Another month was about to go into
the history annals. As the last weekend in January approached, my excitement
meter ticked higher. Even though I was usually still by myself in the bedroom
on Saturdays and Sundays, the weekends became pleasant diversions from the
boring weekday routine. I guess it was just nice knowing that I wasn’t alone in
the house, and those voices filtering through the house and ringing off the
walls soothed my psyche.
Parker, never a Saturday morning
cartoon-type, would bound downstairs and snuggle next to me to briefly watch
the latest in floozy entertainment and junk food commercials. It was the
commercials to which he seemed most attracted. The commercials displaying
epicurean kiddy goodies that never passed through the doors of our home. Goodies
he convinced himself he’d perish without.
Fortunately, he disliked most of the
animated shows, because they were “too strange and scary,” and he eventually
grasped the sales pitch formula after my repeated explanations about their
motives.
After an hour or so, back upstairs
he’d bound to resume his intense marathon bouts of constructing Lego airports,
fire trucks, buildings, and innumerable creations tumbling uninterrupted from
his imagination.
Being the sensitive, concerned type,
I think he really only came down to keep me company for a while. And I was
grateful.
Sunday mornings were highlights of
the week, when I’d watch the morning lineup of television evangelists,
particularly Dr. Charles Stanley. I so very much missed attending church
services and felt guilty about not being able to maintain weekly, corporate
worship. But Dr. Stanley and his messages brought me renewed hope and promise,
and He introduced me to a God I hadn’t heard about in a very long time. (Or if
I had been told about Him, I hadn’t been listening very well.) A God with perfect
ideals and lofty expectations for His children. He introduced me to a loving,
uncompromising God who is always there for me. A God who never forsakes His
own, who is eternally and perfectly faithful, and intensely personal—if one
allows Him to be Lord over their life.
I started to learn my way around the
Bible, and one day I “happened” to swivel my radio dial to a local Christian
station. Some of the programs I found offensive, since I wasn’t in the mood, or
ready, to be “preached at.” I certainly didn’t think I needed anyone telling me
how I should be living my life. Although I didn’t need “saving,” I certainly
needed the next step in discipleship: biblical instruction on godly living.
I was still picking and choosing
according to my comfort zone—like a child carefully examining a candy display
case, thinking, counting out his limited pennies to spend, carefully selecting
and pointing out his choices. My flesh wasn’t yet ready for all the truth. And
the term “lordship” rankled my pride and stiffened my neck hairs, not to
mention what the terms “submission” and “denial of self” did to me.
Denial
of self! As a competitive athlete, I’d been trained to apply heroic efforts
to positioning, validating and asserting my self!
And to compound that, I’d grown up in the have-it-your-way (actually, fight vehemently for your way), and
feed-your-ego-and-bolster-your-self-esteem-any-way-you-can generation. We
didn’t possess a techie Gen X, Y, Z or Millenials moniker. We were officially
christened “The Me Generation,” and there was a good reason for that title.
And, as so many believers still
nursing on spiritual baby food, I was content to suck on that bottle and mix it
with the flavoring of the world’s wisdom.
I did manage to read some Christian
books my dad shipped to me, about the history of Christianity following Jesus,
but that lying-on-my-back-holding-a-heavy-book-over-my-head-to-read act never
lasted very long. My arms always gave out. Even lying on my side and propping
the opened book up next to me sent my eyeballs into figure eight patterns.
Yet slowly, consistently, the
dormant desire for more knowledge of the faith I professed to hold—and the
cornerstone of that faith, Jesus Christ—wormed its way to my heart’s surface
and my soul’s core. The world of complete truth was opening up to me, like a
curtain slowly gathered back to let the sunshine in. And it was now uncluttered
by the “truth” of my Jehovah’s Witnesses friends because their visits had to be
canceled due to my precarious condition.
The brilliant silver lining of my
existence: Just God and me in His
classroom.
Truth.
Real truth. That’s what I needed. And I now know that I wouldn’t have gone
searching for it unless I wasn’t prodded firmly into a position—through utter
weakness and surrender—to seek it.
As I’ve stated so often, God had me
right where He wanted me, right where I needed to be for Him to get my undivided
attention and shape me into a vessel the way He wanted to shape. To slap my
human clay on the spinning pottery wheel, stick me in the fire to burn off the
dross and shape me into something beautiful, something He could be proud of. Something
He could hold up and say, with a satisfied smile, “Well done!” Something that
perfectly reflects Him.
Slowly, methodically, day by endless
day, He was dismantling that stubborn Me Generation pride, without me even
realizing it.
oOo
Have you ever wondered what’s going
on in your life? Especially when not-so-great things are happening? When life
gets tough. When the bottom of it has dropped out. When there’s no crack in the
clouds that seem to stretch endlessly permanently on in the dark sky.
I’ll give you an early heads-up on
what I learned from all of this mental pain and physical torture: God’s in the
vessel shaping and pruning business. Neither of which are comfortable.
Ever watch a master jeweler shape a
gorgeous piece of jewelry? A one-of-a-kind masterpiece? The metal doesn’t look
like much when he starts. First, he sketches a design on paper or
computer. Then he makes a wax model or mold for a template. He melts, fires,
bends, (often with sharp, needle-nosed pliers) and snips, shapes and grinds and
polishes, removing every nick, burr and flaw. Then he applies a brilliant rock
that’s also been cut and highly polished. He's meticulous in his work. It’s labor intensive, time consuming and often slow. But the result is stunning, and often worth millions.
It’s priceless.
Just like you.
What I learned was to ask,
especially in the middle of pain, heartache and the unknown: “What are you
trying to teach me here, God?” What do you want me to learn from this? Teach me
now, not later!”
I’ve learned to lean into whatever’s
going on, to pick God’s brain for answers. To reason with Him, as He calls us
to do. Instead of resisting and fighting, I want to walk right alongside Him on
the journey, stuck to His side. Learning, growing, becoming one with Him. Absorbing
His knowledge and wisdom like an ocean sponge soaks up sea water.
It’s not always easy. There’s so
much that gets me, and my mind, sidetracked.
But living that way helps take my
focus off of me and lay it squarely where it should be—on God.
And that reminds me on which piece
of the jeweler’s loop I’m stationed.
And that quickly reminds me that He
is the Master Craftsman.
And His designs are always original
and precious.
And exquisitely beautiful!
Like you.
__________________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Superbowls and simples pleasures…
__________________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
No comments:
Post a Comment