Christian

The Entitlement of a White, American, Southern, Christian Girl


When sad or uncomfortable things happened to me, I was able to steady myself with retail therapy, lunch out with friends, dinner with family, a random tv show or movie. All sorts of “normal” things returned my mindset from anxious, grieving, disappointed or whatever, back to “normal” again. It was akin to the old bury-the-head-in-the-sand ploy and it worked fabulously. Without realizing it, there was an unconscious (or maybe not so unconscious) part of me that was thinking, “I’m a white, American, Southern, Christian girl. What could happen to me?”

Even this week, as my plane circled to land in Asheville, where the smoke from the forest fires was so bad the pilot was forced to take a couple of “go’s” at it, I was simultaneously pleading with God to get that plane on the ground, while reminding him that this, THIS, wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m a white, American, Southern, Christian girl.

Do I think God is impressed with this?

My oldest and dearest friend, Donna, died in July of this year from brain cancer. She was my age, and we were college roommates at Furman University. We met freshman year, the first day of enrollment, in our dorm room. That day began a lifelong friendship. You know the kind. The real deal together-through-all-the-bad-and-good-stuff-friendship.

Had I been Donna, my astonishment that this was actually happening to me, would have been off the charts. My astonishment that it was happening to my best friend was off the charts. God, I said, you can’t be serious. This is Donna, as in my Donna. As in, who am I supposed to talk too if Donna isn’t here? As in, we’re taking the grandgirls to the beach when they’re old enough (I have 3, she has 1 with 1 on the way–5 little girls and their grandmas). As in, she’s 57, not 87. We’re going to be 87 together.

I reminded myself that this was happening to her, not me, but God wasn’t hearing me. I’m so accustomed to my privileged and undisturbed life, I assume God will keep it going, though he may need a gentle nudge now and then. My nudging didn’t work, and I’m still trying to get my bearings in a world without Donna in it.

Circling in that plane, I reminded God I still had so much to live for, and I though I didn’t say it, I fear I implied it: Remember Lord? It’s me. The Southern, Christian girl? I don’t die in plane crashes. Things like this that don’t happen to people like me. Remember? (Just like brain cancer wasn’t supposed to happen to Donna.)

Then I read the news about the soccer team and the Columbia plane crash. Wow. Just wow.

My thinking is getting interrupted with reality. Donna did die, and I started following a 7 year old girl on Twitter (@AlabedBana), who is reporting live from Aleppo (via her mom), and last I read her house was in rubbles and she was trying to read Harry Potter to distract herself from her friends dying. She tweeted a picture of her dead friend, maybe age 4-5? I guess distractions do serve a purpose.

My Sunday School class thinks that the millennials don’t know hard work and believe everything should be handed to them. They refer to the millennials as a bunch of whiny babies. It’s a common topic. They feel certain Donald Trump will set those kids straight now that he is PEOTUS. (When he stops on whining on Twitter, perhaps?) I don’t follow their logic, but I’m not worried about it because I’ve got problems of my own.

My own entitlement has reared it’s embarrassing head, and yes, it involves a lot of whining. Disgust reigns.

Somehow, my thinking got very entitled. I believed that being me meant I didn’t go through what others do. And, in many ways, I don’t. I’m clueless as to what a 7 year old and her brothers do when their house is bombed. I’m protected from that, and I’m more grateful than I can say, but there was a time when I didn’t and couldn’t hear Bana’s voice. My lunches and friends drowned out her bombs, her friend’s dying and her Harry Potter books.

My plane did land, easily and without incident, but it could just have easily crashed. Why was I on the plane that didn’t crash when others were not? Why am I a white, American, Christian girl living a protected and privileged life who somehow fell under the delusional thought that I was entitled to it? Why didn’t I find it odd that some people went hungry, or without water, or that babies were born while wars waged over their mother’s heads? I didn’t find it odd because it wasn’t happening to me.

Here’s what happens when you raise your head and look around: The distractions cease to work. The voices are no longer murmurings in the background of life. They take front and center. The bombs seem like they are literally overhead, and you find yourself asking for courage to speak, to rail, to scream against all of it. You look at yourself and you no longer see a white, Southern, Christian girl. You see the world and everyone in it.

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Christians are No Longer Cool


I left my sheltered world of a stay-at-home mom on the farm, went back to work, and quickly found out that being a Christian is so not cool. I don’t know if it ever was cool, but I’d never gotten flack for being one, until now.

It seems, I’m suspected of judging every single soul on the planet. Like Santa, I’m thought to be sitting at home making a list of who’s naughty and nice, and checking it twice. (I’m not. I’m actually watching NCIS:LA. LL Cool J is my celebrity crush.) I’m told by people, who do not know me or my faith, that I should never judge another person. It just isn’t right.

I looked up the word judge. It means to form an opinion or conclusion about.

Ok, yeah, I’ve done that. From like, preschool on.

But mostly over stupid stuff. Not the big stuff like race, lifestyle, financial status or who I thought should go directly to hell. It was mostly hair, or body (she’s way too skinny), or the way they raised their kids, or their big house, or just whatever. Dumb things. I don’t do that now because, well, I’ve lived long enough to consider my own parenting, hair, weight and weightier subjects.

And, I don’t get riled up over the morals of others because I don’t have a moral leg to stand on, and frankly, I don’t care.

I’ve done little judging, but definitely my fair share of critiquing.

Weirdly, there are people who are judging me for the possibility that I might be judging others. And, yes, I do realize that plenty of Christians are judgmental, but seriously? It’s not like we hold all the cards on that one. Non-Christians are just as quick to judge others, too. It’s a lesson for all of us, not just the Jesus followers.

It’s also assumed that I hate gays, hate Muslims, hate Obama, hate Hilary (well, she is annoying), and anything else left of right. Geez. I’m given too much credit. I rarely consider any of these issues or people. I’m too busy with Cinthia-world, which is not an easy world to run, just FYI.

If not all Muslims are radical extremists, then why are all Christians non-tolerant, judgmental, fundamentalists? Just asking.

Look, there’s a judge, and it’s not me. His name is Jesus, He instructs me to leave the judging up to him because it is too big and burdensome for my shoulders, and besides, I can’t see inside a person’s heart and he can. So, I do. Judging is too hard, too complicated. I haven’t walked where you walk. I haven’t traveled your journey. I don’t live in your skin. Nor you in mine. But, I am a big proponent of being traveling buddies, even the Navy Seals do that. I’d rather skip the judging (me of you or you of me), and see if we can help each other along the way because the way can be hard. And, while we’re traveling, let’s skip the critiquing, too. My dad called it gossip, and I know for a fact, Christian or not, we’re all guilty of that.

 

 

 

sleeping child transplanted and still blooming cinthia milner

Being a Christian Because I Needed Some Real Answers


I’m going to talk about being a Christian this morning. (I know, some of you just clicked off.) But stay with me here for a few lines. I’ll keep it short. I’m going to tell you my story, and how I got here.

I wasn’t always a believer. In fact, I was 32 when I became one. I was on top of a mountain, all by myself, having gone for a hike that day, when I began to follow Jesus. He came to me there and asked, “Who do you say I am?” (Not physically for those who are literal like I am.) It was a heart thing and totally unexpected. Up until then, I had said Jesus was likely a good teacher or prophet or some such, but in that second, I said, “You are the Lord.” And, he’s been Lord in my life ever since. No, not perfectly so. I don’t submit to him in everything. I wish I did, and maybe I’ll get there.

As Ruth Bell Graham had put on her tombstone, “Construction is finished. Thank you for your patience.” Amen.

I was at a point that I didn’t want the world to tell me how to think or live anymore. I wanted God to tell me, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I was still looking for a savior in any form (guy on a white horse, a job, a new town, friends, a new dress). Yes, there’s plenty the world can teach me, but the first Sunday School class I went to after becoming a Christian was led by a guy who brought the Sunday newspaper in with him. The idea was that we’d read the headlines and discuss what we thought about world events. But, I didn’t want to know what the people in the class thought (though they were all nice folks), I wanted to know what God thought. Einstein said, “I want to know God, the rest are details.” I was right there with Einstein. I needed God. I needed God to tell me what to do. Other people are in the same boat I’m in. We’re all rowing terribly hard, and getting nowhere fast.

I needed real answers.

By following worldly wisdom, I”d made some superiorly ridiculous decisions. I was 32, exhausted and needed true help. I figured since God created the world, then he had a pretty good idea of how I should live in it.  I was tired of holding the world up. Maybe not the whole world, but, mine.

I remember coming across this verse:

It is vain for you to rise early, come home late, and work so hard for your food. Yes, he can provide for those whom he loves even when they sleep. Psalm 127:2

I read that and took a nap. I’d spent my life trying to maintain control while looking for something that would bring me happiness. Happiness in a world where suffering is the norm is hard to find.

Giving my life over to God, some say, makes me a wimp. Well, call me a wimp.

I got tired of controlling my own destiny, plus it just didn’t make sense. I didn’t even create this life that I live, so that argument is already out the window from the get-go. I came into this world with no effort of my own, it was beginning to make sense that living it as if I created it was even more superiorly crazy. Giving control of it to the one who did create it seemed the only reasonable thing to do. And so, that day on the mountain, I said, out loud, “Well, I’ve made a mess of this life, let’s see what you can do with it.” (Impertinent has always been an issue for me.)

I said I’d keep it short, so I will. The word grace is what I’ll end with. Grace is relief in spades. Grace is God’s way of saying I’ve got you covered. Your life, your screw-ups (hey, guess what, I’m going to use those!), your future (yes, I’ve got a plan), your eternal destiny (yes, eternal), and so you rest. Rest in the grace of knowing I love you and I will take care of you.

Deal.

 

 

 

 

Puking on Christmas


There was this one Christmas.

My oldest son standing at the top of the stairs throwing up. His younger brother could sleep Christmas morning away, reasoning that he had all day, and all school vacation to tear open and play with Santa’s loot, but not him. My oldest rarely fell asleep on that hallowed eve. He pestered his little brother until the youngest one conceded, and CAME DOWNSTAIRS BECAUSE SANTA HAS COME. My oldest couldn’t bear to close his eyes in anticipation of what the upcoming day would bring–Santa, family, celebration, church, joy–a day when the ordinary becomes extraordinary. He couldn’t bear for the day to have a flaw in it, and there he was, doubled over puking, unable to walk down the stairs. 

I could not fix it. I always thought I was supposed too. But, in less than 24 hours I’d have my head over a toilet while he played with his Christmas toys, sipping ginger ale. The day is sometimes just too much. It can be filled with so much anticipation that it rarely meets the expectation.

My oldest son now celebrates Christmas with his two year old, and wife. The two year old, my little Miss Priss, is more like her mother than her father, she takes the hits of life with a little thicker skin.

Miss Priss Decorating Her Tree

Miss Priss Decorating Her Tree

This year, on our way home from Christmas morning church service, I told the oldest, “I’m glad we go to church.” He didn’t respond because me being glad about being in church is not news to him. “Otherwise the day would be anti-climatic,” I said.  “After all the anticipation, and then the Christmas morning madness, if there was no church service to remind us that Jesus has come, well, it’s a let-down. But church does reminds us, and so its okay if the day isn’t perfect.”

My oldest thought about that for a second, reminding me of his father as he shifted gears, and made a right turn. He even bites his lip like his father does. He responded, “Agreed.”

I thought, I fixed it. I fixed that Christmas morning when he was puking, I fixed it for all of us. Or perhaps I should say, Jesus did.

March Madness; 2008-2013 Recap; Giving Glory


2008-2013. Here’s the abbreviated re-cap. Turns out March is a banner month for me.

March 2008. A friend suggested I write for the Mountain Xpress. Turns out they were looking for a garden writer for their column The Dirt. That started my very small, but fun career in garden writing.

March 2008. My now ex-husband suggested we divorce.  And, so we did, In June of 2013. What God “has joined,” I can attest to the fact that, it is dang near impossible to  “put it asunder.”

March 2009. I discovered a very big reason my ex suggested a divorce. Her name is,  fondly, Cruella de Vil.  (Well, it rhymes with it, anyway.)

March 2011. My first big garden article appears in a glossy magazine. It makes the “middle spread,” and is so snazzy. I’m super proud.

March 2012. Officially separated after 24 years of marriage, and officially employed after 15 years of unemployment. (Time flies.)

March 2013. A salary job! Manager of the BB Barns Flower Market in Brevard, NC. And, Aggie became an offical family member.

March 2014. There will be a brand new granddaughter to love. Miss Sadie Jane will make her appearance sometime mid-Feb, leaving March wide-open for my complete adoration of the newest family member. We’ll see if March has anything else up its sleeve.

But, maybe the March Madness has subsided. There is a time for every season, and the next good time is just as real as the next bad, OR vice versa. But, whatever the future Marches bring, 2008-2013 was a good five years, despite the unexpected. I’m grateful. Here’s what made it good.

The Lord was with me.

While my friends were hoping for a revenge-of-the-middle-aged-housewife, you know, lose the weight, get the fab job, the fab clothes, the fab guy, the fab condo… I was living reality. Reality looks a bit like that. I did lose the weight, but I also lost the fab job. Sadly, the Flower Market will not reopen next year, which stinks for Aggie as well as for me (she got to go to work with me). And, honestly, there was little time for revenge-of-anything. Its survival mode. Immediate action is needed if you’re going to be employed and housed and moving on, not a lot of time for revenge, which is never very effective when we attempt it ourselves.

But, how to describe that the Lord was with me, when the Lord is omnipresent, and so with us all the time?

Well, like he was with the Israelites when they left Egypt. He gave them the gift of his glory, i.e. his fingerprint on all that they did. In other words, there was truly no way they could say, hey look what we did! We got ourselves out of slavery, we drowned the Egyptian army in the Red Sea, after we parted it so we could cross on dry land, then we ate manna dropped from heaven every day for forty years while our clothes never wore out (though I’m assuming the fashion did).  And, we conquered Cannan and took over the land for ourselves. Wow. Did we do good or what? It was a good half-century. No. They simply could take no credit for that. Everyone who watched this ragamuffin nation knew, God was with them. He was responsible for all that happened to them. He was ACTIVE in their lives. 

God is always active in our lives, but sometimes he shows up in a pow sort of way. Waters part, mountains are leveled, enemies are destroyed, addictions are conquered, manna is provided. When that happens, we seriously don’t want to miss it. Imagine saying, Nah, I’d rather not watch him part the Red Sea and drown my oppressor in it, after I’ve crossed over on dry land. Who would want to miss God’s activity when it shows up like that?

He was active in mine. God showed up in a pow way for me, and everything that happened, happened because he made it so. I could not have dreamed arriving where I am now, much less made it real. So many examples, but here’s one that got the ball rolling for what life looks like now.

I was offered a job in a town where my son would go to college, and found a house one block away from the college. and five minutes away from the job. My son was not looking at this college, they called him. I was not looking for this job, they called me. We were not looking for the house, a stranger (yes, a stranger) called me.  All this in one month.

There are some things you cannot do yourself. You cannot part water. You cannot drown an army. You cannot make manna appear. But sometimes, you need to part water, drown armies and make manna appear. I needed to do all that and then some. When your time comes, call on the Lord. He’s very good at helping those who cannot help themselves.

That’s what 2008-2013 was all about for me. God’s fingerprints are all over it.   

Let’s Talk Tattoos


First, I’ll confess, I’m not a fan of tattoos, but hang on before you click off, I will support said tattoos by the end of this blog post. And, for the bonus, I’ll explain why Leviticus 19:28 doesn’t apply.

First, why I’m not a fan.

Simple. I love the human body as is.  At 19, I really enjoyed my body. Not in an arrogant way. I was still pretty naive, and did not think of myself as sexy or beautiful. I was just me. I just enjoyed my toes, my feet, my legs, my arms. I thought my body was pretty. I thought most people’s bodies were. Even my old aunts with wiggly arms.

I was at an advantage. In the 60s and 70s, celebrities were present but not prevalent  Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie (whoever their equivalent was) did not dominate my life. Yes, I swooned over actors at movies, though I can’t remember who now. But, I didn’t take them home with me. They stayed at the theaters. Magazines were fun to look at, but again, they weren’t telling me to get thinner or have my teeth capped. They were telling me how to lighten my hair with lemon juice, something I did regularly.

So, for me. The human body is a work of art. When someone tattoos it, it is like vandalizing to my mind. You just threw paint on something beautiful and frankly, I’ve never seen a tattoo I thought was prettier than the body it adorned. I’ve never seen a tattoo artist make a body prettier with their work. That body, to my thinking, is art. Perfect, beautiful art. To add to it, just messes it up.

So, there, my opinion. Do what you like with it.

But, in this ever-increasing battle of the Christian vs. the non, the subject of tattoos comes up regularly. My son has two (and no, I don’t like either one, but it is his body), and I’m often asked, “I thought he was a Christian?” by believers and non, who assume Christians cannot tattoo themselves. This belief is based on Leviticus 19:28 where it says,

28 You shall not make any cuts on your body for the dead or tattoo yourselves: I am the Lord.

I’m not getting into the discussion of the cuts on your body. I’m just hoping you’re not doing that. But, for the tattoo part, what do I say to my Christian son about that verse? I say God gave that law to the Israelites as they began to make their journey into the land he promised them, Canaan. He gave them their civil laws and their ceremonial laws. He also gave them the 10 commandments which sum up all laws.

These laws are found in the Books of the Law, or the first five books of Scripture. They are called the books of the law because they contain the laws and instruction given by the Lord through Moses to the people of Israel.

Many generations before, God had promised Abraham that he would build a nation through him. Several million people later, and forty years of wandering around in the wilderness, and a lot of discussion going on about what their now-to-be-country would look like, they were ready to enter and take over the land from the Canaanites (if that frustrates you, that is another topic, sorry).

So, God gave them their civil laws and their ceremonial laws. Basically, how they would worship and live. Tattoos were out. Here’s why. They were to stand out. They were to be different from the nations around them. God wanted the pagans to know, there goes an Israelite. A man or a woman who belongs to God. Israel actually started their government with no human king on the throne. God was their king. Everything about their country was different, which made each individual different, which made them stand out like a sore thumb, which made people look at and wonder about them.

They weren’t to fit in or blend. They were to STAND OUT. And, In that culture, not being tattooed or cutting yourself would make you stand out because the Canaanites were heavily tattooed. The Canaanites worshiped their god Baal by burning their babies in fires, and a lot of other not-so-great-things one would hope not to mimic.

Hence, the second reason for not having tattoos.  When one steps a foot into the fire (no pun intended), it is a slippery slope. God wanted his people to stay away from such practices (in the end they did not). And, as I have often asked my children, if someone is sitting in a chair and you’re on the floor in front of them, which is easier? To pull them down, or for them to pull you up? Downward is always easier.

God wanted his people to look upward toward him.

There is so much more to this subject than I’m writing here, but suffice it to say, that law in Leviticus was part of the civil law for the Israelites. It doesn’t apply to us as Christians, primarily because we aren’t living in Israel and even more primarily because Jesus Christ fulfilled the law–all of it–even the 10 commandments. He did not break one law in thought, word or deed. So, we are no longer under the law, though we are compelled by it. Compelled but not judged, because Jesus took our penalty for the laws we break daily.

So, if tattoos are your thing, Christian or not, then go for it. It isn’t Scriptural to say you cannot.

Still, the spirit of law touches my heart. How do I as a Christian stand out as different from the world around me? Do others look at me and say, she is a Christian? She belongs to God? Or do I blend?

At this point, I’m not interested in tattoos for myself, but there are plenty of other ways I likely blend without realizing it. And compromise my beliefs. And, deny Christ so I don’t make waves, or be rejected. Its all something to think about, I suppose.

But, I do hope at 54, I can love my wiggly arms as much as I loved my aunt’s.

Exclusion/Inclusion: What to do with the Other Woman?


The new buzz word for families these days is inclusion. Everyone gets to be included in the family. No tossing people out into the wilderness as in days of yore when one (and there is always one) starts acting up. Family is about inclusion, making sure everyone feels welcome at the table. Being a mom, I understand this. It makes for a family that lacks dysfunction.

This concept actually epitomizes Christianity too. All are welcome, and no one has to work for it, or change for it. Christ welcomes us all into his family exactly as we are, and there are no exceptions to this. Being a Christian, I follow this teaching too.

But. There’s always a but.

What about the other woman?

Yeah. Her.

The one who left her husband for my husband.

The one who gave my husband an open invitation to her house whenever her husband was away from the homestead. The one that now sleeps in my house, eats at my dinner table, pets my dog, and enjoys the viburnum the boys gave me for Mother’s Day along with all my other flowers.

For all this to be accomplished (her living in my home) the first thing that had to happen was exclusion. My ex had to exclude me from his life. A wife and a mistress don’t mix. He had to choose. I was out. She was in.

Just that phrase, out and in, brings us right back to the premise of inclusion and exclusion again.

If I listen to the ladies on The View, evidently I am supposed to welcome the other woman with open arms. If I listen to the women who live in the real world, I should chop off her head. I would prefer neither. Can’t we just ignore her, and hope he dies of poor diet and over-drinking at an early age? Then, I get my family all to myself? Not that I’m trying to exclude anyone. It would just be so much easier that way.

Well, for me, obviously. But, it is my blog post, so I can be narcissistic and focus only on me, right?

Family, on its own, without strangers inserting themselves into the middle of it (uninvited) is hard enough. It takes years to work out the dynamics between everyone. It is no easy task to learn the nuances of one another, or figure out the road to take with each family member to reach the most productive end. And trust me when I say, it is the mothers who do all that work. Ain’t no dads out there figuring that stuff out.

So, now there’s this stranger to everyone except the ex, and, she’s to be included, according to the experts, if everyone is going to survive this insanity they call divorce.

So, what are the options?

Go into mom mode? Make everything alright for everyone, and just be so sweet? Or hightail it to the hinterlands, and let the natives sort it out for themselves?

I’m leaning toward the latter because I notice in the buzz words of inclusion and exclusion there’s no mention of abandoning ship. Not sure what the catch-all word for that is, but presently, it sounds pretty darn good. I’m thinking someplace tropical because I love tropical plants and really would love to grow them. I can’t here.

So, inclusion/exclusion, or hit the road Jack and don’t you look back no more, no more, no more, no more. Hit the road Jack and don’t you look back no more?

Indulge, Repent, Repeat


Indulge, repent, repeat. I saw these three words on a t-shirt today and found it rather humorous, if a bit close to home. It was a t-shirt advertising mustard, of all things. Of course, I want one. And, of course, I want to wear it to church. But, of course, I won’t.  We Christians aren’t very good at laughing at ourselves. I blame Paul. He wrote all those letters and never included even the hint of humor. Come on, Paul. Not even one joke?

Of course, repentance is not a laughing matter, and Biblically speaking, it is not something we can even do ourselves. It is a gift of the Holy Spirit. We cannot drum up repentance no matter how much we flog ourselves. But, the advertisers weren’t talking about that kind of repentance. They were talking about the sort of thing we promise ourselves we will start doing tomorrow but never do, hence the repeat part.

Here’s my list of what I promise myself I will stop indulging in, and repent of beginning tomorrow.

1. Eating.

2. Shopping.

3. Finances (refer to number 2, please)

4. Starbucks (refer to number 3 please).

5. Keeping vampire hours.

6. Rising early to have time for a healthy breakfast (refer to number 1 and 5 please).

7. Exercise. (Who am I kidding?)

8. Call my mother. (There is no reference for this one, I just need to do it.)

And, that is the superficial stuff (except for Mom). If I included a list of major things, well then, true repentance would be needed. For instance, who can take care of my bitter heart, or judgmental thoughts? Will a half-hearted promise to myself before drifting off to sleep change my sharp tongue? Or is determination enough to forgive what I believe is unforgivable?

The clever t-shirt not-withstanding, the dilemma, whether superficial or deep, is that we need Jesus either way. We can’t repent and not indulge without his help. He is the willpower or determination we need. Oh, I know. It is not cool to say that. It is okay to say God, but nobody likes it when you bring Jesus into the dialogue, because honestly, that is where repentance rears its head in the truest definition of the word. That is the place where the conviction of the Holy Spirit shows up, and each time we deny Jesus his rightful place, we feel the dishonesty in that. Repentance is turning away from our rejection of Christ, and acknowledging him as Lord of all, even ourselves.

Repentance over all the little things in life, yes, but repentance over thinking we’re our own god and rejecting Jesus as God, well, start there. The rest will come, including calling your mother. I know because I called mine tonight.

Rearranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic


As a Christian, I was never taught it, but somehow I came to believe that God would never ask certain things of me. I assumed the Lord and I had an agreement worked out. For instance, I felt I could handle losing all my money, so if there was going to be a trial in my life, then the Lord knew that was a good one for me. It was a little game I had going with him. Lord, this trial is okay, but never THIS ONE (fill in the blank with your greatest fear).

Because of my assumed agreement with the Lord, when trial did come, as much as I should have seen it coming, I refused to believe the Lord would allow it to happen. I believed He would swoop in at some point and save the day. And He is certainly capable of that. So, as my ship was sinking, well, I was rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

I am assuming that I’m not alone here, Christian or not. I am assuming that most of us, whether we trust Jesus as Savior, or believe that humanity’s collective consciousness is God, we all are pretty much going to do the same when suffering comes knocking–duck our heads into the sand until we are forced to accept the circumstances.

Every step of my trial was one where I prayed that God would step in and change the outcome. He did not. And, here’s what I tell people now. I don’t want another trial, but I wouldn’t have missed this one for the world.

Here’s why.

1. I found out that God is faithful to get you through it, even if he chooses not to get you out of it.

2. I found out that while the ship is sinking, God is so very present in your life its as though you could touch him physically.

3. I found out that God will help you rearrange the deck chairs if that is what you need.

All the things I was taught as a Christian, that God is faithful to us, that he never abandons us, and that we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us, well, I found out that all of that is true.

Once, in the middle of my big mess, my oldest son was home for Christmas. We had just picked him up at the airport, and he was expecting the holiday traditions he loved. We were going to decorate the tree first thing to get the festivities going, and I had everything ready to do it, but we couldn’t find my husband. When I did find him, he was in his office emailing his girlfriend, who he would later leave me for. I went into the bathroom, shut the door, and sat down. I said, “Lord, you promised you’d be here. Period. In your word, you promise you will be with us in every situation. I need you here now.”

No bright light shone into the bathroom. I didn’t see the Lord visibly (though many have). My husband didn’t end his conversation with his girlfriend or she with him. He eventually left for her and she left her husband for him. But, I came out of that bathroom able to cope, to make Christmas what it is, a celebration of Jesus’ birth. I came out filled with joy that Christ was born.

What grace.

I no longer assume that I am exempt from any trial. Instead, I know that when trial comes the Lord will be there helping me to rearrange my deck chairs until I am ready to let the ship go down.

 

When Are you Going to Follow Jesus and Get Your Life Straightened Out?


Before I fell headlong for Jesus and became a Christian, I was not a calm woman. I did a bunch of ridiculous (and dangerous) stuff. I also had completely stupid ideas about life, which I won’t bore you with.

During this darling phase of my life there was one particular woman who drove me bonkers. Every time she saw me (a lot) she asked, “When are you going to start following Jesus and get your life straightened out?” She was relentless, and because she was my mom’s friend, I couldn’t find it in myself to tell her to bug off. I may have been an immoral hellion, but I was still a Southern girl with Southern manners. And by the way, her question is a particularly Baptist (and Southern) one.

Christians are always harping on you to get your life straightened out and of course, they have the answer for how to do that (and no, I don’t mean Jesus). Stop doing this. Stop doing that. Stop. Stop. Stop. Law. Law. Law. They care more about propriety than they do Jesus most of the time. She wanted me to get my life straightened out foremost and first of all.  There were several people rooting for that change of direction, including myself.

Its like my anxiety attacks. I’m told, “Well, just stop them. Just stay calm.”  Loved ones assume I have some measure of control and if I wanted to I could just quit the panic attack mid-stream. Like here I am refusing to stop a panic attack because feeling like I’ve got the stomach flu while having a heart attack is so much fun. Who would want to stop that?

Turns out I am quite literal. So, one day I piped up and said, “Which one of those do you want me to do? Follow Jesus or straighten out my life?”

I’ll give her props. She was dead honest. She said, “Well, I’m supposed to say follow Jesus, or both, or something like that, but really I’m just so sick of watching you make an idiot out of yourself that I want you to straighten out your life.”

Geez. And, I was worried about my Southern manners.

But then she dropped her guard and said, “But sweetie, if you never get yourself tidied up, you still need Jesus.” Truer words never spoken.

I am a bit tidier today–well, a lot actually–although I still have a lot of really insane ideas about life, but I did need Jesus. Not to straighten up my life, although he has helped me do that because I really couldn’t do it myself, but to be my friend, my confident, my comforter, my help and my Savior. Yes, my life needed all sorts of help, but my soul needed more. I needed someone to stand in my place before God and say, “She’s mine.”

Because ultimately her question was spot on. If I could not straighten out my life (and I could not) then how would I ever stand before a perfect, holy God? But, Jesus can. He can stand before God in all His perfection, and say, “She’s mine.” And that is good enough for God. So, by following Jesus I am given his righteousness. Which is Grace. Grace. Grace.