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.
Unto Molech and Belial
A Billion Busted Bruised Broken
bleeding
Baby bodies
Mostly black
We wear
This beastly fare
Blended In our shining hair
Their life gives us beautiful body~ and bounce
The biggest lie
Those women who first- time believed could not be blamed
They are taught to circumvent their brain
And trust that emancipation
of the tiny being buried below
Is but blobs of cells
Devoid of soul
They can behold miniature feet and think~ oh how sweet!
And never get the association
But those women
And then tell others
That the dance is but a flutter of matter
These sin
These feel blame
These carry shame
These cannot escape the bitter pain
But by adding numbers
Why, it didn’t bother me! Try it, you’ll like it~ it’s your choice to be free
I t cannot be wrong if we
tell the lie enough times
If we chant it like a song then more will buy our great big lie~ it can become reality
No matter that science
Betrays your fables
No matter that broken babies can be either mended or disabled
Healed or disassembled ~ repaired or dismembered
Broods, mostly sable, Within big belly stables
Buckets of bloody babies
12,000 butchered black babies in a trash bin
These have found Beulah
But their mothers cannot escape the bane
The betrayal which slinks up on them unbidden on birthdays never to be
The brutality of the brazen table
Matches the bitter end of this butcher’s fable
The biggest lie~ the behemoth lie~ the lie without basis or believability
Is buckets of butchered bodies~ Mostly black
Found out back
Of the butcher factory
Baby bodies
Mostly black
We wear
This beastly fare
Blended In our shining hair
Their life gives us beautiful body~ and bounce
The biggest lie
Those women who first- time believed could not be blamed
They are taught to circumvent their brain
And trust that emancipation
of the tiny being buried below
Is but blobs of cells
Devoid of soul
They can behold miniature feet and think~ oh how sweet!
And never get the association
And then tell others
That the dance is but a flutter of matter
These sin
These feel blame
These carry shame
These cannot escape the bitter pain
But by adding numbers
to their desolation
They hope to find
justification~Why, it didn’t bother me! Try it, you’ll like it~ it’s your choice to be free
If we chant it like a song then more will buy our great big lie~ it can become reality
No matter that science
Betrays your fables
No matter that broken babies can be either mended or disabled
Healed or disassembled ~ repaired or dismembered
Broods, mostly sable, Within big belly stables
Buckets of bloody babies
12,000 butchered black babies in a trash bin
These have found Beulah
But their mothers cannot escape the bane
The betrayal which slinks up on them unbidden on birthdays never to be
The brutality of the brazen table
Matches the bitter end of this butcher’s fable
The biggest lie~ the behemoth lie~ the lie without basis or believability
Is buckets of butchered bodies~ Mostly black
Found out back
Of the butcher factory
Saturday, May 19, 2012
I am the Other Woman
I am the other woman
The one who shoots a gun
With aim quite true
Who loves her infants
And her influence too
making Planned Parenthood riches
I am a scholar, who stitches husband’s socks and kids’ britches
That you cannot control me
I am not your UnStepford wife
And it cuts you like a knife
And you cannot control my mind
I can play the game, and you will find
I will win
If you were truly a feminist
As it is, my voice is my own
However, my voice is not entirely alone
I am 50% of the feminine population
And we are filled with determination
We know the emperor is naked
The one who shoots a gun
With aim quite true
Who loves her infants
And her influence too
Who does not think that abortion is a divine right
it as a divine wrongmaking Planned Parenthood riches
I am a scholar, who stitches husband’s socks and kids’ britches
I know that the emperor is uncovered
You hate me because you discoveredThat you cannot control me
I am not your UnStepford wife
And it cuts you like a knife
You hate me because I am resilient
You hate me because I am brilliantAnd you cannot control my mind
I can play the game, and you will find
I will win
As it is, my voice is my own
However, my voice is not entirely alone
I am 50% of the feminine population
And we are filled with determination
Friday, May 18, 2012
Out with the Old
My husband and I have been placing some of our treasures on Craig's List today.
Items like armoirs and copper fire extinguishers are up for sale,
to the right buyer.
These items we have collected, restored, loved, appreciated and really do not wish to part with
~unless someone is willing to pay us what we think they are worth : )
Prov 24: 3 & 4
Items like armoirs and copper fire extinguishers are up for sale,
to the right buyer.
These items we have collected, restored, loved, appreciated and really do not wish to part with
~unless someone is willing to pay us what we think they are worth : )
Prov 24: 3 & 4
3 By wisdom a house is built,
and through understanding it is established;
4 through knowledge its rooms are filled
with rare and beautiful treasures.
and through understanding it is established;
4 through knowledge its rooms are filled
with rare and beautiful treasures.
That's our house.
Of course, my husband is a master carpenter,
with years of experience in woodworking and restoration.
I also have an eye for beauty, and a love of unique treasures.
So why are we trying to sell things?
At the bottom line, they are just things.
Sometimes it's good to clear some things out of your life,
even nice things,
and evaluate what remains.
I have so many nice things,
that at least half of them are not even registered in my own brain,
until I stop to look at them.
I cannot tell you exactly which items are on my mantel right now >not without looking.
I think I have too much stuff.
Although I love beautiful things, I do not mind selling them.
I enjoy this notion of making do,
of rediscovering purposes for various items,
like all of that furniture out in my barn.
I truly believe that a person with an eye for beauty will never lack beauty,
not while this world remains.
The Lord has made so much beauty for our eyes to behold,
that we do not even recognize it
until our clutter is removed and we take a moment to really see.
Sometimes, we must clean out our stuff,
even the nice stuff,
to make room for other things.
Sometimes we can only see the beauty in what we have when we consider letting go of it.
I know, this sounds like a tired 1970's poster~ if you love something, set it free.
This is not about catchy phrases or cliche ideologies.
It's about cleaning house.
It's about evaluating the things we already possess,
and making room for newer treasures.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Opportunities
welllll, anyway my ultimate goal for this blog is to create a place where Christian writers can publish flash fiction.
There are not many markets for Christian flash fiction, and there actually needs to be someplace where we Christians,
the few,
the proud,
the bonafide,
can express our extreme God-Given creativity as we like.
The opportunity to do so might be eroding away even as we speak.
You might look for opportunity,
and it will be gone.
So while it is still called today,
I want to open up a cozy nook,
where talented writers can unleash their
genuine faith.
A corner where we do not need to be afraid of being real,
honest,
and unreservedly genuine,
while still having the mutual accountability of a
Blood Washed Community
to keep us always moving to
higher ground.
I have a friend.
Years ago, she was one of the most loyal and loving friends a girl could have.
And this girl can write.
I'm going to recruit this friend of mine to get this party started.
We will see what happens~ while the opportunity still exists.
There are not many markets for Christian flash fiction, and there actually needs to be someplace where we Christians,
the few,
the proud,
the bonafide,
can express our extreme God-Given creativity as we like.
The opportunity to do so might be eroding away even as we speak.
You might look for opportunity,
and it will be gone.
So while it is still called today,
I want to open up a cozy nook,
where talented writers can unleash their
genuine faith.
A corner where we do not need to be afraid of being real,
honest,
and unreservedly genuine,
while still having the mutual accountability of a
Blood Washed Community
to keep us always moving to
higher ground.
I have a friend.
Years ago, she was one of the most loyal and loving friends a girl could have.
And this girl can write.
I'm going to recruit this friend of mine to get this party started.
We will see what happens~ while the opportunity still exists.
White-Out
Don't you just hate it when you make mistakes?
You have several opportunities to NOT make the mistake,
and then your mom calls,
and you get distracted,
and all the sudden, you've made an irretrievable error which cannot be remedied.
That was my life.
Lots of mistakes, lots of distractions, lots of friends on the road to destruction.
Then came Jesus.
Last night I was overwhelmed by the memory of how He reached down for me,
in the midst of my radical and rampant sin,
and plucked me out.
I was a mess when He found me, and I'm still a mess.
Sometimes I cannot figure out how exactly I became the person that I am.
Was there a problem somewhere on my chromosomes,
maybe something missing or something extra?
I don't know.
Sitting outside by myself by the fire, I realize that under that darkening sky,
I am really always alone,
and yet still never alone.
In the end, we want to be known,
understood,
GOT,
but I seem to be a creature who is destined to be unknown,
misunderstood,
and actually un-gettable.
Like, who really GETS me?
God does.
For some reason, He created me,
under the specific and unique set of circumstances
which shaped and misshaped me,
and then He let me run my life into the ground.
Then surprise, wham, tada!!
He called me.
He loved me!
He loves me!!
He knows me and still loves me.
I do not have to fear that if He REALLY knew me, then He would hate me,
because He ALREADY knows me,
and He still likes me.
Under the darkening sky, my heart is hurting oddly,
not from emotional pain
(although maybe somewhere a few years back, something really did get broken??)
I am undone.
I am no one.
And yet the Creator of the heavens and the earth
still likes me.
You have several opportunities to NOT make the mistake,
and then your mom calls,
and you get distracted,
and all the sudden, you've made an irretrievable error which cannot be remedied.
That was my life.
Lots of mistakes, lots of distractions, lots of friends on the road to destruction.
Then came Jesus.
Last night I was overwhelmed by the memory of how He reached down for me,
in the midst of my radical and rampant sin,
and plucked me out.
I was a mess when He found me, and I'm still a mess.
Sometimes I cannot figure out how exactly I became the person that I am.
Was there a problem somewhere on my chromosomes,
maybe something missing or something extra?
I don't know.
Sitting outside by myself by the fire, I realize that under that darkening sky,
I am really always alone,
and yet still never alone.
In the end, we want to be known,
understood,
GOT,
but I seem to be a creature who is destined to be unknown,
misunderstood,
and actually un-gettable.
Like, who really GETS me?
God does.
For some reason, He created me,
under the specific and unique set of circumstances
which shaped and misshaped me,
and then He let me run my life into the ground.
Then surprise, wham, tada!!
He called me.
He loved me!
He loves me!!
He knows me and still loves me.
I do not have to fear that if He REALLY knew me, then He would hate me,
because He ALREADY knows me,
and He still likes me.
Under the darkening sky, my heart is hurting oddly,
not from emotional pain
(although maybe somewhere a few years back, something really did get broken??)
I am undone.
I am no one.
And yet the Creator of the heavens and the earth
still likes me.
I was Holding my Breath, but then I just Died
So I'm laying awake
and I'm having an argument
with several people
in my mind.
For years, I have played the game,
trying to say the right things,
trying to "confess positive" so I don't come across as
too dark and negative,
but tonight, in my bed,
I'm cussing in my imagination.
There are three people mainly I'd like to tear into,
but once the anger starts spurting up and out, the list can potentially expand.
Tonight, I am not on my own list.
Don't worry, I have chastised myself endlessly
for my own fault in this matter,
for my sins which have surely caused me to reap this harvest of scorpions.
Tonight, I'm not on the list.
Tonight the bitter anger is directed at others.
I target Jezebel and her enablers.
(I can hardly even deal with my own son. That is an exquisite pain, one which is like a sword piercing my very soul.
Like, son, "How can you be doing this?" and even, "Who exactly ARE you?"
That pain is too jagged, too brittle and imminent to deal with for very long).
So I direct my rage at that skinny brat,
with her flat bottom wagging around the internet,
draping herself across her bff's in suggestive poses
with her ever-present alcoholic beverages
like idols
to which she sacrifices her dignity
with way too much affection.
For five/ten minutes, I let all of them have it.
You know, I VENT.
But all of it is in my mind.
As soon as my fury has had its fifteen minutes (give or take) I repent.
My heart immediately goes up to God and connects with Him,
and I tell Him I'm sorry for being so ugly.
And then I think He lets me in on something we all know,
but which strikes me as a bonafide revelation, nonetheless.
It is this.
He knew what was in my heart and on my mind even before I formulated the words,
allowing them to take on the hideous mental shape of my hurt and rejection
and pain and shame.
It is like the Lord stalks my tweets, and even though I don't catch Him lurking,
in my mind, I still know He is there,
and He can discern my thoughts and behaviors any time He wants to.
He knows me.
So venting in my imagination was really a sinful little exercise,
but it was not surprise to the Father, not one little bit.
Psalm 139:4
Even before there is a word on my tongue, Behold, O LORD, You know it all.
There is nowhere we can go to escape His awareness,
and if there were such a place, would we even WANT to be there?
Just a thought...
and I'm having an argument
with several people
in my mind.
For years, I have played the game,
trying to say the right things,
trying to "confess positive" so I don't come across as
too dark and negative,
but tonight, in my bed,
I'm cussing in my imagination.
There are three people mainly I'd like to tear into,
but once the anger starts spurting up and out, the list can potentially expand.
Tonight, I am not on my own list.
Don't worry, I have chastised myself endlessly
for my own fault in this matter,
for my sins which have surely caused me to reap this harvest of scorpions.
Tonight, I'm not on the list.
Tonight the bitter anger is directed at others.
I target Jezebel and her enablers.
(I can hardly even deal with my own son. That is an exquisite pain, one which is like a sword piercing my very soul.
Like, son, "How can you be doing this?" and even, "Who exactly ARE you?"
That pain is too jagged, too brittle and imminent to deal with for very long).
So I direct my rage at that skinny brat,
with her flat bottom wagging around the internet,
draping herself across her bff's in suggestive poses
with her ever-present alcoholic beverages
like idols
to which she sacrifices her dignity
with way too much affection.
For five/ten minutes, I let all of them have it.
You know, I VENT.
But all of it is in my mind.
As soon as my fury has had its fifteen minutes (give or take) I repent.
My heart immediately goes up to God and connects with Him,
and I tell Him I'm sorry for being so ugly.
And then I think He lets me in on something we all know,
but which strikes me as a bonafide revelation, nonetheless.
It is this.
He knew what was in my heart and on my mind even before I formulated the words,
allowing them to take on the hideous mental shape of my hurt and rejection
and pain and shame.
It is like the Lord stalks my tweets, and even though I don't catch Him lurking,
in my mind, I still know He is there,
and He can discern my thoughts and behaviors any time He wants to.
He knows me.
So venting in my imagination was really a sinful little exercise,
but it was not surprise to the Father, not one little bit.
Psalm 139:4
Even before there is a word on my tongue, Behold, O LORD, You know it all.
There is nowhere we can go to escape His awareness,
and if there were such a place, would we even WANT to be there?
Just a thought...
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The Whys
Why Heap Coals?
Well, Jesus said to be good to your enemies, and pray for them which spitefully use you.
In doing this, you will be heaping coals upon their heads.
This sounds painful.
Sometimes, we'd just plain like to see some pain heaped upon our enemies.
However, it is not as simple as that.
With Jesus, nothing is so simple that there is not a deeper meaning for those with ears to hear.
There was a custom, back in the day.
People did not have electric-start gas burners, or propane tanks, or Bic lighters.
Sometimes, instead of running next door for a cup of sugar (does anyone do that any more?)
they would go borrow a few coals from their neighbor to get the fires ignited in their own houses.
Allegedly, they carried these coals on their heads, I suppose in some type of vessels.
Jesus, really?
Can You not stop this relentless demand to bless those who have hurt us?
Some have said that the fire of God upon the head of an enemy
will cleanse and purge their conscience,
bringing on repentance.
I sure hope so.
Because seriously, Jesus, I am waiting for the day my enemy comes to me and says:
"I am really really sorry for bringing destruction and pain to your family,
for being an ungodly influence,
bent on carnal delights,
rather than being a Proverbs 31 woman who adds wisdom and love into your family."
I am really waiting for that moment in time.
I am waiting for repentance in the life of my enemy.
So this heaping coals stuff sounds pretty good,
even if it is not exactly what I had in mind.
This blog is for keeping it real.
I have spent so many years saying the right Christian phrases concerning my enemy,
speaking love and hope and giving her credit for things she does not deserve.
I was told that anything less than this was lack of faith.
I have lived five years now feeling ashamed that this has happened to me, to my family.
I have cried, repented, suffered and died over anything I have ever done to allow this to occur.
(Because, keeping it real, I have caused my share of havoc in the lives of others, back in the day.)
I know in the end, Jesus' way is the Only Way, the Right Way, the Way that works.
But sometimes you just gotta mourn with those who mourn,
and weep with those who weep.
Sometimes you gotta let folks be real.
Well, Jesus said to be good to your enemies, and pray for them which spitefully use you.
In doing this, you will be heaping coals upon their heads.
This sounds painful.
Sometimes, we'd just plain like to see some pain heaped upon our enemies.
However, it is not as simple as that.
With Jesus, nothing is so simple that there is not a deeper meaning for those with ears to hear.
There was a custom, back in the day.
People did not have electric-start gas burners, or propane tanks, or Bic lighters.
Sometimes, instead of running next door for a cup of sugar (does anyone do that any more?)
they would go borrow a few coals from their neighbor to get the fires ignited in their own houses.
Allegedly, they carried these coals on their heads, I suppose in some type of vessels.
Jesus, really?
Can You not stop this relentless demand to bless those who have hurt us?
Some have said that the fire of God upon the head of an enemy
will cleanse and purge their conscience,
bringing on repentance.
I sure hope so.
Because seriously, Jesus, I am waiting for the day my enemy comes to me and says:
"I am really really sorry for bringing destruction and pain to your family,
for being an ungodly influence,
bent on carnal delights,
rather than being a Proverbs 31 woman who adds wisdom and love into your family."
I am really waiting for that moment in time.
I am waiting for repentance in the life of my enemy.
So this heaping coals stuff sounds pretty good,
even if it is not exactly what I had in mind.
This blog is for keeping it real.
I have spent so many years saying the right Christian phrases concerning my enemy,
speaking love and hope and giving her credit for things she does not deserve.
I was told that anything less than this was lack of faith.
I have lived five years now feeling ashamed that this has happened to me, to my family.
I have cried, repented, suffered and died over anything I have ever done to allow this to occur.
(Because, keeping it real, I have caused my share of havoc in the lives of others, back in the day.)
I know in the end, Jesus' way is the Only Way, the Right Way, the Way that works.
But sometimes you just gotta mourn with those who mourn,
and weep with those who weep.
Sometimes you gotta let folks be real.
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