On Thursday, I met with my editor and got the most welcome news: my book is finished and ready for editing! I went to Red Robin to have a celebratory burger, and on the way home, I got into an accident. I began to wonder right away if it was my negligence (yep!), or if God was also trying to teach me something.
Aside from the obvious "If you are turning right, it's a good idea to look left before you go in the road," I was pretty sure that there was something more. I had several reasons for this. The first: there seemed to be absolutely no damage to the other person's car, second: my damage--a smashed driver's and passenger's door on the driver's side--didn't impede my exiting or being able to drive. The third: God had told me that I was not, in fact, finished. There was one thing more that I was supposed to do. As I drove home and got inside, it became really clear--I needed to do Peter: feed my sheep. To do it justice, I needed to remember PTSD. Imagine Peter. Every time he closed his eyes, I'm sure it was right in front of him: cursing and emphasizing that he didn't know Jesus, and then realizing that his Lord was looking right at him and hearing the cock crow.
We are quick to claim that God does not want bad things to happen to good people. There are some who say that if we are faithful enough, the bad things would stop and we would experience good health and prosperity. My question, then, is this: what did God have against the apostles? What did God have against his own son? Were they not faithful enough? Jesus knew that Peter would be crucified, and yet he gave him no pep talk on building up his faith to become immune to hurt.
My own feeling about suffering comes in large part from Therese of Liseaux. She said that she was the plaything of God, and if he wanted to use her as a little boy uses a ball and then leave her abandoned in a corner for a time, that would be fine with her. Suffering, like everything else, has a purpose and a plan. In my case, I would not give up a single bit of the suffering that occurred in my life. It's made me a stronger, better person. If you are suffering right now, have you considered thanking God for what you're going through? We are forever being told to be thankful--I think that includes being thankful for what we see as unfortunate things. Thankfulness means that we understand that even though we can't begin to understand, we are in his hands and acknowledge his control.
So friends, in all things give thanks.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
The bright side of depression
Today, I was on Facebook (as usual) and noticed a sweet picture. Tears flowed. "Oh, how sweet!" I said to my Pug Frank. A little later, I noticed a video featuring the Doctor and Rose. I watched the video and tears flowed. "Frank, how precious!" (Don't judge me--I live alone :) ). On it went--I read a sweet post, tears flowed. I saw a darling picture--tears flowed. Finally it dawned on me--I forgot to renew my depression meds!
Many people suffer from depression--I consider them my brothers and sisters. To paraphrase the old saying--some of us were born with depression and some had depression thrust upon us. I am a mixture of both. Depression is part of the gene pool, so to speak. I have always dealt with it and have seen family firmly in its grasp. However, it blossomed and went out of control (sort of like cancer) after my multiple losses. I was so entombed that I felt I could barely breathe. I had to go to work every day, but I don't remember enjoying anything. Life was one step after another until I could finally go to bed. In the morning, the whole thing started over. I began in severe depression and soon became suicidal. I continued in that state for at least seven years, and I didn't receive treatment during any of that time. My children were the ones who caught the brunt of my disease. I remember asking my daughter--she couldn't have been more than 17--if she thought she could watch the baby if I were gone. She and I both knew exactly what I was talking about. I still cringe thinking about the hell that I put her and her brothers through.
As the years passed, I finally realized that I needed help. I finally asked for medicine, and I received the Prozac that changed my life. I still was depressed, but it was infinitely better. My life itself had many hard elements--being a widow, a mother of four, having a full-time job, and dealing with a son with special needs is not easy--but it was so much more manageable. I found that life began to be interesting again. I stopped being so self-absorbed and began looking outward. Life became something to look forward to rather than something to slog through.
Before I started on the Prozac, I began to write. My pieces were directly influenced by my mood. Many things that I wrote during the darkest period were, of course, horribly dark themselves. But here's the thing. Many of the pieces weren't so much dark as very emotional. I have been told over and over again that you can feel the character's pain, her joy, her anxiety, and so on. I am sure that this was because I was so fully enmeshed in the character myself. Reading the character, you were actually seeing me.
Since I've come back to health, I notice that the characters haven't changed (I think) so much as that the process has changed. It takes me much longer to reach the desired mood, and the mood itself isn't as deep as it used to be. Going back to the beginning of the post, during the time this has been taking place, I was completing a book. The book is a series of readings on characters drawn from the time of Christ. The readings flowed easily in the past few days--the emotion, the understanding of the feeling, and so on has been there, just as it used to be. Well, of course! I was off my meds, or at least the ones that seem to control the outpouring of negative emotion. So emotion came at my command, and it was overwhelming.
Now that I realize my problem, I'm determined to go back on my meds as soon as possible. I don't like the whoosh of emotion that comes with depression. I'm not manic--I used to think I was, but the few moments when I felt a "high" were actually the few moments when I wasn't depressed. Life today is a series of small highs, small lows, and infrequent rushes of exaltation or despair. I believe that's normal. I wouldn't want to go back to the daily rush of despair.
But is it a good trade? I was speaking about this with my daughter today, and I believe that it's a valid question. People live without their meds all the time because their meds make them feel like automatons (I think this is more true of people with bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, although I've heard it said by those with ADHD as well). Mine don't. However, it would be easier to write with the emotion I need if I were off my meds. My daughter suggested that maybe I could lower the dose or go on an extended retreat while I'm writing and then go back later. I choose not to do that, for the simple reason that the lows are so low that I feel that I'm walking through dark valleys--again. I choose not to live that way, even for my art. I have to work harder to accomplish the same thing? So be it. The alternative is not worth the reward.
Many people suffer from depression--I consider them my brothers and sisters. To paraphrase the old saying--some of us were born with depression and some had depression thrust upon us. I am a mixture of both. Depression is part of the gene pool, so to speak. I have always dealt with it and have seen family firmly in its grasp. However, it blossomed and went out of control (sort of like cancer) after my multiple losses. I was so entombed that I felt I could barely breathe. I had to go to work every day, but I don't remember enjoying anything. Life was one step after another until I could finally go to bed. In the morning, the whole thing started over. I began in severe depression and soon became suicidal. I continued in that state for at least seven years, and I didn't receive treatment during any of that time. My children were the ones who caught the brunt of my disease. I remember asking my daughter--she couldn't have been more than 17--if she thought she could watch the baby if I were gone. She and I both knew exactly what I was talking about. I still cringe thinking about the hell that I put her and her brothers through.
As the years passed, I finally realized that I needed help. I finally asked for medicine, and I received the Prozac that changed my life. I still was depressed, but it was infinitely better. My life itself had many hard elements--being a widow, a mother of four, having a full-time job, and dealing with a son with special needs is not easy--but it was so much more manageable. I found that life began to be interesting again. I stopped being so self-absorbed and began looking outward. Life became something to look forward to rather than something to slog through.
Before I started on the Prozac, I began to write. My pieces were directly influenced by my mood. Many things that I wrote during the darkest period were, of course, horribly dark themselves. But here's the thing. Many of the pieces weren't so much dark as very emotional. I have been told over and over again that you can feel the character's pain, her joy, her anxiety, and so on. I am sure that this was because I was so fully enmeshed in the character myself. Reading the character, you were actually seeing me.
Since I've come back to health, I notice that the characters haven't changed (I think) so much as that the process has changed. It takes me much longer to reach the desired mood, and the mood itself isn't as deep as it used to be. Going back to the beginning of the post, during the time this has been taking place, I was completing a book. The book is a series of readings on characters drawn from the time of Christ. The readings flowed easily in the past few days--the emotion, the understanding of the feeling, and so on has been there, just as it used to be. Well, of course! I was off my meds, or at least the ones that seem to control the outpouring of negative emotion. So emotion came at my command, and it was overwhelming.
Now that I realize my problem, I'm determined to go back on my meds as soon as possible. I don't like the whoosh of emotion that comes with depression. I'm not manic--I used to think I was, but the few moments when I felt a "high" were actually the few moments when I wasn't depressed. Life today is a series of small highs, small lows, and infrequent rushes of exaltation or despair. I believe that's normal. I wouldn't want to go back to the daily rush of despair.
But is it a good trade? I was speaking about this with my daughter today, and I believe that it's a valid question. People live without their meds all the time because their meds make them feel like automatons (I think this is more true of people with bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, although I've heard it said by those with ADHD as well). Mine don't. However, it would be easier to write with the emotion I need if I were off my meds. My daughter suggested that maybe I could lower the dose or go on an extended retreat while I'm writing and then go back later. I choose not to do that, for the simple reason that the lows are so low that I feel that I'm walking through dark valleys--again. I choose not to live that way, even for my art. I have to work harder to accomplish the same thing? So be it. The alternative is not worth the reward.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Loaves and fishes
Another portrait
Loaves and Fishes
Mark 10:13-17; 6:30-44
My
name is Daniel. I am seven years
old. My mother took my brother, Simon, and me to see
Jesus. She took us up to him so that he
could give us a blessing. The other men
that were with him got mad at her, and that made me sad. One man said that the Lord had better things to do than bother with children like me. But he talked really loud, and Jesus heard him. He made those men let us see him, and he touched us and prayed for us. Then he said to permit the children to
come to him. He said that we are what
his kingdom is made of. He said that everyone has to come to him as a little child, because we are what is kingdom is made of. I'm not sure what that means, but everyone got really quiet when he said it.
I
think that sometimes the men around Jesus don’t listen to what he says. I think that maybe they don’t really know what he's talking about. But for me it seems really
simple. I figured it out the last time Simon and I went to see him. It happened like this:
My
mama found out that Jesus was coming to our town. Mama said that he was a very good man, and my brother and I
should go see him. I don’t know why I should go to see someone
talk just because he is very good, but mama said that he told good stories and I could go see him
instead of doing my chores. If I have to choose between chores and stories, I choose stories. Mama made Simon and me a good lunch because we are growing boys, and she told us to behave and listen really hard.
Simon and I went over with lots of other people. There were so many people there that it was hard to see him, and that was okay with me. I didn’t
understand a lot of what the Jesus said, but the day was very pretty with lots of fluffy clouds, and Jesus told us lots of stories, and I had
a lot of fun.
Well,
we stayed and stayed, and it was getting late, and we started to get
hungry. My mom had told Simon and me not to eat if
nobody else was eating. That's called being polite. But I was getting really hungry and nobody else
was eating. I didn’t know what to do.
Jesus' friends came up to him, and it looked like they were mad at each other. One big man with red hair kept waving his arms up in the air. His face was all red--he looked really scary. Jesus said something to him that looked like it made him even madder, but that man and his friends went away from him and looked for food in the crowd. My brother Simon's bigger than me--he's almost 9--and he told me to keep my mouth shut if they asked us for our food, but Mommy says to always tell the truth. I told them
that we had some bread and fishes. They
kept on asking in the crowd, but nobody else in this whole big group had
brought anything! I guess nobody else has a mama who thinks about these
things. His friends went back to him, and
they told him that I was the only one who had brought food.
When people see me and Simon, they always say that they are proud of us for sharing. My brother gets all puffy and says that it's what our daddy would do. I don't know why he says that, since he told me not to tell them that we had food. My mommy always says to tell the truth, so I will. I didn’t want to give them my food, because I
was very hungry. But the man who came to me and asked me for my food--he told me that his name was Andrew--said I could come with him and give my basket to Jesus myself. I did, and Jesus took it and smiled at me! When he did
that, I remembered my mama and how she smiled at me whenever she asked me to do
something hard. Her smile told me she loved me, and Jesus had that same smile! So I knew that Jesus loved
me and didn’t want me to be hungry. Jesus took the food out of my basket and he said a prayer, then he divided it up into different baskets and gave them to his friends. He kept my mama's basket himself.
People tell me that this next part didn’t happen. They say that people just started bringing out their own food when Jesus' friends tried to give my food to them, but that's not true—nobody else in the whole crowd
had any food! I know because I didn’t see any more food, and
I was at Jesus’ side when he gave it to his friends to pass out. Like I said, Jesus kept some food in Mama's basket, and when I told him that it was my mama's special basket and I'd get in trouble if he lost it, he let me walk with him, so I saw what I saw. His friends went out into the group and shared it,
and so did he. There were so many people there that my legs got really tired of walking! Everybody got some food, and every time that
Jesus put his hand in my basket, there were more fishes and more bread! (I even got to help him take some out of the
basket to give to those people!) It didn’t
look to me that there would be enough for everybody, but after the meal, his
helpers filled their baskets and ate from the food that was left over. He gave me back my mommy's basket and then picked me up and carried me back to Simon. I felt really good when he did that--almost like Jesus was my daddy. My daddy died when I was little, but when my uncles used to hold me, I'd pretend they were Daddy. Jesus felt like that, only so much better. When Jesus held me, it felt like a mountain of love was holding me. I know it sounds funny, but that's how it felt.
"Let the children come to me. Unless you act like a child, you can't enter the Kingdom of God." I don't really know what that means, but the words keep running around in my brain. I wish my Daddy was here--he would help me understand. But I do know that there's a difference between kids like me and Jesus' friends. I listened to him and did what he asked. I felt bad when his friends fought with him. I would never fight with Jesus. If he told me to do something, I would do it. I hope that his friends learn how to be like children. Maybe then they will be happy. And I hope that when I grow up, I still stay a child, because I want to enter the kingdom of heaven, too! Maybe some day Jesus can even tell me how!
"Let the children come to me. Unless you act like a child, you can't enter the Kingdom of God." I don't really know what that means, but the words keep running around in my brain. I wish my Daddy was here--he would help me understand. But I do know that there's a difference between kids like me and Jesus' friends. I listened to him and did what he asked. I felt bad when his friends fought with him. I would never fight with Jesus. If he told me to do something, I would do it. I hope that his friends learn how to be like children. Maybe then they will be happy. And I hope that when I grow up, I still stay a child, because I want to enter the kingdom of heaven, too! Maybe some day Jesus can even tell me how!
Thursday, October 10, 2013
After the tree
When I sat here to write this morning, I was surprised when this came out. I'd already finished my portrait of Zacchaeus, and I didn't realize that there was more. Since it came out here first, I'd like to share it with you. Comments, anyone?
About comments...someone wrote on a blog the other day that the only way he knew that people actually read his posts were if they commented. Otherwise, they could be bots. Are you a bot? If not, could you comment? Thanks!!
Nothing has changed.
My world is the same as it was yesterday,
But everything feels different.
He saw me!
I was up in that tree,
Only wanting to see the man from Nazareth
The teacher from Galilee
And he saw me!
How on earth did he know I was there?
Hidden in the sycamore fig?
How in the world did he know my name?
But he did,
And he bade me come down,
And he treated me as a friend,
And he invited himself for dinner.
Me--
Zaccheaus--
The tax collector.
I said that nothing has changed,
But that isn't quite right.
No, it isn't right at all.
Everything has changed.
My life has new purpose, new meaning.
What was important yesterday
Is nothing today.
And all that is within me is new.
I no longer long for riches--
I only long to be with Him.
Be His follower.
My life is turned inside out,
And I feel that I am well for the first time.
Jesus of Nazareth,
Christ of Galilee,
Messiah.
What would you have me to be?
I will do whatever you want.
Whether it's to be your follower,
your servant,
your clown--
Only say the word.
You healed my soul,
please,
let me now do something for you.
Wait?
I will see in time?
Very well.
I will walk with you
And in time,
I will know what I am to do.
For now,
Lord,
Grant me the patience
To wait.
Monday, October 7, 2013
my platform--a work in progress
I have fought since I was a child. I have battled abuse, both physical and mental. I have dealt with mental illness in the form of depression. I have made horrendous mistakes and suffered because of them. In all these things, I have been fortunate--yes, fortunate--because I have learned a valuable lesson. That lesson is solidifying and becoming my platform.
I find that in my life, there have been three major types of trauma. The first is the trauma in which I was a victim, the second is trauma which I was instrumental in causing, and the third is trauma in which nobody was to blame--things went horribly wrong, and I (and many others) suffered because of them. In walking toward wholeness, I found that all three types of trauma had to be handled in the same way: go back to the event, forgive, and move on.
Seems simple, doesn't it? Well, I can only recently claim that I am far enough in the journey to actually claim wholeness, and I started that journey in 1993, so I am pretty sure that my explanation is deceptive. However, that is exactly what I did. I went back to the event (sometimes over and over again), I forgave the people involved--including myself and including God--and I moved on. Often, I found myself coming back again, and that's where this got interesting for me. I was told over and over again never to revisit old wounds. If I had claimed healing, then healing had happened, and I was giving in to a spirit of infirmity by going back. I have come to believe that words like that are a lie from the pit of Hell itself! Sometimes you have to revisit the same scene over and over again because you are unable to fully realize the healing. Each time, though, the process is the same. You go back to the event, forgive, and move on again.
Rereading this, I realize that there is something that I didn't mention yet. In some ways, it's the most important part. See where God is in this. I know it smacks of visualization, but that's not what I mean. I learned this from Father Mike Flynn, among others. You can ask God to show you the scene and ask to see where God (or Jesus or the Holy Spirit) was in the enacting of it. It can totally change your understanding of the situation when you do this. For example, there was a scene that played out over and over again in my mind. In that scene, I was totally helpless, and nobody came to give me aid. I felt powerless and shamed, and I couldn't understand why nobody was sent to intervene on my behalf. Then, at a conference led by Father Mike, we were led to ask the Lord where he was. I asked, and immediately I went back to the same scene again. But then I realized that the love of God was all around me. Jesus was right there at my side. No, he didn't stop it, but I do know that he was protecting me.
Some of you might be thinking that what I say is incomprehensible. If God was there, why didn't he lead me out of the situation, or better yet, never let the situation start? I can't answer that. What I can say, though, is that I am here today and part of what I am was created in that moment. I can honestly say that I don't wish it didn't happen. I don't know why I had to learn the lesson I learned, but one thing that I do know is that many others have dealt with the same trauma, and I am proof that they can come out the other side whole and healthy.
After you go back and see the events, you have to determine where forgiveness needs to occur. One reason you might find yourself revisiting an event is that you have not yet forgiven the people involved. The person most commonly left out of the forgiveness step is yourself. And even after you've forgiven yourself, you might find yourself coming back and forgiving yourself--or your abuser--or even God--for things that you hadn't even been able to consciously realize at the point you were at before.
After you have gone back and forgiven, you move on. But you don't move on and leave that place empty. You pray over the memory--you ask God to seal it for you and to leave it in the past unless and until it needs to come forward again. You ask him to cover it with his mercy and forgiveness, and then if (when) it comes up again, you ask the Lord if he can take it away. If he does, great. If it doesn't, ask what needs to be revealed now. And then go through the same procedure again--go back, forgive, and move on.
Of course, some of you are not at a point where you can do this alone. Or maybe you've tried to do it and been thrust into even more darkness and depression--perhaps even despair. Please don't try to do it yourself. If you have been so wounded that it is life threatening (whether this means your ability to live a happy life or whether you feel that it's worth living at all), you need help. Take the step and find it. When my husband died, it was the third loss in 4 years. I knew that my children couldn't deal with that, and I sought counseling immediately. I should have sought it for myself, too, and eventually I did. There is no shame in seeking help.
So this is my platform. What do you think?
Next time--how I learned how to write again.
I find that in my life, there have been three major types of trauma. The first is the trauma in which I was a victim, the second is trauma which I was instrumental in causing, and the third is trauma in which nobody was to blame--things went horribly wrong, and I (and many others) suffered because of them. In walking toward wholeness, I found that all three types of trauma had to be handled in the same way: go back to the event, forgive, and move on.
Seems simple, doesn't it? Well, I can only recently claim that I am far enough in the journey to actually claim wholeness, and I started that journey in 1993, so I am pretty sure that my explanation is deceptive. However, that is exactly what I did. I went back to the event (sometimes over and over again), I forgave the people involved--including myself and including God--and I moved on. Often, I found myself coming back again, and that's where this got interesting for me. I was told over and over again never to revisit old wounds. If I had claimed healing, then healing had happened, and I was giving in to a spirit of infirmity by going back. I have come to believe that words like that are a lie from the pit of Hell itself! Sometimes you have to revisit the same scene over and over again because you are unable to fully realize the healing. Each time, though, the process is the same. You go back to the event, forgive, and move on again.
Rereading this, I realize that there is something that I didn't mention yet. In some ways, it's the most important part. See where God is in this. I know it smacks of visualization, but that's not what I mean. I learned this from Father Mike Flynn, among others. You can ask God to show you the scene and ask to see where God (or Jesus or the Holy Spirit) was in the enacting of it. It can totally change your understanding of the situation when you do this. For example, there was a scene that played out over and over again in my mind. In that scene, I was totally helpless, and nobody came to give me aid. I felt powerless and shamed, and I couldn't understand why nobody was sent to intervene on my behalf. Then, at a conference led by Father Mike, we were led to ask the Lord where he was. I asked, and immediately I went back to the same scene again. But then I realized that the love of God was all around me. Jesus was right there at my side. No, he didn't stop it, but I do know that he was protecting me.
Some of you might be thinking that what I say is incomprehensible. If God was there, why didn't he lead me out of the situation, or better yet, never let the situation start? I can't answer that. What I can say, though, is that I am here today and part of what I am was created in that moment. I can honestly say that I don't wish it didn't happen. I don't know why I had to learn the lesson I learned, but one thing that I do know is that many others have dealt with the same trauma, and I am proof that they can come out the other side whole and healthy.
After you go back and see the events, you have to determine where forgiveness needs to occur. One reason you might find yourself revisiting an event is that you have not yet forgiven the people involved. The person most commonly left out of the forgiveness step is yourself. And even after you've forgiven yourself, you might find yourself coming back and forgiving yourself--or your abuser--or even God--for things that you hadn't even been able to consciously realize at the point you were at before.
After you have gone back and forgiven, you move on. But you don't move on and leave that place empty. You pray over the memory--you ask God to seal it for you and to leave it in the past unless and until it needs to come forward again. You ask him to cover it with his mercy and forgiveness, and then if (when) it comes up again, you ask the Lord if he can take it away. If he does, great. If it doesn't, ask what needs to be revealed now. And then go through the same procedure again--go back, forgive, and move on.
Of course, some of you are not at a point where you can do this alone. Or maybe you've tried to do it and been thrust into even more darkness and depression--perhaps even despair. Please don't try to do it yourself. If you have been so wounded that it is life threatening (whether this means your ability to live a happy life or whether you feel that it's worth living at all), you need help. Take the step and find it. When my husband died, it was the third loss in 4 years. I knew that my children couldn't deal with that, and I sought counseling immediately. I should have sought it for myself, too, and eventually I did. There is no shame in seeking help.
So this is my platform. What do you think?
Next time--how I learned how to write again.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
the problem with reality
I'm a Dr Who fan. I get the craving to revisit my favorite doctor every once in a while, so off I go to once again view my favorite David Tennant episodes. Of all the episodes, my favorites have got to be the ones in the library--Silence in the Library and Forest of the Dead. For those of you not in the know, this is where the doctor meets his wife for the first time and she sees her husband for the last time. It is a strange idea--her timeline is backwards to his. But believe it or not, this is not my point. If you're interested, look it up.
The story takes place in a library. It is a place where all the books ever created are stored. Millions of millions of books are there--all made out of a single forest. Problem is, there was a society within that forest called the Vashta Nerada. This carnivorous society were collected with the wood that made the forests, and now they feed on any flesh that happens to come inside.
As the episodes unfold, more and more people die. One who doesn't is the doctor's companion, Donna. She is transported to another world, a world outside the library but actually right in its center. In this world, she lives a life with a husband and two children. She later finds out that this is an imaginary world, and that the difference between her and the rest of the inhabitants is that she can--and must--escape. The others cannot, as they are all dead.
This is where I must part ways with the series. Oh, my--if you think that the world you inhabit when you're dead is a world of your own creation, a world that exists only because you imagine it--you don't know my Lord. There is a world awaiting us, yes, but it is a world that is so real, so true, so utterly un-fiction, that I can't even begin to think of a word to describe it. I have seen glimpses--wonderful little peeks into a world where you can live the rest of your days in Love. The minute we get there, we will understand that everything up to this point was actually fantasy, This new world will be absolute reality--and it will be marvelous, in the truest sense of the world. We will marvel, be amazed, be humbled, and be exalted: all at the same time.
How can I know this? Because Paul tells us that we now see as if through a mirror--darkly. But then, oh Lord! Then we will see You face to face! Our eyes will be truly open for the first time. I hope that day comes soon!
The story takes place in a library. It is a place where all the books ever created are stored. Millions of millions of books are there--all made out of a single forest. Problem is, there was a society within that forest called the Vashta Nerada. This carnivorous society were collected with the wood that made the forests, and now they feed on any flesh that happens to come inside.
As the episodes unfold, more and more people die. One who doesn't is the doctor's companion, Donna. She is transported to another world, a world outside the library but actually right in its center. In this world, she lives a life with a husband and two children. She later finds out that this is an imaginary world, and that the difference between her and the rest of the inhabitants is that she can--and must--escape. The others cannot, as they are all dead.
This is where I must part ways with the series. Oh, my--if you think that the world you inhabit when you're dead is a world of your own creation, a world that exists only because you imagine it--you don't know my Lord. There is a world awaiting us, yes, but it is a world that is so real, so true, so utterly un-fiction, that I can't even begin to think of a word to describe it. I have seen glimpses--wonderful little peeks into a world where you can live the rest of your days in Love. The minute we get there, we will understand that everything up to this point was actually fantasy, This new world will be absolute reality--and it will be marvelous, in the truest sense of the world. We will marvel, be amazed, be humbled, and be exalted: all at the same time.
How can I know this? Because Paul tells us that we now see as if through a mirror--darkly. But then, oh Lord! Then we will see You face to face! Our eyes will be truly open for the first time. I hope that day comes soon!
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
On the path
The more I walk this road toward publication, the more divided I become. Part of me is excited; part of me wonders what I'm doing. Too late now. I've made up my mind and there is no turning back.
It seems like every day I'm reminded of another reason that I should speak about suffering--minister to those going through trauma. Today, a beautiful woman with a horrendous story came to SADD club to speak. She was an ordinary mother--she had a son who was in Salpointe, and she and her husband decided to rent a video. They went to the video store, and as they were coming back, she remembers approaching Mountain St. She remembers nothing after that, but she was told that a 19-year-old was celebrating his birthday by driving drunk. She had the right of way and was making a turn, and he slammed into her car. Her husband was killed and she was forever changed. She has walked through a lot in the years since, and now she is giving back by sponsoring an endowed scholarship.
After the students left, she and I stayed together for awhile and talked. She has been a speaker for quite some time, and I told her of my plans. It was crazy how many feelings we have in common. We both lost our husbands, though in very different ways. We both had encounters in the hospital with people who were sent by God (in fact, I've always wondered if my hospital visitor was really an angel). We've both walked a long way to come back to ourselves, and we both feel mandated to share our experiences so that we can help others. Donna is an important part of our substance abuse awareness program for parents, and she also volunteers for MADD and other organizations. As I've said, I'm readying myself for a ministry to the person who is walking through trauma. Both of us agree that the training that we've received--and the life that we live--is exhausting.
Exhausting. I sometimes wonder how I'll make it through. For example, right now it is 10:13. I am writing in my blog because I know I need to record this. It's a marker for me. But it means that once again I'll be late getting to bed. I'm exhausted all the time these days. If I'm not teaching, I'm grading papers. If I'm not doing school work, my mind is working on another story--sometimes unbeknownst to me! I'm constantly second guessing myself, and I often find myself thinking that this will fall by the wayside. I have never managed to be published, so why should I think that I can do it now?
Another thing that I deal with is the overimportance that I place on relatively unimportant things. I have misplaced some files. I know they're here someplace--but there is no need for me to overturn my house looking for them. If I can't find them, I know there's a reason. But still I obsess.
This is all part of the walk. I'm sure of that. I promise myself, here and now, that I will keep walking. I WILL finish this book. I WILL fulfill God's plan and purpose for my life. I KNOW I will, because I know that HE is here--right now--guarding and guiding me. Amen.
It seems like every day I'm reminded of another reason that I should speak about suffering--minister to those going through trauma. Today, a beautiful woman with a horrendous story came to SADD club to speak. She was an ordinary mother--she had a son who was in Salpointe, and she and her husband decided to rent a video. They went to the video store, and as they were coming back, she remembers approaching Mountain St. She remembers nothing after that, but she was told that a 19-year-old was celebrating his birthday by driving drunk. She had the right of way and was making a turn, and he slammed into her car. Her husband was killed and she was forever changed. She has walked through a lot in the years since, and now she is giving back by sponsoring an endowed scholarship.
After the students left, she and I stayed together for awhile and talked. She has been a speaker for quite some time, and I told her of my plans. It was crazy how many feelings we have in common. We both lost our husbands, though in very different ways. We both had encounters in the hospital with people who were sent by God (in fact, I've always wondered if my hospital visitor was really an angel). We've both walked a long way to come back to ourselves, and we both feel mandated to share our experiences so that we can help others. Donna is an important part of our substance abuse awareness program for parents, and she also volunteers for MADD and other organizations. As I've said, I'm readying myself for a ministry to the person who is walking through trauma. Both of us agree that the training that we've received--and the life that we live--is exhausting.
Exhausting. I sometimes wonder how I'll make it through. For example, right now it is 10:13. I am writing in my blog because I know I need to record this. It's a marker for me. But it means that once again I'll be late getting to bed. I'm exhausted all the time these days. If I'm not teaching, I'm grading papers. If I'm not doing school work, my mind is working on another story--sometimes unbeknownst to me! I'm constantly second guessing myself, and I often find myself thinking that this will fall by the wayside. I have never managed to be published, so why should I think that I can do it now?
Another thing that I deal with is the overimportance that I place on relatively unimportant things. I have misplaced some files. I know they're here someplace--but there is no need for me to overturn my house looking for them. If I can't find them, I know there's a reason. But still I obsess.
This is all part of the walk. I'm sure of that. I promise myself, here and now, that I will keep walking. I WILL finish this book. I WILL fulfill God's plan and purpose for my life. I KNOW I will, because I know that HE is here--right now--guarding and guiding me. Amen.
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