The words "Heap Coals" keeps hanging around my spirit. My mind turns it over and digests the possible meanings behind Proverbs 25 verse 21 and 22. It is amazing how differently time or circumstance can cause us to approach the same scripture. When I am hurt by someone I want the coals created by my kindness to hurt them back. The kindness I seek to show is "revenge kindness" if there is such a term. It's a "God is gonna getcha" kind of thing and I want to be able to feel smug in that.
The truth of the matter is I have a hard time believing that a God of love, patience and kindness wants us to show kindness for the sake of revenge. It just seems like a wrong motivation. (Bear with me I am coming to a point.)
We associate heaping coals with the physical. Coals on the head sound painful, dumping coals on someone seems an act of aggression. Sometimes I want to dump coals on people's heads myself, but no...God says let him do it. He gets to have all the fun.
The difference rests in the hand that delivers the coals and the motive of the heart that is "dumping" them. From his Cross Jesus's words were "Father God forgive them for they know not what they do." Only God is fit to judge whether someone that wronged another truly and spiritually understood what he or she was doing. The coals that are spoken of become a tool in God's hands, not for revenge, not to destroy but to purge what is in that person's life that is keeping him/her bound up or hurting others. Let's face it we have all been purged by fire so maybe we wronged another and that person was kind so God dumped the coals on us without us even realizing it! When God said it was His will that all men be saved and come to a knowledge of Christ that statement came with the implications of God's work on all men. Perhaps some coals are dumped to relight the fire within a soul that has grown dim by pain and confusion. Maybe the coals are to warm a cold heart. Maybe there is no revenge intended in that scripture but a deeper meaning of what making the sacrifice to show kindness to someone that hurts us can do. The Lord will reward you because you put aside yourself and through your kindness opened the path for a work to be done in someone that needs God as much as you do. The coals will hurt but only in as much as it takes to bring healing and restoration.
We have all fallen short of the Glory of God. Our job is to heap kindness and open the path for God to heap the coals.
This has been on my mind a lot lately. I hope it is ok that I shared it.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Tides of Life
If all of a sudden
It appeared to you
That every promise I have made
Seems to be untrue
Would you love Me still
And continue to desire My will?
If the tides of life carried you
To such uncertain places
That you felt you were facing things
Not every person faces,
And it seemed the hands of time itself
Were tearing you apart;
Would you still believe in Me
Or would you doubt my heart?
If I were utterly breaking you
And you beheld the dust
Could you turn your face to Me
And say, "Lord, here's my trust"?
Would you know I know it's difficult
For you to understand
And give me time to do the work
Fashioned for my hands?
If you felt consumed in flames
And in weariness grew tired
Would you recognize me
As the All Consuming Fire?
I don't do these things
To hurt or to destroy
But to purify you
And to give eternal joy.
The tides of life may carry you
To places you don't know
But there is nowhere you can be
That I have not first flowed.
Kim DuBose
Written December 1998
I felt impressed upon to share this. I hope it blesses and encourages.
If all of a sudden
It appeared to you
That every promise I have made
Seems to be untrue
Would you love Me still
And continue to desire My will?
If the tides of life carried you
To such uncertain places
That you felt you were facing things
Not every person faces,
And it seemed the hands of time itself
Were tearing you apart;
Would you still believe in Me
Or would you doubt my heart?
If I were utterly breaking you
And you beheld the dust
Could you turn your face to Me
And say, "Lord, here's my trust"?
Would you know I know it's difficult
For you to understand
And give me time to do the work
Fashioned for my hands?
If you felt consumed in flames
And in weariness grew tired
Would you recognize me
As the All Consuming Fire?
I don't do these things
To hurt or to destroy
But to purify you
And to give eternal joy.
The tides of life may carry you
To places you don't know
But there is nowhere you can be
That I have not first flowed.
Kim DuBose
Written December 1998
I felt impressed upon to share this. I hope it blesses and encourages.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Opposing God
People do not realize that when they disagree with the Word of God, they disagree with God Himself.
Don't let celebrities and other ignorant people tell you who God is.
Don't let celebrities and other ignorant people tell you who God is.
1 Thessalonians 4:1 Finally then, brethren, we request and exhort you in the Lord Jesus, that as you received from us instruction as to how you ought to walk and please God (just as you actually do walk), that you excel still more. 2 For you know what commandments we gave you by the authority of the Lord Jesus. 3 For this is the will of God, your sanctification; that is, that you abstain from sexual immorality; 4 that each of you know how to possess his own vessel in sanctification and honor, 5 not in lustful passion, like the Gentiles who do not know God; 6 and that no man transgress and defraud his brother in the matter because the Lord is the avenger in all these things, just as we also told you before and solemnly warned you. 7 For God has not called us for the purpose of impurity, but in sanctification. 8 So, he who rejects this is not rejecting man but the God who gives His Holy Spirit to you.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012
Sister
Ah, sweet sister!
There you are hiding.
Depths like a cistern,
Still unabiding.
Eyes that lull to
The pelandrone's tune
The hands going slack,
Resting too soon
In the complacency
That quickly deceives,
That says, "This is life
The effort's to breathe!"
I know there is more
Than breath of day,
Than the empty anger
You always display.
Sister, have you never been loved
In that perfectly simplistic depth?
Held in the bonds of truest family,
So completely, you wept?
Sister, there is too much despair
For you to be cruel to yourself.
Inwardly you tear out your hair
You long to be someone else.
It would be easier.
No-one has made your mistakes
And must live with what you know,
Aware of the give and take,
The exchange between mind and soul
That creates guilt from toleration.
Penance through self-degradation.
When will the veiled attempts
To reveal the real
Become the reality
And allow you to heal?
I am your sister and your friend.
Loyal to the good you are within
You run hard to catch up to your sin,
Push it behind to relive it all again.
I run the circles, ever by your side,
Praying you won't sink when you subside
Praying even though I'm pushed aside.
Seeing you from where you try to hide,
Believing in the love you hold inside.
To the sister who has only ever believed in her outer beauty but not her inner beauty.
Sister
Ah, sweet sister!
There you are hiding.
Depths like a cistern,
Still unabiding.
Eyes that lull to
The pelandrone's tune
The hands going slack,
Resting too soon
In the complacency
That quickly deceives,
That says, "This is life
The effort's to breathe!"
I know there is more
Than breath of day,
Than the empty anger
You always display.
Sister, have you never been loved
In that perfectly simplistic depth?
Held in the bonds of truest family,
So completely, you wept?
Sister, there is too much despair
For you to be cruel to yourself.
Inwardly you tear out your hair
You long to be someone else.
It would be easier.
No-one has made your mistakes
And must live with what you know,
Aware of the give and take,
The exchange between mind and soul
That creates guilt from toleration.
Penance through self-degradation.
When will the veiled attempts
To reveal the real
Become the reality
And allow you to heal?
I am your sister and your friend.
Loyal to the good you are within
You run hard to catch up to your sin,
Push it behind to relive it all again.
I run the circles, ever by your side,
Praying you won't sink when you subside
Praying even though I'm pushed aside.
Seeing you from where you try to hide,
Believing in the love you hold inside.
To the sister who has only ever believed in her outer beauty but not her inner beauty.
The Potter's Hands (written 11-19-99)
The potter's hands worked dilegently,
Continuous, consistently,
To shape the clay that lay upon His wheel.
Difficult though the vessel was,
He never once gave up his cause,
Determined to see completion thus fulfilled.
I saw tears forming in His eyes
And wondered why the Creator cried
Until I saw the broken pieces in His hand.
As I watched him set them down,
I was stunned at what I found,
Those pieces were the spirit of a man...
So ravaged by the effects of abuse,
Neglected, beaten, despised, misused,
The world left barely anything at all;
Yet somewhere between sorrow and grief
Lay a strength beyond belief
And as deep calls out to deep
In the rush of a waterfall,
So called the man in desperate need,
God's love began to intercede
And...
God the shaper and the potter sat at his wheel.
This man's soul was turned to dust
But somehow he continued to trust
Never doubting God's ability to heal.
As the tears fell from the Potter's eyes
Upon that which was so parched and dry
The dust began to take another form.
In the Potter's hands this form took shape,
I watched God working to create
From a spirit, shattered by the sorrow he had worn
A man of God- completed
Through God's love now undefeated,
Mended as though he never had been torn.
By Kim DuBose
A person cannot let go of the past until he or she knows there is something tangible to reach for.
The potter's hands worked dilegently,
Continuous, consistently,
To shape the clay that lay upon His wheel.
Difficult though the vessel was,
He never once gave up his cause,
Determined to see completion thus fulfilled.
I saw tears forming in His eyes
And wondered why the Creator cried
Until I saw the broken pieces in His hand.
As I watched him set them down,
I was stunned at what I found,
Those pieces were the spirit of a man...
So ravaged by the effects of abuse,
Neglected, beaten, despised, misused,
The world left barely anything at all;
Yet somewhere between sorrow and grief
Lay a strength beyond belief
And as deep calls out to deep
In the rush of a waterfall,
So called the man in desperate need,
God's love began to intercede
And...
God the shaper and the potter sat at his wheel.
This man's soul was turned to dust
But somehow he continued to trust
Never doubting God's ability to heal.
As the tears fell from the Potter's eyes
Upon that which was so parched and dry
The dust began to take another form.
In the Potter's hands this form took shape,
I watched God working to create
From a spirit, shattered by the sorrow he had worn
A man of God- completed
Through God's love now undefeated,
Mended as though he never had been torn.
By Kim DuBose
A person cannot let go of the past until he or she knows there is something tangible to reach for.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Hate Crimes Division~ dystopia
Originally
everyone was a Hater, to some degree. Society had been loosely structured
around the archaic rules of the Nazarèt; that Pitiful Prophet, Who, along with
His ragamuffin crew, had tried to turn the world upside down.
Then came Bastion, the
Magnificent Pride of all Creation, and her boss.She joined the entire universe in devotion to Bastion’s supremacy, and his infinite tolerance.
Bastion accepted everyone except Haters.
Bastion’s great tolerance could not possibly tolerate the Haters’ intolerance.
Anyone viewing Bastion’s image experienced liquid peace, and an erotic magnetism toward the asexual being. Bastion glistened like tourmaline, sporting stiletto heels which magnified his Herculean legs. As an act of worship, men and women gratified themselves, using Bastion’s image for inspiration, repeating his name as often as possible. Bastion loved the sound of his name, which eased the painful memory of people hallelujah-ing the Nazarèt long ago.
Bastion had actually been a major
player in the overthrow of that emaciated seer.
Once swallowed, the infected fools developed a smell which made them easy to detect. Nothing could mask the odor of death attached to the Haters, and it was her job to sniff them out and chop them off, at the neck.
John
16:2 The time is coming when anyone who kills you will think they are offering
a service to God.
She initiated her career as one of the best agents, but in the past few years, her sniffer had begun to play tricks on her.
Two years ago, she found a nest of Haters in the eastern sector, and an eight year old boy was amongst them. He smelled strongly of death, and as she cuffed him, he turned to assist her, saying, “I know how hard this is for you.”
She clubbed him, and the blood from his scalp reeked of demise.
“Don’t speak to me, you little
Hater,” she hissed. “I love my job, ‘cause I get to eliminate stinking
carcasses like yours.”
Suddenly, an aroma of cut
grass and leather wafted from the gash on the boy’s head.His amber eyes penetrated some
breakable thing in her soul.
“I find myself loving you,” the
child said in genuine bewilderment.
“Shut it, vermin. I can’t wait
to see your stinkin’ head roll,” she snarled.
“I’m glad you’ll be there” the
child said sweetly, smelling of rainfall and vanilla.
She didn’t attend the boy’s execution. His sincere amazement at his unrequited love for her left her unsteady, and she lost her craving to see his head separated from his body.
Since that day, her sniffer
had been off.
She’d track down a nest of
Haters, following their yellow stench into basements and attics. And then, she’d
catch that blast of fragrance emanating from the cretins while she bludgeoned
and tazed them, like vapors of incense saturating the atmosphere.
In dreams, their apprehensive
eyes implored her, even as the vermin shed tears for themselves and for her. In
her nightmares, they possessed a dignity she couldn’t comprehend. Even in her agitated slumber, she’d smell lilacs
and cut wood emanating from those souls sitting beneath some sort of altar.
Now, jobless, and soon to be
homeless, she roams her former beat, hoping to uncover a nest of Haters and
recuperate her job. She can no longer detect that smell like buzzard vomit,
defiling Bastion’s utopia, but occasionally, she’ll catch an invasive fragrance
of life, an unfettered aroma that hides in attics and cellars.
She stays far away from that
perfume, that unnerving anointing which seems to follow the Haters like a
shroud.
And so, she wanders the
streets, dangling desperately in that place between lost and found.
2
Corinthians 2: 15 We are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who
are being saved and those who are perishing. 16 To the perishing we are an
aroma of death; to those being saved, we are the perfume of life.
With Memorial Day coming up so many people come to heart and mind. I hope to make the yearly trek to Oklahoma where we scattered my daughters ashes at the scenic overlook in the mountains. She was my butterfly; her life held in beauty for a fleeting moment before breaking free and flying on to the next phase. To be absent from the body is to be present with Christ therefore if I am in Christ and she is present with Christ, she is still with me.
Two very important friends of mine went home this year. It hurt so much but I knew, just like with Grace, that they are with me still. They are free to love perfectly. We still strive to learn to love with perfection, but without the confines of flesh, they now can. They are made whole and perfect in Him who chose them.
I think of my dad and grandparents. Tears would fall if I allowed myself to think of the lifetime I have spent loving people and how many of them are now gone but I know with all that I am that they are not beyond my reach. When my heart is missing them and my soul is reaching out for them I feel them returning that love and reaching out for me. Through God connection is maintained. In honor of loved ones gone before I would like to post the poem I read at my father's memorial service. It is titled:
Who We Were
Where warmth touches the first bud of spring,
We won, we lost, we
agreed, disagreed,
We climbed the mimosa
in Maw-maw’s front yard,
Two very important friends of mine went home this year. It hurt so much but I knew, just like with Grace, that they are with me still. They are free to love perfectly. We still strive to learn to love with perfection, but without the confines of flesh, they now can. They are made whole and perfect in Him who chose them.
I think of my dad and grandparents. Tears would fall if I allowed myself to think of the lifetime I have spent loving people and how many of them are now gone but I know with all that I am that they are not beyond my reach. When my heart is missing them and my soul is reaching out for them I feel them returning that love and reaching out for me. Through God connection is maintained. In honor of loved ones gone before I would like to post the poem I read at my father's memorial service. It is titled:
Who We Were
And stirs up from
within nostalgia from sleep,
And draws up through
the heart memories of love,
And draws out old
tears from their keep,
Is the story of who
we were.
All taking place on
fields full of color,
Our laughter dancing
on sunlight and breeze
Where we raced, we
jumped, we played and we fought,
We skinned up our
elbows and banged up our knees.
We won, we lost, we
agreed, disagreed,
We climbed the mimosa
in Maw-maw’s front yard,
Summer days often
meant working in fields,
But we learned to
live and work hard.
It’s a part of who we
were.
Where Mike and I
kneeled to pray each night
On the arm of our
daddy’s chair,
Where day darkened
skin, and morning began
And ended with
sun-streaked hair,
We ran through puddles,
scaled fences and gates,
Rinsed in the cold of
the garden hose,
At times we cried
like there was no tomorrow,
Not knowing what
tomorrow would hold.
We broke, but we
healed, got angry, forgave,
Manipulated to get
our own way,
We suspected,
mistrusted, still reaching out,
Hoping love would
still make a way.
For better or worse
these pages we’ve written
Within each of us now
intertwine,
To tell who we were,
on our way to becoming
The family we are at
this time.
For better or worse,
a part of each other,
Integrated within
each heart,
We weep when one
hurts, we grow distant at times,
We pull together when
someone departs.
I’ll never forget as
a little girl,
Laying my head on my
father’s chest,
Hearing his
heartbeat, not really knowing,
Girls grow up and
father’s one day lay to rest.
I’ll never forget
learning of God,
Knelt at the arm of
daddy’s old chair,
Feeling loved,
growing in strength and in faith,
Innocently offering
up prayer.
The biggest part of
who we were
Carries us through
this pain,
Because we grew up
growing in God.
And were taught how
to call on His Name.
So when summer days
turn gold with the autumn,
And winter days close
autumn eyes,
Spring will stretch
out and awaken from sleep,
The warmth of the
summer sunrise.
There reminiscing in
fields full of color,
Nostalgia will wake
and love will stir
The memories of the
better and worse
And the longing for
who we were.
Kimberly Camille
Wigington-DuBose
February 15, 2008
My dad had "autumn eyes." they were a beautiful shade of hazel green.
Rest in comfort and joy in the arms of our God.
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