Steel Will
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Showing posts with label wounds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wounds. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 22, 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.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Overexposed
This is me. Baring my soul. It's easier to do when I'm sitting at Starbucks and you're wherever you are, and I don't need to look at you.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other randommental disorders diseases conditions, a lot of people don't think I'm telling the truth or think it's just an excuse or something everyone lives with.
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other random
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
The Most Important Lesson We Can Learn
I have three beautiful and amazing girls. They like to giggle together. They like to snuggle with each other. They like to play Little People together. And they love to fight. Around my house, there is a lot of playing noise that quickly turns into yelling and screaming noise. And then crying. And then (usually when they've been reminded), there is a quiet and sad noise:
I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.
I work at a children's advocacy center. We provide services for children who have been sexually abused. National statistics tell us that 90% of the children who are sexually abused are victimized by people they know, love, and trust. In the county where I live, it is closer to 99%. We're talking fathers, stepfathers, mothers, cousins, Dad's best friend, step siblings, babysitters. The other day, the mom of one of our clients was speaking with a group of people. She said, "My daughter is an inspiration to me. She teaches us all so much. And I know the biggest reason for her freedom and joy is something that she is teaching me: she forgave the man who did this to her."
She forgave the man who did this to her. She forgave the dear family friend who sexually abused her when he thought she was sleeping.
At the same time, there is a couple I know who are in the process of getting divorced. The reason? She had an affair.
I understand that having someone cheat on you is a horrible thing. The betrayal, the disappointment, the fear, the rejection. It is, according to many people I know, unforgivable.
And, in the case of this couple, it destroyed their marriage. Or did it? You see, she had her affair--and ended it--at least fifteen years ago. She came clean to her husband, they recommitted themselves each to their marriage and each other, and they moved past it. Or so she thought.
What really ended their marriage? Not forgiving. When he asked her to leave, he told her it was because he had never forgiven her for what she did fifteen years ago. Talk about betrayal, disappointment, fear, and rejection. Can you imagine believing that the man you love has extended grace and forgiveness--which you, self admittedly, did not deserve--only to find out that he has held on for fifteen years? That slowly, his deception has been eating away at the vows you took before God and your family and friends?
That's what not forgiving does. In Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott wrote, "Not forgiving is like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die." Amen. And then amen again.
Not forgiving destroys marriages. It robs joy. It erases freedom. It brings a slow and painful death.
Forgiving brings life. It causes joy and delivers freedom. It's hard. And it may be quiet and sad, because it's not easy, and the pain is still there. But, it says that nothing will come between us.
Spend a few hours at our house, and you will learn many lessons. You will learn how a small person with mere inches of water in the bathtub can make every square inch of the bathroom wet. You will learn that ketchup, cheese, mayo, pickles, and two slices of bread make a terrific lunch. You will learn how to giggle, transform plastic tubs into cars, and use Mom's cell phone to watch Curious George. You will also learn how to apologize. And, most importantly, you will learn how to forgive.
"I'm sorry."Immediately following, and always unprompted, there is an equally quiet and sad noise:
"I forgive you."The volume and the emotion behind it generally suggests that while not all is forgotten, and the pain still exists, the offense is forgiven. It won't come between them anymore. And, within minutes, they are giggling together.
I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.
I work at a children's advocacy center. We provide services for children who have been sexually abused. National statistics tell us that 90% of the children who are sexually abused are victimized by people they know, love, and trust. In the county where I live, it is closer to 99%. We're talking fathers, stepfathers, mothers, cousins, Dad's best friend, step siblings, babysitters. The other day, the mom of one of our clients was speaking with a group of people. She said, "My daughter is an inspiration to me. She teaches us all so much. And I know the biggest reason for her freedom and joy is something that she is teaching me: she forgave the man who did this to her."
She forgave the man who did this to her. She forgave the dear family friend who sexually abused her when he thought she was sleeping.
At the same time, there is a couple I know who are in the process of getting divorced. The reason? She had an affair.
I understand that having someone cheat on you is a horrible thing. The betrayal, the disappointment, the fear, the rejection. It is, according to many people I know, unforgivable.
And, in the case of this couple, it destroyed their marriage. Or did it? You see, she had her affair--and ended it--at least fifteen years ago. She came clean to her husband, they recommitted themselves each to their marriage and each other, and they moved past it. Or so she thought.
What really ended their marriage? Not forgiving. When he asked her to leave, he told her it was because he had never forgiven her for what she did fifteen years ago. Talk about betrayal, disappointment, fear, and rejection. Can you imagine believing that the man you love has extended grace and forgiveness--which you, self admittedly, did not deserve--only to find out that he has held on for fifteen years? That slowly, his deception has been eating away at the vows you took before God and your family and friends?
That's what not forgiving does. In Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott wrote, "Not forgiving is like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die." Amen. And then amen again.
Not forgiving destroys marriages. It robs joy. It erases freedom. It brings a slow and painful death.
Forgiving brings life. It causes joy and delivers freedom. It's hard. And it may be quiet and sad, because it's not easy, and the pain is still there. But, it says that nothing will come between us.
Spend a few hours at our house, and you will learn many lessons. You will learn how a small person with mere inches of water in the bathtub can make every square inch of the bathroom wet. You will learn that ketchup, cheese, mayo, pickles, and two slices of bread make a terrific lunch. You will learn how to giggle, transform plastic tubs into cars, and use Mom's cell phone to watch Curious George. You will also learn how to apologize. And, most importantly, you will learn how to forgive.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Enduring Injustice
I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago. As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice. And a lot of pain. But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.
There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice. Life isn't fair. Relationships hurt. We get blamed for things we didn't do. Our relationships end, and our hearts break. We want to rise up and defend ourselves. We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.
Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that. We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions.
But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.
And that's what it all comes down to. When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will. That's the point where you endure.
It hurts to be wrongfully accused. It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter. But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it.
May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan.
May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me. He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives.
And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.
There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice. Life isn't fair. Relationships hurt. We get blamed for things we didn't do. Our relationships end, and our hearts break. We want to rise up and defend ourselves. We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.
Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that. We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions.
But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.
For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God. (I Peter 3:17b-18)
And that's what it all comes down to. When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will. That's the point where you endure.
It hurts to be wrongfully accused. It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter. But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it.
May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan.
May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me. He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives.
And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Sticks, Stones, and Words
I sing on the worship team at my church. Since I love to worship and sing worship songs, and I'm generally a confident singer (as long as I have a group to sing with), it's something that I truly enjoy. We always have practice on the Wednesday before our assigned week and then get together at 8:00 on Sunday morning for a final practice.
Last week at Wednesday's practice, we had an unexpected visitor. There is a man in our neighborhood who is an alcoholic. When I say that he is a falling-down drunk, that's actually an exact representation of what he appears to be. Often a walk through the neighborhood--or simply a glance out the window--will find him stumbling down the street or through the church parking lot. He's even been known to lie down--or fall and not get up--alongside the road.
To say that's all John is, though, is a gross understatement. John is a man, a son, a brother, a friend. He knows more about the Bible than several years through it will get me, and he's a gifted song writer. He can commit Scripture to memory, turn it into song, and sing it in his Bob Dylan-esque voice with ease and style. He can elicit tears with his songs. And he has taught me so much about grace and about who I am. He is a man who struggles in a prison that refuses to turn him loose.
When he's drinking, he also has no filter.
Wednesday night at practice, we were running through "Amazing Grace (My Chains are Gone)." Because we were going to be singing it while the elders were passing the bread during Communion, we were praticing it in a contemplative fashion. That's how we ran through it the first time. Then John came in. Then we ran through the song again. I couldn't help myself. I thought about the message of the song, about chains being gone, about God calling us and then being forever ours, about John. I sang it out. I worshipped God, and I interceded for John.
When we were done, John said, "You? Becky, is it? You should be less shrill next time. Sing some harmonies or something, but you need to be less shrill." There's humility for you.
Julie, the worship leader and a close friend of mine, immediately came to my defense. She said, "Beka, you aren't shrill. You were just singing it out. And besides, I haven't adjusted the levels. You sounded great. Don't worry about it."
My immediate thought was, "The guy's drunk. Like I'm going to let someone who is drunk steal my joy." And I truly wasn't worried about it or impacted by what he said. I mean, surely I know who I am and that God has gifted me. I'm secure enough in the role I play.
Afterwards, when Julie and I talked about it, she told me that she had so quickly jumped with affirmation because she remembered some of the things I have shared with her in the past about what people have said about my singing. I'm too loud. I'm too sharp. I'm too flat. I'm unable to hold a key. I don't have a solo voice. I should practice more or stick to just passing out the song books. When she was growing up, she also heard that she couldn't hold a key, and our combined "inabilities" made us nervous about the acapella verse we sang Sunday morning. Maybe it was Ruth and Bob, or maybe it was just the Holy Spirit, or maybe we've learned how to hold a key, but we did well on that verse. It didn't stop me from being VERY CAREFUL through that whole verse, though. Because the truth is that I can't hold a key, right? That I'm shrill.
As young children we used to sing, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." Who were we kidding? Were we trying to convince ourselves not to care so much? Because that little line couldn't be further from the truth. The wounds from sticks and stones fade with time. Broken bones heal. But words? They stick with you. They make you very careful. They make you cry, even 25 years later. They make you scared.
Think about that today. What words are you saying today that are reinforcing what someone already "knows" about themselves? What words are you saying that confirm their weaknesses--or at least the weaknesses others have assigned to them? What words are you saying that are instilling fear or creating pain? Let's use our words to extend grace and healing and peace. To remove fear. To encourage. To affirm. Maybe those words will last, too.
Last week at Wednesday's practice, we had an unexpected visitor. There is a man in our neighborhood who is an alcoholic. When I say that he is a falling-down drunk, that's actually an exact representation of what he appears to be. Often a walk through the neighborhood--or simply a glance out the window--will find him stumbling down the street or through the church parking lot. He's even been known to lie down--or fall and not get up--alongside the road.
To say that's all John is, though, is a gross understatement. John is a man, a son, a brother, a friend. He knows more about the Bible than several years through it will get me, and he's a gifted song writer. He can commit Scripture to memory, turn it into song, and sing it in his Bob Dylan-esque voice with ease and style. He can elicit tears with his songs. And he has taught me so much about grace and about who I am. He is a man who struggles in a prison that refuses to turn him loose.
When he's drinking, he also has no filter.
Wednesday night at practice, we were running through "Amazing Grace (My Chains are Gone)." Because we were going to be singing it while the elders were passing the bread during Communion, we were praticing it in a contemplative fashion. That's how we ran through it the first time. Then John came in. Then we ran through the song again. I couldn't help myself. I thought about the message of the song, about chains being gone, about God calling us and then being forever ours, about John. I sang it out. I worshipped God, and I interceded for John.
When we were done, John said, "You? Becky, is it? You should be less shrill next time. Sing some harmonies or something, but you need to be less shrill." There's humility for you.
Julie, the worship leader and a close friend of mine, immediately came to my defense. She said, "Beka, you aren't shrill. You were just singing it out. And besides, I haven't adjusted the levels. You sounded great. Don't worry about it."
My immediate thought was, "The guy's drunk. Like I'm going to let someone who is drunk steal my joy." And I truly wasn't worried about it or impacted by what he said. I mean, surely I know who I am and that God has gifted me. I'm secure enough in the role I play.
Afterwards, when Julie and I talked about it, she told me that she had so quickly jumped with affirmation because she remembered some of the things I have shared with her in the past about what people have said about my singing. I'm too loud. I'm too sharp. I'm too flat. I'm unable to hold a key. I don't have a solo voice. I should practice more or stick to just passing out the song books. When she was growing up, she also heard that she couldn't hold a key, and our combined "inabilities" made us nervous about the acapella verse we sang Sunday morning. Maybe it was Ruth and Bob, or maybe it was just the Holy Spirit, or maybe we've learned how to hold a key, but we did well on that verse. It didn't stop me from being VERY CAREFUL through that whole verse, though. Because the truth is that I can't hold a key, right? That I'm shrill.
As young children we used to sing, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." Who were we kidding? Were we trying to convince ourselves not to care so much? Because that little line couldn't be further from the truth. The wounds from sticks and stones fade with time. Broken bones heal. But words? They stick with you. They make you very careful. They make you cry, even 25 years later. They make you scared.
Think about that today. What words are you saying today that are reinforcing what someone already "knows" about themselves? What words are you saying that confirm their weaknesses--or at least the weaknesses others have assigned to them? What words are you saying that are instilling fear or creating pain? Let's use our words to extend grace and healing and peace. To remove fear. To encourage. To affirm. Maybe those words will last, too.
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