I am absolutely exhausted, and I promised several well-meaning friends that I would go to sleep, but sleep is not coming easily right now. And all because of the fifty-pound person beside me in my bed tonight.
My seven-year-old son, Jaden, has become quite sick over the past few days, and just today developed a few new symptoms of concern to me. A physician friend of mine was kind enough to perform a little impromptu examination a while ago, which -- I thought -- set my mind at ease. So, why am I not sleeping soundly? In a word, motherhood.
Motherhood seems to be the curious condition of feeling as though a part of your heart has broken off and is walking around outside your body. As this part of your heart grows and matures, it begins to need you less and less (and more and more, paradoxically, in some ways), and you have to learn the art of the gentle, gradual release, even though it goes against all that is screaming within your heart (the part of your heart that has remained inside your own body).
Before I was someone's mother, people spoke of it, this curious condition, and I thought that I understood. Yeah, I know, I thought... So it's a love like none other. Got it. But it's not a love that is understood in theory -- only in practice. And, frankly, it's a little scary to love this way... This irrationally, this unconditionally, this completely. To pick a rose you ask your hands to bleed... to love a child, you ask your heart, at times, to do the same.
It's just an infection, this thing my kid has. A nasty cough, a high fever, some very swollen glands. And yet this love I have for him is so fierce that it bares its Mama Bear claws at the very thought of a threat to his wellbeing. It's an odd feeling to be this invested, on a heart level, in a person. It's the hardest, most all-consuming, exhausting, wonderful thing you can imagine. It makes the heart both swell with joy and ache in pain, all at once sometimes. And I only have ONE kid.
So I look at him, lying here in a bed that is not his own, an arsenal of medicines on the table beside his suddenly small, fragile-looking little body... and I realize that I am helpless. I can only do so much to relieve him -- whether he is fighting an infection or fighting a bully... whether he is choosing a toy or choosing a major... whether he is hurting or choosing to inflict hurt. He is only mine in the sense that I am currently responsible for raising and nurturing him. When all is said and done, he is a human being, and human beings to do not belong to other human beings. They belong only to God.
So, in the hopes of getting a little sleep, I'm returning him tonight to His rightful owner. I am asking Him to have his way, to do His job, to give me to the grace to do mine... which, as Jaden's mom, is to give my best human effort to nurture, teach, train, inspire, guide, and protect. And, having done all of these things, after midnight, to entrust him to the One who can do everything else for him that I cannot.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Don't Drink the Poison!
Late last night, I enjoyed a 90-minute cyber-chat with a new friend. What started out with "hey / hey" soon became a moving, challenging, and very candid discussion on the touchy subject of forgiveness. I was excited to be able to share some of what God has been teaching me lately, through His word and through the wise counsel of others, and through Rick Warren's "40 Days of Love" study. The 90 minutes whizzed by, fingers flying across our keyboards as we dug deeper.
As I see it, here's the deal with forgiveness: as followers of Jesus, it's not so much an option, really. It's a non-negotiable, a mandate, a must-do... but it's also an invitation. When we are able to truly forgive others who have wronged us (and we have all been wronged, if we are alive on planet Earth), we enable ourselves to enter into peace -- God's peace. After all, when we harbor bitterness and unforgiveness toward another person, it is usually we who suffer, not the unforgiven. Holding onto unforgivess, so the saying goes, is like drinking poison -- and then waiting for the other person to die.
And furthermore, chosing to forgive a person does not let that person off the hook, as we may tend to assume. God is just; wrongdoing will be addressed, one way or another -- but it is HIS to address, not ours. When we forgive, we take the offender off of our "hook" and place them on God's "hook" where they belong. Let Him deal with them; He always does.
Now, this is where is can get tempting; we want to pray, "Git 'em, Lord! Sic 'em! Shatter their teeth upon the rocks!" (to borrow King David's request)... but we have to be prepared for God to have His way, whatever that may be. He may choose to bring about justice and give them a dose of "reality discpline" -- after all, vengeance belongs to the Lord. But... He may also choose to be merciful on them. Not what we want to hear, but it's always a real possibility. And honestly -- how many times has God chosen to be merciful toward us, when what we deserved was unyielding justice?
Anyway. It's a subject that could be discussed for hours, and I would probably enjoy such a discussion. Holding grudges seems to be an innate hangup for human beings; we can all relate. But there comes a time when we wise up and stop drinking the poison -- or, we die of it, one way or another.
As I see it, here's the deal with forgiveness: as followers of Jesus, it's not so much an option, really. It's a non-negotiable, a mandate, a must-do... but it's also an invitation. When we are able to truly forgive others who have wronged us (and we have all been wronged, if we are alive on planet Earth), we enable ourselves to enter into peace -- God's peace. After all, when we harbor bitterness and unforgiveness toward another person, it is usually we who suffer, not the unforgiven. Holding onto unforgivess, so the saying goes, is like drinking poison -- and then waiting for the other person to die.
And furthermore, chosing to forgive a person does not let that person off the hook, as we may tend to assume. God is just; wrongdoing will be addressed, one way or another -- but it is HIS to address, not ours. When we forgive, we take the offender off of our "hook" and place them on God's "hook" where they belong. Let Him deal with them; He always does.
Now, this is where is can get tempting; we want to pray, "Git 'em, Lord! Sic 'em! Shatter their teeth upon the rocks!" (to borrow King David's request)... but we have to be prepared for God to have His way, whatever that may be. He may choose to bring about justice and give them a dose of "reality discpline" -- after all, vengeance belongs to the Lord. But... He may also choose to be merciful on them. Not what we want to hear, but it's always a real possibility. And honestly -- how many times has God chosen to be merciful toward us, when what we deserved was unyielding justice?
Anyway. It's a subject that could be discussed for hours, and I would probably enjoy such a discussion. Holding grudges seems to be an innate hangup for human beings; we can all relate. But there comes a time when we wise up and stop drinking the poison -- or, we die of it, one way or another.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Beauty of Brokenness
I love Mosaics. I love to look at each tiny little piece of broken tile, and try to see it first as separate from the whole, as a fraction of the thing it once was. Did it used to have a life of its own, maybe as a vase or a plate, before it met its shattering fate and went on to become a vital component of a work of art? How did it break? Was it dropped, mishandled, intentionally destroyed for a larger purpose? I love that the pieces haven't been thrown away or wasted, but that the artist saw their remaining (or maybe enduring) value, and picked them up and said, "I can use you."
Mosaics are cool, because they are a neat little visual allegory of the way God works. Human beings, it seems, are even more prone to breaking than ceramic or clay. When I think of all the people who have most touched my life, whose words and deeds and legacies have helped to form and shape me, I am taken by the realization of something they all seem to have in common: they are, or were, decidedly imperfect, "broken on the wheels of living," as Brennan Manning has said. They are works in progress, turning their messes into messages and their tests into testimonies. Some of them are, indeed, a bit rough around the edges, and I suspect that their creator and mine is okay with that.
People who have been through a bit of fire, who have lived and learned, who have shed some lifeblood and come out the better for it, are effortlessly inspirational. They don't have to try too hard to be pithy or poignant or witty or wise, because the fact that they are still here speaks volumes before they ever have to say a word. They have a wide-eyed wonder at having endured, having been spared, that is contagious.
They are the recovered addicts, the tenderhearted former bullies, the learning-disabled scholars, the wounded healers. Their lives speak, encouraging others to press on, to trust in the restorative hand and heart of God.
I remember an early concert given by the late Rich Mullins, the well-known Christian songwriter, wherein he reached for his guitar to play an acoustic ballad, and as he began to play, he started laughing and admitted, "This guitar is terminally out of tune, but I tend to think things are boring if they're really fine." The audience chuckled, because part of the appeal of Rich was that he was, in fact, quite rough around the edges. He didn't stop to tune the guitar; he started the song over again, still with the same out-of-tune instrument.
I like his style; Rich could appreciate the brokenness in both people and things, because he himself was admittedly broken. And maybe he was right; maybe pristine equals dull, and flawed equals interesting. And if that's the case, if all of us who are flawed and imperfect are more interesting and valuable for our brokenness, then maybe we can learn to embrace our shattered lives as a new kind of creation, like a mosaic. Maybe we can learn to be just a little bit more grateful for where we are, in light of where we were. Maybe we can remember that in our weakness, God's strength is made perfect. And maybe, just maybe, broken will become the new beautiful.
Mosaics are cool, because they are a neat little visual allegory of the way God works. Human beings, it seems, are even more prone to breaking than ceramic or clay. When I think of all the people who have most touched my life, whose words and deeds and legacies have helped to form and shape me, I am taken by the realization of something they all seem to have in common: they are, or were, decidedly imperfect, "broken on the wheels of living," as Brennan Manning has said. They are works in progress, turning their messes into messages and their tests into testimonies. Some of them are, indeed, a bit rough around the edges, and I suspect that their creator and mine is okay with that.
People who have been through a bit of fire, who have lived and learned, who have shed some lifeblood and come out the better for it, are effortlessly inspirational. They don't have to try too hard to be pithy or poignant or witty or wise, because the fact that they are still here speaks volumes before they ever have to say a word. They have a wide-eyed wonder at having endured, having been spared, that is contagious.
They are the recovered addicts, the tenderhearted former bullies, the learning-disabled scholars, the wounded healers. Their lives speak, encouraging others to press on, to trust in the restorative hand and heart of God.
I remember an early concert given by the late Rich Mullins, the well-known Christian songwriter, wherein he reached for his guitar to play an acoustic ballad, and as he began to play, he started laughing and admitted, "This guitar is terminally out of tune, but I tend to think things are boring if they're really fine." The audience chuckled, because part of the appeal of Rich was that he was, in fact, quite rough around the edges. He didn't stop to tune the guitar; he started the song over again, still with the same out-of-tune instrument.
I like his style; Rich could appreciate the brokenness in both people and things, because he himself was admittedly broken. And maybe he was right; maybe pristine equals dull, and flawed equals interesting. And if that's the case, if all of us who are flawed and imperfect are more interesting and valuable for our brokenness, then maybe we can learn to embrace our shattered lives as a new kind of creation, like a mosaic. Maybe we can learn to be just a little bit more grateful for where we are, in light of where we were. Maybe we can remember that in our weakness, God's strength is made perfect. And maybe, just maybe, broken will become the new beautiful.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
At Play in God's Creation
When you are a seven-year-old boy with pent-up energy, a wild imagination, and a desire to do nothing more than run, wrestle, and swim, summertime can be either a welcome release or a supreme frustration. For my little Jaden, unfortunately, thus far it has been the latter. No one is around. Country Squire has become a ghost town this summer, leaving Jaden alone to play with his legos for an hour in the morning and then to mope and whine for the remaining eight hours until his friends come home from day camp.
Yesterday, he was a fairly good sport all day, tagging along with me on errand after errand and rolling his eyes quietly while I sat at the computer and attempted to get a little work done under his watchful eye. Sensing his unreleased energy pulsating just under the surface, I kept checking in:
"Would you like to go for a quick bike ride?"
(Only if my friends can go.)
"Are you hungry?"
(No. I'm bored.)
"Want me to turn on the sprinkler?"
(Only if you'll play with me. Otherwise, it's boring.)
"Would you like a drink?"
(MOM. What I would LIKE is for you to PLAY with me.)
I feel for the kid; I really do. I can imagine what a drag it must be to hang out with a thirty-two-year-old woman on a shoestring budget, when all you really want to do is get muddy and poke other sticky-fingered short people with plastic swords. On our lengthy car trips to the bank, the store, the office, I brought along Jaden's portable DVD player, hoping to take his mind off of what a bummer his young life is at the moment (they're very dramatic, seven-year-olds). He wanted nothing to do with it. He also showed zero interest in his KidzBop CD's, his Happy Feet soundtrack, or, once we got back home, his online netherworlds of Webkinz and ClubPenguin.
Finally, around six o'clock, I caved. He had squeezed himself into the too-tight mold of a mini-adult all day, and enough was enough. I left my projects and tasks partially-finished, whipped up PBJ and carrots and called it dinner, and tossed the kid back in the car. We were off to have some FUN, dang it.
We wound up at Delwood Park, a cool nearby nature preserve with a scattering of bright, shiny new playground equipment all over the place. But, just as he had shunned my bright shiny offerings of DVD players and up-tempo kid-friendly pop music, Jaden shunned also these fancy-schmancy playgrounds, and instead asked me to drive all the way down to the end of the park property, and park the car by the creek. "Let's go this way, Mom," he said, blue-gray eyes alight as he gazed toward the moving water. Then, looking down at his feet to remind himself of what shoes he had chosen, he asked, "And can I get wet?" And I, the cool, selectively-permissive mom that I have become, replied, "I guess."
I rolled up my jeans and followed my little adventurer into the creek, up to the ankle, then the knee. The water was clear; I could see the bottom, and kept my gaze several paces ahead of where I knew Jaden's was, as he waded in, the chilly water reaching the bottom of his butt. We looked for snails and tadpoles, found a really gross dead fish, pretended to be on a reality show about a mother and son struggling to survive in the wilderness for months at a time. Jaden found a strand of gold plastic mardi gras beads in the water and tied them to his belt-loop; this was our "treasure", and he, in character, told me that when we finally made it out of the wilderness, he was going to sell it in order to buy us a houseboat so we could live on the creek.
Thirty minutes into our little make-believe adventure in the creek, nature called, and I watched a mischievous smirk came across Jaden's mud-smeared face. "Mom?" he asked, "Can I pee in the woods?" And I, as ever the cool, selectively-permissive mother, sighed deeply and said, "I guess."
We never did make it to any of the fancy-schmancy playgrounds. It was still somewhat light out just before nine o'clock when we made our way back to the car, my sandals sloshing and squirting and Jaden's orange shorts muddied beyond the point of no return. We were wet, chilly, and riddled with bug-bites galore, and we had to sit on sweatshirts and towels on the way home to keep from christening the car seats with creek water.
I hadn't spent a dime. There was no general admission ticket price to get in. None of the things we found to play with required batteries or access codes or password protection. We were simply at play in God's creation, and this was good, not-so-clean fun.
And as we pulled out of the park and headed back home, my kid, whose day had included ten hours of utter boredom and two and a half hours in paradise, said to me, "Mom, I loved this day."
Yesterday, he was a fairly good sport all day, tagging along with me on errand after errand and rolling his eyes quietly while I sat at the computer and attempted to get a little work done under his watchful eye. Sensing his unreleased energy pulsating just under the surface, I kept checking in:
"Would you like to go for a quick bike ride?"
(Only if my friends can go.)
"Are you hungry?"
(No. I'm bored.)
"Want me to turn on the sprinkler?"
(Only if you'll play with me. Otherwise, it's boring.)
"Would you like a drink?"
(MOM. What I would LIKE is for you to PLAY with me.)
I feel for the kid; I really do. I can imagine what a drag it must be to hang out with a thirty-two-year-old woman on a shoestring budget, when all you really want to do is get muddy and poke other sticky-fingered short people with plastic swords. On our lengthy car trips to the bank, the store, the office, I brought along Jaden's portable DVD player, hoping to take his mind off of what a bummer his young life is at the moment (they're very dramatic, seven-year-olds). He wanted nothing to do with it. He also showed zero interest in his KidzBop CD's, his Happy Feet soundtrack, or, once we got back home, his online netherworlds of Webkinz and ClubPenguin.
Finally, around six o'clock, I caved. He had squeezed himself into the too-tight mold of a mini-adult all day, and enough was enough. I left my projects and tasks partially-finished, whipped up PBJ and carrots and called it dinner, and tossed the kid back in the car. We were off to have some FUN, dang it.
We wound up at Delwood Park, a cool nearby nature preserve with a scattering of bright, shiny new playground equipment all over the place. But, just as he had shunned my bright shiny offerings of DVD players and up-tempo kid-friendly pop music, Jaden shunned also these fancy-schmancy playgrounds, and instead asked me to drive all the way down to the end of the park property, and park the car by the creek. "Let's go this way, Mom," he said, blue-gray eyes alight as he gazed toward the moving water. Then, looking down at his feet to remind himself of what shoes he had chosen, he asked, "And can I get wet?" And I, the cool, selectively-permissive mom that I have become, replied, "I guess."
I rolled up my jeans and followed my little adventurer into the creek, up to the ankle, then the knee. The water was clear; I could see the bottom, and kept my gaze several paces ahead of where I knew Jaden's was, as he waded in, the chilly water reaching the bottom of his butt. We looked for snails and tadpoles, found a really gross dead fish, pretended to be on a reality show about a mother and son struggling to survive in the wilderness for months at a time. Jaden found a strand of gold plastic mardi gras beads in the water and tied them to his belt-loop; this was our "treasure", and he, in character, told me that when we finally made it out of the wilderness, he was going to sell it in order to buy us a houseboat so we could live on the creek.
Thirty minutes into our little make-believe adventure in the creek, nature called, and I watched a mischievous smirk came across Jaden's mud-smeared face. "Mom?" he asked, "Can I pee in the woods?" And I, as ever the cool, selectively-permissive mother, sighed deeply and said, "I guess."
We never did make it to any of the fancy-schmancy playgrounds. It was still somewhat light out just before nine o'clock when we made our way back to the car, my sandals sloshing and squirting and Jaden's orange shorts muddied beyond the point of no return. We were wet, chilly, and riddled with bug-bites galore, and we had to sit on sweatshirts and towels on the way home to keep from christening the car seats with creek water.
I hadn't spent a dime. There was no general admission ticket price to get in. None of the things we found to play with required batteries or access codes or password protection. We were simply at play in God's creation, and this was good, not-so-clean fun.
And as we pulled out of the park and headed back home, my kid, whose day had included ten hours of utter boredom and two and a half hours in paradise, said to me, "Mom, I loved this day."
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I'm Not Okay, You're Not Okay
So I'm having one of those nights, one of those annoying, itchy nights where I find myself being good and honest with myself, about myself. I hate when I do this; I am ever so comfortable when I can remain deceived. But tonight, I can't seem to shake this conviction about one of my silly little "issues." It seems I've worked myself into a tizzy over the years, and developed a nasty little habit: "Hi, I'm Jena, and I idealize people."
It's horrible, really. I tend to see people as being infallible, incapable of falling short or messing up or going wrong. I've done it with my pastor and his wife, who brought me back to my senses when they reminded me that they -- yes, even they! -- argue sometimes and don't always see eye-to-eye. I've done it with a friend of mine who I pretty much assumed had the perfect life -- great clothes, doting husband, way-cool job -- who then ruined my mirage by going all human on me. In fact, if you're reading this and we know one another, I might even do it with you. I probably wouldn't be too hard-pressed to come up with three bullet points and a poem to support my argument that you are cooler than I am, better informed, more together. You're welcome.
But, see, I'm not doing you any favors by perceiving you this way. In fact, on the contrary, I'm cheating you. You might need help or prayer or a shoulder, and I won't be sensitive enough to offer you any of the above, because I will be over here assuming that you've got it all together. Sorry about that.
So, off I go to sleep, under layers of blankets and the heavy weight of conviction. The great thing about tomorrow is that is generally follows today, and brings with it a chance to change for the better. So, the goal for tomorrow: get real. Look around and take note of the human condition of imperfection and neediness, and recognize that it seems to have stricken us all.
Good night, my fellow ragamuffins.
It's horrible, really. I tend to see people as being infallible, incapable of falling short or messing up or going wrong. I've done it with my pastor and his wife, who brought me back to my senses when they reminded me that they -- yes, even they! -- argue sometimes and don't always see eye-to-eye. I've done it with a friend of mine who I pretty much assumed had the perfect life -- great clothes, doting husband, way-cool job -- who then ruined my mirage by going all human on me. In fact, if you're reading this and we know one another, I might even do it with you. I probably wouldn't be too hard-pressed to come up with three bullet points and a poem to support my argument that you are cooler than I am, better informed, more together. You're welcome.
But, see, I'm not doing you any favors by perceiving you this way. In fact, on the contrary, I'm cheating you. You might need help or prayer or a shoulder, and I won't be sensitive enough to offer you any of the above, because I will be over here assuming that you've got it all together. Sorry about that.
So, off I go to sleep, under layers of blankets and the heavy weight of conviction. The great thing about tomorrow is that is generally follows today, and brings with it a chance to change for the better. So, the goal for tomorrow: get real. Look around and take note of the human condition of imperfection and neediness, and recognize that it seems to have stricken us all.
Good night, my fellow ragamuffins.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Fiftysomething
I recently heard Oprah say that life for a woman begins at fifty. (Of course, ten years ago she said the same thing about a woman turning forty... but whatever). Anyway, I think there may be some truth to that. Still, if that is true, I've got precisely eighteen years to kill before my life really begins, so I figure I'd better have a plan for the interim.
In my twenties, I made some mistakes. A few faux pas, an oops here and there. So, I've got my thirties to fix all those mistakes. In a word, my thirties shall be all about restoration (sounds good in theory, looks good in print). Then I'll turn forty, and my forties will be about enjoying the journey - walking my son through his teen years, taking he and his friends out for pizza Friday night after the game, chaperoning class trips along with my endearing soul-mate of a husband (role yet to be cast). And then finally, climactically, I will enter into my fifties, and I will have arrived. Ta-da!
Or something like that.I have a few very dear friends who happen to be women in their glorious Fifties - sagely in their wisdom, almost ethereal in their beauty. There is a stunning sort of beauty that seems to come from knowing better. It is a relaxed assurance that illuminates their faces with a certain elegance that cannot be feigned by the younger set - it can only be earned by putting in one's time. They have forged their way to this place of justified contentment, and now they are basking in it.
I love to look at their hands - feminine and yet worn with years of loving service. How many lunches have they made, how many tears have they dried, how many times have they folded in prayer for those whom they love? (I look at my own hands differently since I have become a mother. Our hands become magical, you know, when we use them to nurture children, whether our own or others' children whom we love. Suddenly our magic hands can fix toy trucks and budge sticky zippers and cut peanut butter sandwiches just right.)
Anyway, I may have another eighteen years to go before my life can officially begin at fifty, but parts of me seem to be getting a head start, starting with the head itself: today, yet another proud wiry white hair poked its way up out of the crowd of blonde ones, daring me to yank it out. I didn't. I suppose it's a right of passage.
On the flipside, last week I got pulled over for speeding on my way to the office, and for the first time in a while, I wasn't able to charm my way out of a ticket. I guess maturation does have its disadvantages...
In my twenties, I made some mistakes. A few faux pas, an oops here and there. So, I've got my thirties to fix all those mistakes. In a word, my thirties shall be all about restoration (sounds good in theory, looks good in print). Then I'll turn forty, and my forties will be about enjoying the journey - walking my son through his teen years, taking he and his friends out for pizza Friday night after the game, chaperoning class trips along with my endearing soul-mate of a husband (role yet to be cast). And then finally, climactically, I will enter into my fifties, and I will have arrived. Ta-da!
Or something like that.I have a few very dear friends who happen to be women in their glorious Fifties - sagely in their wisdom, almost ethereal in their beauty. There is a stunning sort of beauty that seems to come from knowing better. It is a relaxed assurance that illuminates their faces with a certain elegance that cannot be feigned by the younger set - it can only be earned by putting in one's time. They have forged their way to this place of justified contentment, and now they are basking in it.
I love to look at their hands - feminine and yet worn with years of loving service. How many lunches have they made, how many tears have they dried, how many times have they folded in prayer for those whom they love? (I look at my own hands differently since I have become a mother. Our hands become magical, you know, when we use them to nurture children, whether our own or others' children whom we love. Suddenly our magic hands can fix toy trucks and budge sticky zippers and cut peanut butter sandwiches just right.)
Anyway, I may have another eighteen years to go before my life can officially begin at fifty, but parts of me seem to be getting a head start, starting with the head itself: today, yet another proud wiry white hair poked its way up out of the crowd of blonde ones, daring me to yank it out. I didn't. I suppose it's a right of passage.
On the flipside, last week I got pulled over for speeding on my way to the office, and for the first time in a while, I wasn't able to charm my way out of a ticket. I guess maturation does have its disadvantages...
Of Houses and Hearts
About a year-and-a-half ago, I bought a house. A townhouse, actually, and an old tired one at that. It had plenty of room, three good sized bedrooms and two baths, great views of an open field, and a nice little yard with a swingset for my kid. Let's just say that it had all the makings of a really good home for my little miniature family, but it was obvious that it was going to need some real TLC before it would be anything I could be proud to call home.
The old vinyl floor in the kitchen and powder room was faded and worn, not to mention conspicuously outdated, with its tiny country-blue hearts and flowers. There was no microwave (which was inconvenient, since that happens to be the one kitchen appliance that I have mastered the use of), but only a sad-looking harvest gold extractor hood, which I knew would have to go immediately. The kitchen cabinets were original (meaning only two younger than I am myself), and despite layers of white paint, they screamed "replace me!" whenever I peered in their direction. The plain, flat insulated steel entry door was dented and scuffed and had no more character than a tiny peephole at eye level, and the staircase was guarded by an unsightly one-piece black wrought iron railing, which I promised myself would be the first thing I would update.
I bought and closed on the home in April, and immediately set to the task of bringing about my vision for my new aquisition. I saw much potential hiding in the ugliness contained in its four walls, and I told it so. "You will be beautiful one day... trust me," I said as I ran my hand along one of its scuffed and scarred dirty beige walls, stained with time. The obnoxious black railing came down and I hired a stair company to build a lovely oak-and-iron balustrade with basket and twist details. The nasty old vinyl floor was covered over with wood laminate, updating the kitchen instantly (the inside of the kitchen pantry was not re-floored, however, and now whenever I reach in for the Cheerios, I am reminded of my kitchen's past life). The harvest gold hood was ripped off and replaced with a nice microwave hood, finally enabling me to cook (or, at least, to re-heat). I had the entire home repainted, in earthy tones of khaki and sage (and of course, one room in all-American-boy-blue). I replaced the front door with a charming decorative door with an integrated leaded glass window. And then I stepped back and looked at what my tired, abused old home had become, and I saw that it was good. And, seeing that it was good, I gave the house my final mark of approval: I moved in and made it my home.
It is interesting to me, when I allow myself to wax philosophical for just a moment, the many ways in which the transformation and restoration of a home can be likened unto the transformation and restoration of a heart. Humor me a moment, and I'll try to explain...
My house was old, dirty, and kind of smelled like feet. It was obvious that it had been mistreated rather than nurtured and cared for properly, and because of this lack of proper care, it was tired and sad, and it wore that sadness on its walls like battle scars.Hearts are like that, aren't they? When a human heart is not nurtured or cared for or maybe when it has even been abused and mishandled, its sadness can also translate into ugliness that is worn on the surface - an air of cynicism, a hardness in the eyes, a seemingly permanent scowl. Or maybe the sadness never finds its way out; maybe the tears are cried in instead of cried out, and maybe that heart becomes also similar to my old "before" house - lovely and manicured on the outside, with its new architectural roof and its neatly painted shutters - and only upon opening the door can one see the sadness and ugliness that has been hidden within.
My house needed the touch and the investment of someone who would care for it and restore it and be willing to call it home. It needed someone who would see all that it could be, someone who would dare to enter into its tired, bedraggled, miry state and work patiently from the inside out, making the old new again, and the dirty clean once more. You might know where I'm headed with this analogy; our hearts are like my old house. A heart needs that same restorative touch of someone who cares enough to invest in it, to enter into its filth, to clean it up and love it and - you guessed it - to call it home.
I'm so glad God seems to think like a real estate investor. I'm so thankful that He sees my potential even when I am dirty and tired and ugly and wearing my years of mistreatment on my battle-scarred walls. I'm so glad that He runs His able hand along those walls and whispers His promises to me, just as I did to my old ugly house on that first day after I bought it. And it is worth noting that I didn't wait until the house was pretty before I bought it. I bought it when it was ugly. I bought it when it smelled liked feet.
A major difference between God and myself, though: I waited until my house was somewhat pretty before I chose to move in. God is far more tenacious as a restorer, moving right in in the midst of our filth and disarray. I'm so glad that God's love is the sort of "reckless, raging fury" that moves right in and makes itself at home, even before we are the least bit able to offer him hospitality - even when, like any nasty old building, we ought to be condemned. But He doesn't condemn us. He moves in. He calls our hearts Home. That amazes me.
My nasty old house is still old, but it isn't nasty anymore (most of the time!). It is obvious now that someone loves it and cares for it and keeps it clean (most of the time!) and smelling like vanilla instead of feet. It is useful to its owner now, serving me well, allowing me to offer hospitality to others when I play hostess for gatherings and groups. We ought to do the same with our hearts as we do with our homes - invite others in, and offer hospitality and warmth from within its walls.
One more thing about my house, though - it's not exactly finished yet, you see. I haven't yet replaced the old painted cabinets in the kitchen, and that thirty-year-old countertop is now screaming to be replaced as well (in fact, just this week, one of its laminate edges broke off completely, exposing some very old pressboard guts). My house is still a work in progress... yes, much like my heart (and yours). And even once I find the time and money to finish updating the kitchen, I will still be able to open my pantry and look at about four square feet of old country-blue heart-and-flower vinyl floor, should I need to be reminded that my house has a past.
But if you ask me, a house with a past is far more interesting than a brand-new house, anyway. A house with a past has stories to tell. If only its walls could talk... what would they say, I wonder? What would they have to share?
And that, of course, is how hearts are far more lovely than houses. Hearts can speak and share and tell stories about from whence they have come. They can tell others about the mighty restorative hand that made them new again. They can tell other dirty, bedraggled, tired hearts that there is hope, that there is a creative, visionary God with a love like a reckless raging fury who is eager and willing and able to pursue them, purchase them, inhabit them, restore them, and call them home.
The old vinyl floor in the kitchen and powder room was faded and worn, not to mention conspicuously outdated, with its tiny country-blue hearts and flowers. There was no microwave (which was inconvenient, since that happens to be the one kitchen appliance that I have mastered the use of), but only a sad-looking harvest gold extractor hood, which I knew would have to go immediately. The kitchen cabinets were original (meaning only two younger than I am myself), and despite layers of white paint, they screamed "replace me!" whenever I peered in their direction. The plain, flat insulated steel entry door was dented and scuffed and had no more character than a tiny peephole at eye level, and the staircase was guarded by an unsightly one-piece black wrought iron railing, which I promised myself would be the first thing I would update.
I bought and closed on the home in April, and immediately set to the task of bringing about my vision for my new aquisition. I saw much potential hiding in the ugliness contained in its four walls, and I told it so. "You will be beautiful one day... trust me," I said as I ran my hand along one of its scuffed and scarred dirty beige walls, stained with time. The obnoxious black railing came down and I hired a stair company to build a lovely oak-and-iron balustrade with basket and twist details. The nasty old vinyl floor was covered over with wood laminate, updating the kitchen instantly (the inside of the kitchen pantry was not re-floored, however, and now whenever I reach in for the Cheerios, I am reminded of my kitchen's past life). The harvest gold hood was ripped off and replaced with a nice microwave hood, finally enabling me to cook (or, at least, to re-heat). I had the entire home repainted, in earthy tones of khaki and sage (and of course, one room in all-American-boy-blue). I replaced the front door with a charming decorative door with an integrated leaded glass window. And then I stepped back and looked at what my tired, abused old home had become, and I saw that it was good. And, seeing that it was good, I gave the house my final mark of approval: I moved in and made it my home.
It is interesting to me, when I allow myself to wax philosophical for just a moment, the many ways in which the transformation and restoration of a home can be likened unto the transformation and restoration of a heart. Humor me a moment, and I'll try to explain...
My house was old, dirty, and kind of smelled like feet. It was obvious that it had been mistreated rather than nurtured and cared for properly, and because of this lack of proper care, it was tired and sad, and it wore that sadness on its walls like battle scars.Hearts are like that, aren't they? When a human heart is not nurtured or cared for or maybe when it has even been abused and mishandled, its sadness can also translate into ugliness that is worn on the surface - an air of cynicism, a hardness in the eyes, a seemingly permanent scowl. Or maybe the sadness never finds its way out; maybe the tears are cried in instead of cried out, and maybe that heart becomes also similar to my old "before" house - lovely and manicured on the outside, with its new architectural roof and its neatly painted shutters - and only upon opening the door can one see the sadness and ugliness that has been hidden within.
My house needed the touch and the investment of someone who would care for it and restore it and be willing to call it home. It needed someone who would see all that it could be, someone who would dare to enter into its tired, bedraggled, miry state and work patiently from the inside out, making the old new again, and the dirty clean once more. You might know where I'm headed with this analogy; our hearts are like my old house. A heart needs that same restorative touch of someone who cares enough to invest in it, to enter into its filth, to clean it up and love it and - you guessed it - to call it home.
I'm so glad God seems to think like a real estate investor. I'm so thankful that He sees my potential even when I am dirty and tired and ugly and wearing my years of mistreatment on my battle-scarred walls. I'm so glad that He runs His able hand along those walls and whispers His promises to me, just as I did to my old ugly house on that first day after I bought it. And it is worth noting that I didn't wait until the house was pretty before I bought it. I bought it when it was ugly. I bought it when it smelled liked feet.
A major difference between God and myself, though: I waited until my house was somewhat pretty before I chose to move in. God is far more tenacious as a restorer, moving right in in the midst of our filth and disarray. I'm so glad that God's love is the sort of "reckless, raging fury" that moves right in and makes itself at home, even before we are the least bit able to offer him hospitality - even when, like any nasty old building, we ought to be condemned. But He doesn't condemn us. He moves in. He calls our hearts Home. That amazes me.
My nasty old house is still old, but it isn't nasty anymore (most of the time!). It is obvious now that someone loves it and cares for it and keeps it clean (most of the time!) and smelling like vanilla instead of feet. It is useful to its owner now, serving me well, allowing me to offer hospitality to others when I play hostess for gatherings and groups. We ought to do the same with our hearts as we do with our homes - invite others in, and offer hospitality and warmth from within its walls.
One more thing about my house, though - it's not exactly finished yet, you see. I haven't yet replaced the old painted cabinets in the kitchen, and that thirty-year-old countertop is now screaming to be replaced as well (in fact, just this week, one of its laminate edges broke off completely, exposing some very old pressboard guts). My house is still a work in progress... yes, much like my heart (and yours). And even once I find the time and money to finish updating the kitchen, I will still be able to open my pantry and look at about four square feet of old country-blue heart-and-flower vinyl floor, should I need to be reminded that my house has a past.
But if you ask me, a house with a past is far more interesting than a brand-new house, anyway. A house with a past has stories to tell. If only its walls could talk... what would they say, I wonder? What would they have to share?
And that, of course, is how hearts are far more lovely than houses. Hearts can speak and share and tell stories about from whence they have come. They can tell others about the mighty restorative hand that made them new again. They can tell other dirty, bedraggled, tired hearts that there is hope, that there is a creative, visionary God with a love like a reckless raging fury who is eager and willing and able to pursue them, purchase them, inhabit them, restore them, and call them home.
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