing store he manages. It is always late night and pitch black. Our street begins where the farm land ends where cows graze in the fields by the dairy farm. My father lifts me up to the side door because the side steps are not yet in place. The new world of this house smells like fresh cut board. We walk through the skeleton of a room, the sky still in view through the rafters as we try to imagine our new rooms.
Mrs. Barry has been at work in her kitchen for about a half an hour when she calls us for breakfast. As I enter the sunny kitchen decorated with strawberry trimmings I see Mrs. Barry sticking toast into the shiny silver toaster. “Do you want blackberry jam with your toast,” she asks us.
“Yes, mame.” Suzie says. I imitate her reply. I do not have such formality with my mother, whose sweet disposition contrasts with Mrs. Barry’s directness. My mother accepts, “yes.” But I am afraid of being rude in Mrs. Barry’s house. I never want to be rude. So I follow Suzie’s cues in how to navigate politeness.
Mrs. Barry sets a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and jam and hash browns down in front of me. She asks concerning orange juice and I manage a “yes mame,” as she places a small strawberry decorated glass in front of my plate. I look up at Mrs. Barry’s lovely southern face and ask. “May I have some ketchup for my potatoes, mame?”
Mrs. Barry’s face lights up and with more passion than I think she means and asks, “Why child would use ruin my beautiful hash browns with ketchup?” With those words hot tears stream down my face, I cannot hold them in.
Mrs. Barry places a bottle of ketchup on the table, lifts me in her arms and holds me close as she walks over to the kitchen window. “Look Ruthie, there’s your mother. She’s been there all morning instructing the men on what to do.” Then she leans her face into my hair and whispers as she kisses my head, “I’m sure going to miss all my little girls.”
Mrs. Barry has long slender legs and jet black hair. She is married to Captain Jack Barry who is an Air Force pilot. Mrs. Barry brought her soft southern accent all the way from Tallahassee to Ohio where the Captain is stationed. Suzie her youngest daughter is my best friend. Suzie inherited a full head of jet black curls from her mother along with her confidence. By four years old it is plain that I am inconquerorably shy and awkward. Mrs. Barry, Jackie, to her peers always frightens me a little with her directness, saying exactly what is on her mind.
My mother leads my sisters and I down the front porch stairs. The four of us are wrapped in our matching bathrobes and slippers. The four of us shuffle across the asphalt drive way across the grass, on to the Barry’s driveway, up to the front porch. Mrs. Barry is on the porch holding the screen door open. It is June and the air smells like roses. I enter the door, slip my slippers off and walk across the cool wooden floor planting myself on the couch next to Suzie. She leans close to me. Suzie’s older sister Lynn soon joins us. She is my oldest sister’s best friends. We are families of girls and very close. I am used to both my mother and Mrs. Barry watching us as we play outside or as we go house to house looking for something new and interesting to do. Cartoons are on and I don’t hear what my mother and Mrs. Barry are discussing. Instead I am mesmerized by the black and white images on the screen whose familiarity help me settle into what we know so far of moving day.
My mother leaves as the moving van pulls up to the front of our simple cracker box house tucked away in a cul-de-sac near the runway of the airbase. We have all grown accustomed to the sound of the planes taking off. We are even familiar with the crack above us as aircraft break the sound barrier. The cul-de-sac is our little world and the huge truck is rattling it by the front curve. At Mrs. Barry’s instructions I get up and come over to the door and peer out at the behemoth of a truck. With a clear strictness Mrs. Barry instructs us. “Girls you are not to go outside. The moving van is here. You may watch it from the door or at the kitchen window.”
I do not have an ounce of desire to move out from behind the screen door to encounter this truck that I see is being opened and readied to carry off all my things and take them to the new house. We only visit our mysterious new house in the dark by the light of my father’s flashlight. Every so often as it is being built we bundle up and are taken by car to this new destination after my father gets off work at the men’s clothing store he manages. It is always late night and pitch black. Our street begins where the farm land ends where cows graze in the fields by the dairy farm. My father lifts me up to the side door because the side steps are not yet in place. The new world of this house smells like fresh cut board. We walk through the skeleton of a room, the sky still in view through the rafters as we try to imagine our new rooms.
Mrs. Barry has been at work in her kitchen for about a half an hour when she calls us for breakfast. As I enter the sunny kitchen decorated with strawberry trimmings I see Mrs. Barry sticking toast into the shiny silver toaster. “Do you want blackberry jam with your toast,” she asks us.
“Yes, mame.” Suzie says. I imitate her reply. I do not have such formality with my mother, whose sweet disposition contrasts with Mrs. Barry’s directness. My mother accepts, “yes.” But I am afraid of being rude in Mrs. Barry’s house. I never want to be rude. So I follow Suzie’s cues in how to navigate politeness.
Mrs. Barry sets a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and jam and hash browns down in front of me. She asks concerning orange juice and I manage a “yes mame,” as she places a small strawberry decorated glass in front of my plate. I look up at Mrs. Barry’s lovely southern face and ask. “May I have some ketchup for my potatoes, mame?”
Mrs. Barry’s face lights up and with more passion than I think she means and asks, “Why child would use ruin my beautiful hash browns with ketchup?” With those words hot tears stream down my face, I cannot hold them in.
Mrs. Barry places a bottle of ketchup on the table, lifts me in her arms and holds me close as she walks over to the kitchen window. “Look Ruthie, there’s your mother. She’s been there all morning instructing the men on what to do.” Then she leans her face into my hair and whispers as she kisses my head, “I’m sure going to miss all my little girls.”
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sunday
I went to church today and was supposed to help in the kid's Sunday school. Scott came up to me and asked me if I was going to big church as we call it. I said no, I was helping in my class. He told me he was speaking. I thought in big church for a "few" minutes. I said I would try to pop in.
Ran into him again. Found out he was taking Steven's place preaching in the youth service.
We were well staffed so I played hookie from Sunday school and went to hear Scott teach.
It was really very good and OF COURSE I was very excited about it. He was passionate as he talked about being complacent.
Preach on!
Ran into him again. Found out he was taking Steven's place preaching in the youth service.
We were well staffed so I played hookie from Sunday school and went to hear Scott teach.
It was really very good and OF COURSE I was very excited about it. He was passionate as he talked about being complacent.
Preach on!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
perplexed
I am tired, near exhaustion. It is physical, mental and emotional.
verb
1. to cause to be puzzled or bewildered over what is not understood or certain; confuse mentally
2. to make complicated or confused, as a matter or question.
3. to hamper with complications, confusion, or uncertainty.
Synonyms:
1. mystify, confound. 2. tangle, snarl. 3. vex, annoy, bother.
John 14:1
Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.
Rest.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The wisdom of forgiveness
You can’t really understand forgiveness and what it cost until you have been given a very good reason not to forgive. People can do things that really shouldn’t be forgiven. They can do it in a way that shows they don’t have a clue as to why they need forgiveness. Most of the time they go merrily on their way seemingly unaffected and you are left holding the emotional baggage. Thinking… “what the heck was that all about… why did this person feel the need to ------- fill in the blank.”
We are in need of extending forgiveness because we shouldn’t be left holding the bag. Let it go. Easier said than done, believe me I know, but oh so worth it.
Forgiveness costs us. It cost us our comfort zone. I am comfortable living in the past remembering the bad things people have done. Maybe it makes us feel superior to people. See how rotten they are. Maybe it makes us feel important. Maybe we just can’t ignore the hurt that is caused as we remember a hurt. I have a friend whose husband asked for a divorce on Christmas day. That is what he wanted for Christmas. She has never told me, but I can imagine there is never a Christmas where there is at least the potential for reliving the pain of that day. All you need for that trigger is Christmas day.
Forgiveness costs us facing the pain, but doing it in a new way. Seeing it for what it is and choosing to let it go. There is a need for the supernatural element of prayer here. I do not believe we forgive naturally. It is against our nature. We forgive supernaturally, trusting that God will continue to do the good work in us.
Forgiveness costs us our comfort zone because it demands that we look at ourselves and see our part in the situation. It may mean admitting we are wrong too and in need of forgiveness ourselves. It costs us the discomfort of seeking reconciliation where possible. Reconciliation isn’t always possible, but one should be willing to allow God to work. If we are willing God will work.
When I was younger I was in a recovery group and we were studying the steps on making amends, just being willing to do what is needed on our part to make things right. Someone told how they owed someone money and had never intended to pay the person back. In their step study they became willing to pay back the money. They had not seen the person in years and didn’t know where the person lived. That week they stopped at a rest stop on I-95 and ran into the other man. My friend told the man he was in recovery and needed to make amends. He gave the money to the man he owed and asked for forgiveness.
That is being willing to make things right and God working. We all need that.
What forgiveness gives in return is a closer relationship to God and perhaps the other person. We are free from the burden that was not ours to carry. It allows God, not us, to discipline the person if they continue to sin. If in being forgiven the person changes his ways than we have been a witness for the Lord or have turned another brother from his sin. All reasons to rejoice. Nothing good comes from us setting ourselves up as judge. We stop the work of God in our lives and do not allow the Holy Spirit to work in the situation. We give non-believers an inaccurate picture of God.
But if we forgive… we set in motivation the Spirit of God to work.
In that God will bless.
We are in need of extending forgiveness because we shouldn’t be left holding the bag. Let it go. Easier said than done, believe me I know, but oh so worth it.
Forgiveness costs us. It cost us our comfort zone. I am comfortable living in the past remembering the bad things people have done. Maybe it makes us feel superior to people. See how rotten they are. Maybe it makes us feel important. Maybe we just can’t ignore the hurt that is caused as we remember a hurt. I have a friend whose husband asked for a divorce on Christmas day. That is what he wanted for Christmas. She has never told me, but I can imagine there is never a Christmas where there is at least the potential for reliving the pain of that day. All you need for that trigger is Christmas day.
Forgiveness costs us facing the pain, but doing it in a new way. Seeing it for what it is and choosing to let it go. There is a need for the supernatural element of prayer here. I do not believe we forgive naturally. It is against our nature. We forgive supernaturally, trusting that God will continue to do the good work in us.
Forgiveness costs us our comfort zone because it demands that we look at ourselves and see our part in the situation. It may mean admitting we are wrong too and in need of forgiveness ourselves. It costs us the discomfort of seeking reconciliation where possible. Reconciliation isn’t always possible, but one should be willing to allow God to work. If we are willing God will work.
When I was younger I was in a recovery group and we were studying the steps on making amends, just being willing to do what is needed on our part to make things right. Someone told how they owed someone money and had never intended to pay the person back. In their step study they became willing to pay back the money. They had not seen the person in years and didn’t know where the person lived. That week they stopped at a rest stop on I-95 and ran into the other man. My friend told the man he was in recovery and needed to make amends. He gave the money to the man he owed and asked for forgiveness.
That is being willing to make things right and God working. We all need that.
What forgiveness gives in return is a closer relationship to God and perhaps the other person. We are free from the burden that was not ours to carry. It allows God, not us, to discipline the person if they continue to sin. If in being forgiven the person changes his ways than we have been a witness for the Lord or have turned another brother from his sin. All reasons to rejoice. Nothing good comes from us setting ourselves up as judge. We stop the work of God in our lives and do not allow the Holy Spirit to work in the situation. We give non-believers an inaccurate picture of God.
But if we forgive… we set in motivation the Spirit of God to work.
In that God will bless.
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