I meant to share this a while ago, when I first took my three daughters (and my dad) to see "How To Train Your Dragon 2" over the summer. But then life happened (or laziness ensued or distraction set in or insert any other excuse here), and I didn't get around to it. Then my nieces watched it during our family Christmas celebration, and news events happened in our country, and I was reminded.
So, in the theme of things as I close out 2014, better late than never.
While I was watching "How to Train Your Dragon 2," two themes kept coming to mind. They, coupled with something I listened to myself whisper as I held my frightened four-year-old daughter on my lap, made up three truths about life I've learned over the last several years. And, as I watch the news each day, I see how essential it is that I teach them to my girls.
It's been too long for me to give specific references to the film, and maybe they aren't even as important as real-life examples, so here goes nothing.
1) Talking and getting to know new people is better than fighting.
Our country is on the cusp of something major. In college I studied the Civil Rights Movement, and in the cry of silent protesters and angry crowds I see so much history being repeated. On another front there are lines being drawn about gay rights and transgender individuals and what is Christian and what is right. Then there is addiction--both the addicts themselves and the people who desperately love them and want to be enough for them . . .
We're in a mess of hurting people, and "we" as the Church are too often stepping up to the wrong side of those lines. Yes. There is right and there is wrong. But God never asked us to judge the heart of man. He asked us to love His children. If I insist on pointing out the right and the wrong and ignore the brokenness and desperation, am I doing that? No. So. Talking and getting to know people is better than fighting. We need each other. We need each other for what we can learn from people who are different than us, and we need each other for what we can share with people who are different than us. And, most importantly, we need each other because without each other I'm not sure we can ever see a true picture of the God who created each of us.
2) Work together to fight the bullies.
Maybe this lends itself to #1 up there. We. Need. Each. Other. Period. There's nothing more to it than that. There are bullies in this world. Some of them are big and physically violent. Some of them are small and insidious. Some of them are in the pews next to us in our churches. Some of them stand in our capitol buildings. Some of them wear a badge and carry a gun. Some of them work on our news stations or in a cubicle next to us.
But, it's important to remember that not all of the people in those roles are bullies.
As I'm involved in a Global Learners' Initiative through my daughters' school district I have learned one important lesson: NEVER go alone. Find a friend. A buddy. Someone who has your back. Because here's the thing. The bullies are tough. Their insecurities and ignorance and hatred make them formidable, and their desperation makes them dangerous.
So don't go alone.
Let's join together. Alone we can get killed. Alone we can bend and break under the pressure. Alone we can get laughed out of the room.
If you see a bully who needs to be fought, ask a friend to join you. If you see a friend who's fighting a battle, join in. Don't quarrel about differences in technique or philosophy or theology or interpretation. Just fight alongside someone who needs it.
Fight the bullies with truth and goodness. Maybe we'll get beaten in this battle. But we'll win the war.
3) "It might get scary, but it will be okay."
This one is my favorite. During the great battle scene at the end of the moview, my youngest daughter crawled onto my lap and whispered that she was scared. I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tightly, and whispered back, "Baby, it will be okay. It might get scary, but it will be okay."
There is truth to this, I realized as I heard my words. That's life, friends. It gets scary sometimes. But it will be okay.
What a year my family had closing out 2013 and throughout 2014. We were betrayed by friends--publicly. Lies were told. Tears were shed. Curse words were uttered. Truth is still taking its time stepping into the light. In the middle of all of it, a brother ended his fight with PTSD. And now, at the end of it (we thought), my dad has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. His prognosis is good, though the cancer is aggressive. Still, it's cancer. There will be surgery and, depending on what the doctors find, maybe treatments.
It might get scary, but it will be okay.
We have faith. And we have God. And we have each other. And we have grace. And we know that in the end, it will all be okay.
Let these three lessons carry us into the new year, friends. Let this be the year that the Church stops caring about semantics and starts caring about the heart of Christ. Let this be the year that the bullies are fought against and that the bullied find us standing with them. Let this be the year of hope in the midst of the fear that everything really will work out in the end. And, in the middle of it all, let us find grace and love and joy.
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
Finding Hope
I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter. (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me. Any time I'm around books.)
It's a long, long book. Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read. Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else. At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long. And then he says it. On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
And that's it.
That's what all these things have in common.
And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers. Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research. And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza. Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.
"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years. The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds. But they have hope.
I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD. He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was. But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.
For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me. It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it. Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it. Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings. Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School. We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died. And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere." Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.
As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction. And all I have to offer them is this.
Life is messy.
Life is violent.
Life is confusing.
But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.
It's a long, long book. Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read. Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else. At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long. And then he says it. On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
And that's it.
That's what all these things have in common.
And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers. Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research. And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza. Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.
"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."
I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years. The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds. But they have hope.
I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD. He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was. But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.
For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me. It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it. Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it. Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings. Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School. We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died. And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere." Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.
As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction. And all I have to offer them is this.
Life is messy.
Life is violent.
Life is confusing.
But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.
Oh, my God. He will not delay.{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always. Always.
Sunday, November 04, 2012
For When Your Hope is Gone
A while back, I read a series of books called The Chaos Walking.
It wasn't a series that I loved, but I did find some good "nuggets" in it. One of those I have wanted to share in its a blog post all by itself. Then life happened. While I've spent the past couple of months trying to catch up with my life (how is it November already?!), I have also spent the past couple of months being too busy to be a friend to some of the important people in my life. This post is for them, with my apology for neglecting to share this sooner or enough. But it's also a reminder that while I may not have asked or hugged or listened as much as I wish I had, I never stopped believing.
There is a key to friendship and to being a true friend. It is, quite often, the only key that I can offer to my friends. For those of you who are Bible readers--or who have spent much time with me when we're sharing our stories--please think back to the story of the quadriplegic man who was carried on a mat by his four friends. Remember that they climbed up a ladder to the roof of a house that was crowded with people following Jesus. The friends carried their paralyzed buddy to the roof, broke through the roof, and lowered their friend to Jesus' feet. They loved their friend, so they bore the burden of taking him to the feet of the only One who could remove his burden. Nothing could stop them, because they loved their friend. All the friend had to do was lie there.
Now that can be difficult, and much can be said about that important role, but for today I need to focus on the friends. That's the role I'm privileged to be in for now, especially with two dear friends. So, for them, I am sorry that I haven't carried fast enough or far enough. But I want you to know that when your hope is gone, I will carry you. When your hope is gone, I will bear your burden and carry you to the feet of the One who can ease your burden. Who can hold you close. Who longs to embrace you. And I will count it a blessing.
Two messages for you, for when your hope is gone:
But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God's loyal love couldn't have run out,
his merciful love couldn't have dried up.
They're created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He's all I've got left.
...The "worst" is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won't ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
(Lamentations 3:22-24 and 31-33, The Message)
AND
God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense. Believe it, dear friends. And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.
It wasn't a series that I loved, but I did find some good "nuggets" in it. One of those I have wanted to share in its a blog post all by itself. Then life happened. While I've spent the past couple of months trying to catch up with my life (how is it November already?!), I have also spent the past couple of months being too busy to be a friend to some of the important people in my life. This post is for them, with my apology for neglecting to share this sooner or enough. But it's also a reminder that while I may not have asked or hugged or listened as much as I wish I had, I never stopped believing.
There is a key to friendship and to being a true friend. It is, quite often, the only key that I can offer to my friends. For those of you who are Bible readers--or who have spent much time with me when we're sharing our stories--please think back to the story of the quadriplegic man who was carried on a mat by his four friends. Remember that they climbed up a ladder to the roof of a house that was crowded with people following Jesus. The friends carried their paralyzed buddy to the roof, broke through the roof, and lowered their friend to Jesus' feet. They loved their friend, so they bore the burden of taking him to the feet of the only One who could remove his burden. Nothing could stop them, because they loved their friend. All the friend had to do was lie there.
Now that can be difficult, and much can be said about that important role, but for today I need to focus on the friends. That's the role I'm privileged to be in for now, especially with two dear friends. So, for them, I am sorry that I haven't carried fast enough or far enough. But I want you to know that when your hope is gone, I will carry you. When your hope is gone, I will bear your burden and carry you to the feet of the One who can ease your burden. Who can hold you close. Who longs to embrace you. And I will count it a blessing.
Two messages for you, for when your hope is gone:
But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God's loyal love couldn't have run out,
his merciful love couldn't have dried up.
They're created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He's all I've got left.
...The "worst" is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won't ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
(Lamentations 3:22-24 and 31-33, The Message)
AND
“Hope,” he says, squeezing my arm on the word. “It’s
hope. I am looking into yer eyes right now and I am telling you that
there’s hope for you, hope for you both.” He looks up at Viola and back
at me. “There’s hope waiting for you at the end of the road.”
“You don’t know that,” Viola says and my Noise, as much as I
don’t want it to, agrees with her.
“No,” Ben says, “But I believe it. I believe it for
you. And that’s why it’s hope.”
“Ben—“
“Even if you don’t believe it,” he says, “believe that I
do.”
(The Knife of Never Letting Go, p376, Patrick Ness)
God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense. Believe it, dear friends. And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.
Friday, June 08, 2012
Thoughts On Saying Goodbye
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that. His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died. He was 67. He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Who I Am In The Dark
This is for my pastor, who took me to task for claiming there were lots of thought-provoking moments from our service on Sunday and then only posting a video from someone else. (It was a jest-filled taking to task, like much of the evening was, but I still feel I owe him one.) So, Pastor Tim, this is for you.
For the past several weeks, our pastor has been delivering messages about community and truly caring for each other:
That's who I am in the dark.
But there's something more that hit me.
"Who am I . . . when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?"
Maybe that's one of the other reasons I need to keep my doors open to let my neighbors in. If they're in, then I can't be someone else, can I? Because I can't hide. I'm not in the dark if I'm always willing to walk in the light--with Jesus and with others.
So this is the truth, who I am in the dark. The truth is that I need God. I am sick, and I can't make it on my own. I need Him to help me give and be kind and love. The truth is also that I need others. Even when I want to be apart from them, I need them to keep me accountable and help me to be who I truly am. Whole and undiminished.
For the past several weeks, our pastor has been delivering messages about community and truly caring for each other:
- On April 15, we were challenged by John 21:1-19 when Jesus calls Peter to demonstrate his love for Jesus by feeding His sheep. It was explained that Jesus had taken His disciples full circle. He called them to Himself by making them fishers of men. He called them, Pastor Tim said, to bring people from one kingdom into another--they were to rescue them from the sea (representative of chaos and despair) and bring them into peace and joy. After His resurrection, Jesus again calls them to Himself by telling them to feed His lambs. He called them to carry on His work of being an unconditional and true friend to to the broken by meeting their deepest needs.
- On April 22, Dr. Branson Parler filled in for Pastor Tim, and he preached about freedom. His text was Galatians 5:13-6:2, and he spoke about the truth of freedom. So often we consider Christianity as a list of don'ts, and we want to rebel against that. The truth is that through Christianity, we are free to be whom God has actually created us to be. We want to be free from others when God is calling us to be free to be with others and to care for them.
- This past Sunday, Pastor Tim taught on integrity. Webster defines "integrity" as "firm adherence to a code of especially moral . . . values; un unimpaired condition; the quality or state of being complete or undivided." I like the way that dictionary.com states that final definition: "the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished." Being whole . . . undiminshed. God calls us to a whole and undiminshed relationship with Him, and with others. It does no good for anyone for me to pretend to be someone other than who I am. When I do that, I'm hiding something--I'm in bondage to a facade, an act--and I'm not free to fully love others. There's freedom in Christ. There's freedom in the humilty of falling on my face at the cross and saying, "God, I don't have it all together." There's freedom in admitting that same truth to others. There's freedom in integrity, in being whole and undiminished, complete and undivided.
Now here is my secret; I tell it to you with an openness of heart that I doubt I shall ever achieve again, so I pray that you are in a quiet room as you hear these words. My secret is that I need God--that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem capable of giving; to help me to be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love.
That's who I am in the dark.
But there's something more that hit me.
"Who am I . . . when my windows and doors are shutting my neighbors out?"
Maybe that's one of the other reasons I need to keep my doors open to let my neighbors in. If they're in, then I can't be someone else, can I? Because I can't hide. I'm not in the dark if I'm always willing to walk in the light--with Jesus and with others.
So this is the truth, who I am in the dark. The truth is that I need God. I am sick, and I can't make it on my own. I need Him to help me give and be kind and love. The truth is also that I need others. Even when I want to be apart from them, I need them to keep me accountable and help me to be who I truly am. Whole and undiminished.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
That Doesn't Make It Easy
For the past few weeks, our pastor has been preaching about loving well and what it means to be true community to each other. Two weeks ago he preached about "loving stupid people" and talked about how each of us is "stupid" from time to time. We're stupid when we fall into the same sinful traps over and over again. We're stupid when we are rude and short tempered. We're stupid when we ignore the presence of God in our lives and instead focus on all that we don't have and our discontent. We're stupid when the choices we make destroy ourselves or our relationships. We're all stupid from time to time.
In order to love stupid people (and hopefully be loved in return when we're stupid), we may need to speak the truth to them. We may need to call them on their stupidity. Or, we may just need to take the time to ask them how they are and really listen. Maybe there's something more to their stupidity. Maybe they are pessimistic because they can't allow themselves to believe that they deserve good things. Maybe they drink too much or don't smile enough or are critical and grumpy because of a deep hurt they've endured. And maybe if we take a minute to ask and to truly listen, we just might find a way to gently restore them into optimism or even joy.
I've had a rough couple of weeks on a lot of levels, and there is someone in my life who is especially hard to love right now. This person is (dare I say it out loud) stupid. I think that in the past several weeks, I believe I have specifically referred to this person as an idiot, crazy, incapable, and a host of other lovely and Christian things. (Yeah, right.) God brought all of this to mind as I sat cringing my way through the sermon. And He told me that I don't get to speak harshly about this person or be impatient in our dealings or be proud about how I have it all together and this person doesn't. It totally sucked. But I prayed, and I began my dealings with this person with this new and humble heart. I thought that maybe if I approached our dealings with love and humility, then maybe I would have the opportunity to ask--and really mean--"Are you okay? Because there seems to be a lot going on with you."
I wish I could say I've been perfect at it. I haven't. I'm truly a work in progress. The occasions I had to talk with this person over the past week have been markedly different--in my mind and attitude at least. I don't know if this person felt any different about me or my attitude, but I certainly did.I forced myself God gave me the ability to see this person through His eyes and as someone that He created in His own image and died for.
But boy, it was not easy.
I was reminded that just because it's right does not make it easy. Just because I decided to change my attitude and approach doesn't mean anyone else around me did. And it didn't make the person less "stupid." Recently a friend of mine and I had a conversation about another friend we needed to "confront" with humble and loving truth. We needed to do it, because we were the only people who could, and it had to be done. So I gave an early morning pep talk and then made my friend do it--while I stayed behind praying, of course. She did it, and it was received well, and our friendship--our community--has been honored. But that didn't make it easy.
Maybe that's what tough love, loving stupid people even when they don't change, and speaking the truth in love is all about. It's not easy. It's not easy for the person who is hearing it, nor is it easy for the person who is doing it. But it's still the right thing to do.
In order to love stupid people (and hopefully be loved in return when we're stupid), we may need to speak the truth to them. We may need to call them on their stupidity. Or, we may just need to take the time to ask them how they are and really listen. Maybe there's something more to their stupidity. Maybe they are pessimistic because they can't allow themselves to believe that they deserve good things. Maybe they drink too much or don't smile enough or are critical and grumpy because of a deep hurt they've endured. And maybe if we take a minute to ask and to truly listen, we just might find a way to gently restore them into optimism or even joy.
I've had a rough couple of weeks on a lot of levels, and there is someone in my life who is especially hard to love right now. This person is (dare I say it out loud) stupid. I think that in the past several weeks, I believe I have specifically referred to this person as an idiot, crazy, incapable, and a host of other lovely and Christian things. (Yeah, right.) God brought all of this to mind as I sat cringing my way through the sermon. And He told me that I don't get to speak harshly about this person or be impatient in our dealings or be proud about how I have it all together and this person doesn't. It totally sucked. But I prayed, and I began my dealings with this person with this new and humble heart. I thought that maybe if I approached our dealings with love and humility, then maybe I would have the opportunity to ask--and really mean--"Are you okay? Because there seems to be a lot going on with you."
I wish I could say I've been perfect at it. I haven't. I'm truly a work in progress. The occasions I had to talk with this person over the past week have been markedly different--in my mind and attitude at least. I don't know if this person felt any different about me or my attitude, but I certainly did.
But boy, it was not easy.
I was reminded that just because it's right does not make it easy. Just because I decided to change my attitude and approach doesn't mean anyone else around me did. And it didn't make the person less "stupid." Recently a friend of mine and I had a conversation about another friend we needed to "confront" with humble and loving truth. We needed to do it, because we were the only people who could, and it had to be done. So I gave an early morning pep talk and then made my friend do it--while I stayed behind praying, of course. She did it, and it was received well, and our friendship--our community--has been honored. But that didn't make it easy.
Maybe that's what tough love, loving stupid people even when they don't change, and speaking the truth in love is all about. It's not easy. It's not easy for the person who is hearing it, nor is it easy for the person who is doing it. But it's still the right thing to do.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
I'll Get By With a Little Help From My Friends
Oh, Tuesday morning, 5:15 came far too early. Monday nights are always a late night for me, because I can't resist staying up late to get my Scott Caan Hawaii Five-0 fix. Last night meeting my 2012 goals meant a bit of a late start for my television viewing, and I kept forgetting to fast forward through the commercials. That all led to me not getting into bed until about 11:30 p.m. I knew that 5:00 alarm was going to feel like only minutes after my head hit the pillow.
It did.
Thankfully I had a hot date at the gym this morning, and she was picking me up at 5:15 a.m. I'm grateful that I didn't have a choice to sleep in and just "go later" (ie. not at all) because Leah was going to be waiting in front of my house. I didn't want her to start honking or anything and waking up the rest of the neighborhood so everyone would know that I slacked off! And then there was the mutual fear we shared that our friend Eric would show up at the gym at 6:00 a.m. and report to all he knew that we were missing. (Let me note publicly that we were there, and he was not.)
Chatty Leah and Chatty Beka probably annoyed most of the rest of the gym goers, but it surely made my 35 minutes on the treadmill feel about as short as my night of sleep felt. And, I have to say, I was actually pretty excited about going to the gym this morning.
After the gym, I made some tea and did my reading for today and spent some time in prayer. Three days down. How many more to make this a habit? Grateful to have some friends to help me make it there.
It did.
Thankfully I had a hot date at the gym this morning, and she was picking me up at 5:15 a.m. I'm grateful that I didn't have a choice to sleep in and just "go later" (ie. not at all) because Leah was going to be waiting in front of my house. I didn't want her to start honking or anything and waking up the rest of the neighborhood so everyone would know that I slacked off! And then there was the mutual fear we shared that our friend Eric would show up at the gym at 6:00 a.m. and report to all he knew that we were missing. (Let me note publicly that we were there, and he was not.)
Chatty Leah and Chatty Beka probably annoyed most of the rest of the gym goers, but it surely made my 35 minutes on the treadmill feel about as short as my night of sleep felt. And, I have to say, I was actually pretty excited about going to the gym this morning.
After the gym, I made some tea and did my reading for today and spent some time in prayer. Three days down. How many more to make this a habit? Grateful to have some friends to help me make it there.
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