I've had this seething anger, this wretched bitterness lodged in my heart for a long time now...ever since I saw the pictures of those abandoned children in Bulgaria.
I've been angry at God.
I've believed He isn't good.
Because, how could He--the One who said "let the children come to me"--let the most innocent and vulnerable suffer torture?
I still don't know, and my heart turns away. I shake my fist, I scream, and I flip him off. And I hate my hard heart. {and I wish He would punish me}
Who am I, to tell God what he should do?
Who am I, to say he is a liar and to say he isn't who he says he is?
I just felt a calm whisper--maybe it was Him?--that He gave me this heart for a reason.
That my heart is broken like his is broken...that He feels it too and hates it. That all this anger and sadness and wild-eyed hatred of an abusive world is not supposed to turn me away from Him.
{And it must be said...I am so confused...I love and I reject God in the same second. Honestly, mostly reject Him.
"Wretched man that I am! Who will save me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"
Oh Lord, help my unbelief!!!!}
Monday, April 21, 2014
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Jacob's Well
If there has been a theme in my life over the past two weeks, a consistent feeling or pattern, it would be the realization of my weakness. It would be the glimpsing of the bottomless pit that is my heart, a panicky realization that there is nothing to pull up from the bottom. The well is dry. During the day, I live by the mantra "just pull yourself up by the bootstraps". But there is nothing there.
This makes me think of my favorite scene in the bible, when Jesus talks to the woman by the well.
How I wish I was her, and yet I am.
She stood there, at the peak of the day. Undoubtedly, the dry wind swept the heat into her face, burning her cheeks. The dust stung her eyes...
She lowered the bucket down into the deep chasm, peering into the depths, waiting for the familiar sound of the bucket hitting the water. Suddenly she hears a voice: "Give me a drink". Startled, she looks up and sees the jew. "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?". "If you knew the gift of God (finish this).
How many times have these words stirred that desperate ache in my heart? How many times have they brought tears to my eyes?
I'm tired of digging my own cisterns...deep wounds in the earth that are protected by beautiful buildings...these whitewashed tombs. "Sir, give me this water, so I will not be thirsty".
And then others will say "It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know indeed that this is the Savior of the World."
This makes me think of my favorite scene in the bible, when Jesus talks to the woman by the well.
How I wish I was her, and yet I am.
She stood there, at the peak of the day. Undoubtedly, the dry wind swept the heat into her face, burning her cheeks. The dust stung her eyes...
She lowered the bucket down into the deep chasm, peering into the depths, waiting for the familiar sound of the bucket hitting the water. Suddenly she hears a voice: "Give me a drink". Startled, she looks up and sees the jew. "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?". "If you knew the gift of God (finish this).
How many times have these words stirred that desperate ache in my heart? How many times have they brought tears to my eyes?
I'm tired of digging my own cisterns...deep wounds in the earth that are protected by beautiful buildings...these whitewashed tombs. "Sir, give me this water, so I will not be thirsty".
And then others will say "It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know indeed that this is the Savior of the World."
Monday, March 31, 2014
March 2014
At this rate, it seems I am averaging about a post a year. Not too bad for an INFP in college ;).
It is now the last day of March 2014. In some ways, it seems it was yesterday that I sat in Cafe Libro, watching people and thinking those tumbling thoughts. But today I feel like that Ashlyn is something out of a dream, and that a new person is emerging--a stretching and growing caterpillar in a chrysalis, whose body has been liquified to create those tenacious wings. Right now, I don't think that the change is all good. It's true--my mind has been confused, my heart has bowed to aching desires that bring a greater emptiness, my pride has been my crutch. But a glimpse of hope: the caterpillar, squished into the cocoon, cannot see the beauty it will be. There is no beauty or understandable direction in the liquified body matter, and the caterpillar cannot will itself to be whole.
God will "keep me from stumbling, and present me blameless at the coming of my Lord Jesus Christ".
Oh Lord, help my unbelief!
Keep me from lying to myself, and help me to rest in you.
It is now the last day of March 2014. In some ways, it seems it was yesterday that I sat in Cafe Libro, watching people and thinking those tumbling thoughts. But today I feel like that Ashlyn is something out of a dream, and that a new person is emerging--a stretching and growing caterpillar in a chrysalis, whose body has been liquified to create those tenacious wings. Right now, I don't think that the change is all good. It's true--my mind has been confused, my heart has bowed to aching desires that bring a greater emptiness, my pride has been my crutch. But a glimpse of hope: the caterpillar, squished into the cocoon, cannot see the beauty it will be. There is no beauty or understandable direction in the liquified body matter, and the caterpillar cannot will itself to be whole.
God will "keep me from stumbling, and present me blameless at the coming of my Lord Jesus Christ".
Oh Lord, help my unbelief!
Keep me from lying to myself, and help me to rest in you.
Monday, March 4, 2013
"Sweet Ashlyn"
Sigh...
I see now that all my "righteousness", all my attempts at goodness and getting the right answer, are filthy rags. It's only Jesus' blood, his perfect sacrifice that makes me even able to do 1 "good thing". I rebel against this--because I don't understand, because I don't know how to have faith. I despair because I think that I can't have the Father pleased with me, so I might as well just try to make people happy.
But I can't. And he is the one I want and long for.
But I've ignored and hated and despised his grace.
Can I come back?
Can the dry soil bear fruit?
Only with Him.
Lord, create in me a new heart--give me a heart of flesh because of your grace. Help me to surrender this pride and control of my "goodness" to you.
I see now that all my "righteousness", all my attempts at goodness and getting the right answer, are filthy rags. It's only Jesus' blood, his perfect sacrifice that makes me even able to do 1 "good thing". I rebel against this--because I don't understand, because I don't know how to have faith. I despair because I think that I can't have the Father pleased with me, so I might as well just try to make people happy.
But I can't. And he is the one I want and long for.
But I've ignored and hated and despised his grace.
Can I come back?
Can the dry soil bear fruit?
Only with Him.
Lord, create in me a new heart--give me a heart of flesh because of your grace. Help me to surrender this pride and control of my "goodness" to you.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
What to do?
What do I do?
I can write these words and feel these emotions. Year after year.
I can paint and journal and cry and hope. Day after day.
But, hidden, lies the problem.
When it emerges, I am confused.
This doubt.
This lack of belief. This prideful, mocking unbelief. The belief that makes me despairing, that makes me cling to flaking dirt of life, to sand that flies in the wind. A complete lack of assurance. No faith. And not even wanting God.
What do I do?
It's even darker than this, but I just don't want to look right now. I can't. My heart is so tired.
What do I do?
It's the artists who make beautiful things, who paint the light streaming through the leaves, who are torn by life. Their hearts and minds become wrecked with dark. They can't make themselves beautiful. And although there is so much beauty without, all is darkness within. All is ugly, and silty and cracked within like a plain, shattered clay pot. There is no light inside. The heart is a cavernous vacuum: one step too close to the edge and you fall, sucked down by the voracious darkness. Hopeless despair, because beauty is just beyond their reach--at the end of their tongue, at the front of their mind, just beyond their fingertips--and yet they can't make themselves beautiful.
What do I do?
I've said that I would do whatever it takes. I would do it. But I don't know what to do.
I want to accept the gift. I want to know the one who created the beauty. "You can receive a gift" (John Piper).
Lord, show me how. Make me beautiful, redeemer God.
Maybe it is this...
{I am dark and cracked, yet I've believed the lie that I am alright. I've believed the lie that I don't need help, that I can handle this on my own. Lord, I oscillate between this feeling and the truth. Here on campus it is so hard, Father. I oscillate between praying intensely and truly doubting that you are even real, much less powerful and a loving savior. I waver on the fact that I need a savior. But how I do. Jesus, my need is so great. But you are the savior. You are God, and I am the creature. You are good, and I am evil. You are wise, and I am dust. Please give me faith, holy spirit.}
I believe, help my unbelief.
I can write these words and feel these emotions. Year after year.
I can paint and journal and cry and hope. Day after day.
But, hidden, lies the problem.
When it emerges, I am confused.
This doubt.
This lack of belief. This prideful, mocking unbelief. The belief that makes me despairing, that makes me cling to flaking dirt of life, to sand that flies in the wind. A complete lack of assurance. No faith. And not even wanting God.
What do I do?
It's even darker than this, but I just don't want to look right now. I can't. My heart is so tired.
What do I do?
It's the artists who make beautiful things, who paint the light streaming through the leaves, who are torn by life. Their hearts and minds become wrecked with dark. They can't make themselves beautiful. And although there is so much beauty without, all is darkness within. All is ugly, and silty and cracked within like a plain, shattered clay pot. There is no light inside. The heart is a cavernous vacuum: one step too close to the edge and you fall, sucked down by the voracious darkness. Hopeless despair, because beauty is just beyond their reach--at the end of their tongue, at the front of their mind, just beyond their fingertips--and yet they can't make themselves beautiful.
What do I do?
I've said that I would do whatever it takes. I would do it. But I don't know what to do.
I want to accept the gift. I want to know the one who created the beauty. "You can receive a gift" (John Piper).
Lord, show me how. Make me beautiful, redeemer God.
Maybe it is this...
{I am dark and cracked, yet I've believed the lie that I am alright. I've believed the lie that I don't need help, that I can handle this on my own. Lord, I oscillate between this feeling and the truth. Here on campus it is so hard, Father. I oscillate between praying intensely and truly doubting that you are even real, much less powerful and a loving savior. I waver on the fact that I need a savior. But how I do. Jesus, my need is so great. But you are the savior. You are God, and I am the creature. You are good, and I am evil. You are wise, and I am dust. Please give me faith, holy spirit.}
I believe, help my unbelief.
In my Introduction to Literature class, we are reading poetry. Finally, something beautiful! Here is something that rings and echos truth in its rhythmic lines!
Or not.
I am doing a report on the poet and writer Dorothy Parker. Here is an example of her razor-sharp, and despair numbed, puns:
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live
- "Resume"
With her typical irony, this poem was a resume of her life. She attempted suicide three times, when the despair of her life became too much.
This poor professor. He heralds and praises these poor, pitiful people who wrote out of their hopelessness. These people who, like me, have despaired of life. "This living, this living, this living" (Dorothy Parker, Coda). This living can feel so heavy. As I sit here in Cafe Libro, writing this post, studying this biography, watching this beautiful group of people of colored and dimpled and freckled and burdened people, I am struck.
These people, these people, these people have no idea.
These professors, these professors, these professors have no idea. This world has no idea.
Of the hope.
That life is not a purposeless running, moving, spinning on a hamster wheel hoping that you don't fall through the cracks.
That the pain, oh the pain, of a dead heart that beats is seen.
Oh Jesus. Beautiful One.
Savior of cynical, barbed-wire wrapped hearts that spew sharp words because barbs tear sharp.
Thank you for your love.
Your velvet-soft, mammoth strong love.
Or not.
I am doing a report on the poet and writer Dorothy Parker. Here is an example of her razor-sharp, and despair numbed, puns:
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live
- "Resume"
With her typical irony, this poem was a resume of her life. She attempted suicide three times, when the despair of her life became too much.
This poor professor. He heralds and praises these poor, pitiful people who wrote out of their hopelessness. These people who, like me, have despaired of life. "This living, this living, this living" (Dorothy Parker, Coda). This living can feel so heavy. As I sit here in Cafe Libro, writing this post, studying this biography, watching this beautiful group of people of colored and dimpled and freckled and burdened people, I am struck.
These people, these people, these people have no idea.
These professors, these professors, these professors have no idea. This world has no idea.
Of the hope.
That life is not a purposeless running, moving, spinning on a hamster wheel hoping that you don't fall through the cracks.
That the pain, oh the pain, of a dead heart that beats is seen.
Oh Jesus. Beautiful One.
Savior of cynical, barbed-wire wrapped hearts that spew sharp words because barbs tear sharp.
Thank you for your love.
Your velvet-soft, mammoth strong love.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
October 11th
Today I read Ann Voskamp's blog, A Holy Experience. She sees the beauty in everything, and struggles with the shadows but recognizes the light that makes them.
And I loved being with the preschoolers today. I do love children, so much.
Goodnight.
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