Of Pictures and Pieces

Gloaming is blue and ethereal, with fine flakes of winter shrouding my valley in quiet. The windowpanes in my little cottage are frosted 'round the edges, as I've been simmering a lentil stew and braising some cabbage for dinner later. 

Today has been rather quiet, stillness only broken by the scraping of the snow plough and some shovelling...and the occasional tramp of boots on the stone stairs outside my cosy home. I'm grateful for the quiet space to reflect and pray (and sleep in, after a week of late nights). I'm thankful for my cup of Himalayan Bouquet tea with wildflower honey as I cuddle up in my softest, long grey sweater to watch the snow fall. 

I'm grateful for the foggy, snowy weather, which calms and quiets my soul so that I can come to the Lord in prayer and meditation. And I am so very thankful that the Lord hears me when I cry out to Him. He hears my recent confusion, my aches, my joys, my fears, my hopes. He hears my confessions, my uncertainties, my desires—the ones that so often pull against one another, tearing me to pieces. 

My whole life feels like it's been one series after another of deep desires that pull me in contradictory directions. I thought everyone felt this way, but it turns out, they don't. At least, not all the time or maybe even most of the time. This constant struggle being unique to me and people like me was revealed when I learned my mindstyle: being equally task-oriented and people-oriented. Most people tend to be more one or the other, but not me. It makes work a challenge at times—especially working with other people. And when I'm with people, I can multitask (do the dishes, play games, etc.), but I can't both work on a project with them and also give them my undivided attention. The reality is that what I want most is to sit side-by-side and listen deeply, to share intimately.

While it was immensely frustrating to discover these equal and opposite mindstyles were at war within me, it made sense of many situations and seasons in life—and explained why I get burnt out on work or people. It's been four or five years since this revelation and I feel like I'm still not good at figuring out my balance, at walking with both the left foot (people) and the right foot (tasks), one after the other in rhythm.

The issue is further complicated with God. I love learning about the bigger picture of the Bible and the themes God has woven into His world and His works from the beginning of time. I love it when I finally make a big picture connection myself. But I find myself doing one thing or the other, not both at once: I either read Scripture slowly and methodically, gleaning details or I don't read it at all and listen to others who help me see the big picture. I've done the detail-gleaning most of my growing up life, even into my twenties. I've only begun the big picture learning since entering my thirties.  

In hindsight, I wish these processes had been reversed. I wish I'd known the big picture of God and His story when I was little, filling in the details as I grew and matured. Because when you've been digging up little artefacts for your formative years and you don't know where they go or how they fit together, you do some weird cobbling together of those pieces. You may make a beautiful mosaic or a grotesque image of God, but you will have to take it all apart to put things together in the way they are supposed to go, not how you decided they should go. And how do we (I) do that if we don't know the nature, character, and love of God?

No one person can see God, His world, or everything in Scripture rightly and thoroughly at once. That is one of the many reasons God put us together in a body, in community—both with Himself and with others. This is why we need to read Scripture communally, but also individually (where we can read and absorb at our own speed). 

I've been in a rather long season now of studying the Word in community (both at church and in Bible studies), but now comes the point where I need to jump back in to also reading daily to re-familiarise myself with the words, phrases, and details. They go hand-in-hand. While I love both the details and the big picture, I need a lot of help from intuitive and perceiving people to see the big picture. I don't naturally have that vision. I see the trees, not the forest. And that has SO many positive outlets and uses, but I need to see the forest, too. Just like I need to learn to balance tasks and developing relationships, not at the exclusion of one or the other.

It's easier to learn photography basics in black and white, learning about shadows, shapes, and composition. But when you add colour, it's a whole new field. Both mediums are beautiful. But you can use either and fail in composition, clarity, or depth. You can fail to tell a story—you have to have an informed, intuitive eye for that.

Dichotomies are hard for me. I understand black, I understand white. Where gradations and colours fit in is where I need God and other people to help me imagine. To see truly. When I can't see beyond my own confusions, conclusions, and projected outcomes there is God, holding out truth, light for the path, and hope. Colours. Stories. Pieces of the whole...and the whole story, too.

I Have Set before You Life and Death

Misty days and Spring rains have given way to Summer heat; screen doors are flung open for cooling breezes; there are pots of flowers thriving on the porch. . . One of those is quite new, a lovely ribbed green ceramic creation with pink vincas blooming over the edge. It was a surprise gift from Nick, when he unexpectedly popped by my office on his day off this week.

Sometimes we need delightful surprises of flowers and monster-sized cookies, soft dresses on sale, and precious days with family. We need sad songs and sweet ones, too. We need bright smiles and long kisses, an unlooked-for hug on a hard day, and honest tears as we work through discerning what is right and best. We need meandering walks to drink in late sunshine and colour-drenched flowers. We need crickets and quiet moments on the porch, talking with God...which I think mostly means listening hard in the silences between words.

It has been both a restful, beautiful Spring with silvery mists and clouds rolling in over the mountains, and simultaneously a difficult season of stress, solicitude, and stealthy sorrow snaking its way into my family. I loved going home in April to take Nick to meet my family and enjoy the glorious spring beauty of the Midwest. I loved driving to Kansas to meet up with my immediate family to celebrate my aunt and uncle's 50th wedding anniversary... It was lovely to reconnect with many of my cousins, though the days were laced with a bittersweet undertone, as my uncle's health is deteriorating rapidly. 

Though it may not sound like it, the thread weaving the beauty, the bittersweet, the bite of sorrow is always the Lord of all. Not simply in the Bible Project podcasts or daily lectio divina of Pray as You Go, or even in Tim Keller sermons (how sorrowed I have been with his recent passing!)... Though also exactly in and through those things. Yet it is the Lord asking me questions from the mouth of the man I love, from my best friends, from unexpected sources. There is the question of God giving us choices, life and death—which will we choose? It sounds so easy: choose life! But am I seeing death as life? Will I choose wrongly because my eyes are mis-seeing? And what does that stem from? Is it because I am unused to looking at the goodness of the Lord?

What does loving someone well look like? Lately it has involved both saying what I need and setting boundaries. It involves sacrifice of time, and also listening fully engaged. It means being quieter than I have been lately. Do I remember that God is the Someone I love first? Am I loving Him well?

Questions, questions, questions. . . And Beauty. And sorrow. And joy. And hope. And boundaries. And learning to say hard things. And quiet. And open hands. It all weaves and flows; it all whirls in the delicate dance of this life we live, the air we've been gifted to breathe. All these come as gifts of some kind, even the gifts that feel like pain. As God gently, graciously unpeels our fingers from 'round the things we cling to, we stop strangling them and allow the breath of life to come in. . .

Come, Holy Spirit. . .

*Photo stills from The Cottage Fairy, no copyright infringement intended (I just want to share the beauty)...

Prayer

Lord, help me...save me from the world outside of me, trying to crush me and push me into its mold.

But Lord, I have swallowed the world and it is inside of me. Save me, too, from the world within... The world that burns, that eviscerates, that kills like an ever-spreading cancer. Save me from being eaten alive, emaciated, and gutted. Save me from being drowned by the lies swimming in the channels of my mind and heart. . .

You say: 

Take heart, I have overcome the world. The world outside you. . .and the world inside you. The Hell to come, and the Hell you let burn within. I have overcome that like the light overcomes the darkness. Like life overcomes death. 

I am the Resurrection and the Life. 

                        I will lead you to the Father. 

                                  My Spirit will guide you into all Truth. 

                                                      And the Truth will set you free.

How My Shirt Changed the Day

For the second time in a month, I had a conversation in the grocery checkout line that left me reeling. This time it began while unloading my produce and grinning at the two big-eyed, energetic young boys behind me. Their mom caught my eye and and she looked friendly as she inquired, "What is that?" The red cabbage in my hand? I thought. "I'm sorry, my produce?" She clarified, "I've seen those shirts on people around town, what is it?" 

"Oh, it's from an organisation that helps women get ultrasounds and see their babies...to help them stay healthy. They sort of hang out around planned parenthood facilities and help women want to keep their baby. You know, save a stork, since people say babies are delivered by storks." I smiled as I made air quotation marks around the word storks.

It wasn't the most eloquent or elegant thing I've ever said, but it was the grocery line, and it was moving pretty quickly. She looked engaged, so I was startled when she said, "Oh, so you're against abortion, I get it." I quickly replied that I was pro-life and she said,  "I thought it was going to be something cute." I said the first thing that popped into my head, "Well, your little guys are awfully cute." Her response stunned me, "Yeah, well, we planned each one of them. I donate to planned parenthood every year because I believe in science. I take them to the library so they can read more than one book." As it was my turn to check out, I responded that her comment made me sad and that I, too, read more than One Book. 

I wished them a good evening when I was finished, then walked to my car. Tears welled up in my eyes as a response whispered its way out of my mouth, "But planned parenthood cuts babies into pieces. How could anyone support that?" 

More tears made driving blurry as I thought of all the things I could have said to that kind-looking woman in just ten seconds: "I believe in science, too. A baby has DNA from the time the egg and sperm meet, and its heart begins to beat at fourteen days. When someone ends an innocent human heartbeat, we call it murder, don't we?"

The words of the song I was listening to pierced my heart:
"I try so hard..to turn away and not become
Another nail to pierce
The skin of One who loves
More deeply than the ocean
More abundant than the tears
Of a world embracing every heartache"*

A world embracing every heartache, I thought. Embracing pain under the name and guise of science, knowledge. And yet it is lack of Knowledge that blinds them, and they swallow the pill, not to kill the pain but to kill the child...to increase the heartache. 

Then came the angry tears—for the second time in recent weeks, I had failed to share truth with someone in an adequate way. I was so unprepared in the moment to give that ten second reply, because I simply hadn't thought to prepare any words to say if someone asked me. I hadn't planned to have to explain my shirt when I debated about what to wear in the morning. I had gone back and forth and finally landed on my Save the Storks shirt because it's one of my favourites. I briefly thought that it was a bummer so few people ever asked me about the shirt. So, I didn't prepare. I walked into a store minding my own business, and my shirt changed the tenor of the evening. One simple choice this morning opened up a conversation... A conversation that I wanted to have, but where I failed to say anything beyond, "That makes me sad," when I had much more I could say. Much more I wish I had said.

How can I give someone food for thought if I'm not prepared with my own questions to counter theirs? I want to be kind, but I also want to make people think. I want to ask something for their own mind to to close around, rather than simply making insipid replies to their questions. 

Last time I was in that same grocery, I was totally unprepared for the conversation that sprang up in the checkout line. There was no way I could have known a question as simple as, "Where do you go to church?" from the cashier would lead to them telling me that they were in the midst of a gender transition. This time I could have been prepared for the questions, but I wasn't. 

Slow as I am, I'm realising that I should pray for the Lord to direct my mind and conversations before I step into that grocery—or any other grocery. And not only the grocery, but also restaurants and the sidewalks of my town; before I drive my car and as I prepare for each day. Perhaps, like the scores of other times I've walked into the grocery or worn this shirt other places, nothing will happen. But what about the one time in the midst of those scores when someone asks the question, when someone blurts out their hurt or their heart? To be ready in that moment means to pray before all of the moments that might be. 

*— Worlds Apart by Jars of Clay

** If you would like to learn more about Save the Storks, this video shows what they do to help women, born and unborn, around the country.

Cleansing Fire

 What if prayer is a furnace? 
    When we confess, every sin and every evil thing 
       is burnt away into ashes. 

          But every prayer in line with Life and Love
            —stemming from God's Spirit—
                 is refined like gold and silver. 

                   What if that? 

                       And lest we forget, 
                         even ashes are used in making soap...






____

Dedicated to Sarah, Kasey, and Marit

The Liturgy of Home: Place and Practise

Fog diffuses light and shadow, shrouds the world around me in unfamiliar shapes, bringing with it the damp smells of earth and balsam. Raucous calls emanate from the rook perched amongst the pines. Watching, listening, I sit still—allowing the morning’s wild silence to feed my soul. I revel in weekends and mornings; their hours hold out strong fingers of life and help to me. A cheery kettle often whistles its tea-song as I poach an egg or wipe the table. Benedictine’s chant a Psalm whilst I wash the dishes, my own prayers rising with their strains and the water’s steam.

Morning rhythms thrum through my day, setting the tone for the day’s song. If I begin with a Psalm and moments for prayer, the first melody is strong. If I add to that the kitchen tidying and sweeping, a chord of harmony twines into the day. Weaving in reading or writing—if I have given myself enough time for leisure—the chorus grows more substantial by the time I greet my fellow workmates. This is home—this practise of cultivating habits and routines which chart the course of days and weeks.

I grew up in a home that was less focussed on punctuality and more concerned with ‘life together.’ My mother set routines both around the morning meal and reading Scripture aloud to me and my sisters. My father would engage us all in conversation over dinner, leaving time to read together after the table was cleared or just before bed. Sometimes we would shift our evening routine, having friends over for dinner or coffee. We would hold hands and pray together. There we were, gathered around the table, listening to stories and laughing over the trifling events of the day—glad for friends with whom we could share both words and meals.

Time swirls on as ever—I cannot believe how many years ago I grew up in my parents’ home. I have since moved to my own cottage, a tiny cabin peering out at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Here I have scrubbed, dusted, and decorated. I have laughed and cried, both with friends and alone. I have acquired and organised books and bookshelves. Here I have stocked cabinets with tea and food to serve at the whim of a knock. And here I have learned that being still is a practise—not an intrinsic right that comes with living solo.

It seems safe to say that home is a place of comfort and cheer, of peace and pleasure. If you do not believe me, think of the households where there is chaos, violence, stony silence, instability, or abuse. Out of these dens come hurting individuals, hungry for peace, yearning for safety and love. Acceptance and care, feeling like they belong, is the home-feeling they are looking for—whether it comes from a gang or a healthy family.

Indeed, home is a place, not a nebulous placeholder, like your internet browser’s so-called ‘homepage.’ Yet home is much more than a tactile frame of timber and glass. Home is a practise—the practical application of routines and daily liturgy. Home is private—a place to rest and a bulwark from the buffeting tempests of life-storms. Home is public—an open-door-hospitality sort of shelter for friends and family in times both of laughter and tears.

We live in a culture that is anything but home-like. It separates, drawing individuals off into solitary pursuits, or keeping families so busy that a meal together is an anomaly. Busy-ness and individualism are the antitheses to home life, community, and sanity. Keeping a frenetic schedule allows precious little time for reflection, an act of both soul and spirit that is needed to balance reality and dreams.

Knowing that reflection is an essential need, I make space for it in my mornings and weekends. Sometimes this means setting aside books and screens, simply looking out the window as I enjoy a meal, or sitting on my porch watching the rain drip from the pine needles. Other times, this means going for a solitary walk. As I was reflecting recently, I realised that the way my parents raised me and my sisters was not perfect, but it was good. The ‘life together’ aspect of the dinner table, of evening recreation, of opening our home or going to friends’ homes, of working together in the garden or to make dinner set a theme for my life. These things painted a robust and rich picture of home for me.

We need flourishing homes in our lonely, fragmented culture. Are our homes the sort that cast a beam of warm, golden light out into the dark of night? Do the weary, worn, busy travellers along the road of life find us—and our dwellings—places of solace? May the habits we practise—order, hospitality, togetherness, and reflection—shine out into the inky night as a beam of hope for all who see it and choose to come inside.

A Living Vapour

Fresh morning sun peered into my eyes as I swung my car onto the main road in town. I cruised toward a church I had never entered, realising—as I pulled between the mustard-coloured lines to park—that I did not know where to go. I stood uncertainly, looking back and forth between the looming church and the sad-looking parish centre behind it. I made the decision to poke my head in at the parish centre, as the lovely church looked a bit too imposing to enter without someone by my side. A slip of paper on the glass door confirmed that I had chosen correctly. Skirting the infant baptism class, I veered toward a room sparsely filled with ladies of various shapes, hair colours, and backgrounds.

Walking into a group of persons is intimidating enough for me, let alone a group of grown-up women belonging to a denomination I'm unfamiliar with, all of whom I had never met in my life. Yet, I was determined to attend this morning of prayer and meditation as soon as I had heard about it. That determination walked me through the double doors and to the first table where someone caught my eye and smiled. I chatted with a woman while waiting for the tea water to boil. I introduced myself to the ladies at the table where I set my things. I probably looked like a wide-eyed protestant from a mile away, but they were all kind enough to explain things for me when I asked. I tactfully neglected to ask why women's gatherings never supply protein-rich breakfasts, hoping the fruit and assorted breads would keep my morning appetite satisfied.

Soon, we filed over to the spacious church in little knots of chattering women. My tentative, shy feeling whisked away as I stepped under those dark, wooden rafters and my nostrils caught a strong scent of incense. Dust-brown pews invited us to sit in the sunlight sifting down from high windows. I chose a spot a bit apart from the kind ladies I had shared breakfast with. Quiet and reflection are hard for me to practise in close proximity to other persons. We practised two variations of lectio divina, meditating on a passage of Scripture from Isaiah, and then on the calling of Matthew, using a Caravaggio painting. We sang a few hymns in English and in Latin. I journalled and prayed and reflected over more Scripture. We were guided through a much slower and more deliberate Mass and celebration of the Eucharist.

Over and again during the morning I was drawn to a stream of soft light pouring onto the altar floor. At first I could see lingering incense smoke illumined in that shaft. While the aroma of incense dissipated throughout our time in that hushed sanctuary, it did not leave my memory. I remembered how the light had caught the final tendrils of sweet-smelling smoke as I stepped in through that dark doorway. The beam of light had taken the invisible trail of vapour, giving it form and substance. I thought about how our prayers are to rise to the Lord as a sweet aromatic waft of incense. That is all we are, a breath of wind, a curl of blue smoke, nearly invisible—until the light rounds out our contours and gives us substance. Only the Light, Jesus Himself, makes our prayers visible, real, and dimensional. We—who are but a puff of smoke and then we are gone—He makes solid, visible creatures. He rounds out our spirits, souls, and selves by shining His light not on us, but through us. "...Blaze again like fire in every leaf", says Malcolm Guite. It is the Light shining through the smoke, through the leaf, that shows the substance of the thing pierced by the Light.


Truth is multi-façeted, like a luminous jewel. This day the truth I saw was that both our prayers and our selves are but a vapour, then they are gone. Both need the Eternal Light to shine through them to make them solid, real. Like the ever diminishing scent of incense, our prayers fade and need to be re-kindled. We must daily speak joy. We must continue to cry the mercy of God. We must bring our requests again to God...Not because He forgets, but because we do. We so quickly forget our wraith-like wreathes of praise, the persistence in our petitions, the Kindness that leads us to repentance. Our prayers either rise into the Light Himself, or they flit away into the rafters, losing substance and depth.


As I stepped out into the crisp air and noon-day sun, my eyes re-focussed from cool semi-darkness to overwhelming brightness. The sunlight that had peeked into my green eyes in the morning, now laughingly showed me the world boldly, clearly. The light revealed the depth and the contours of all around me. Light in our world only shows what is there, but I am learning that the Light Himself makes things real by shining upon them, through them. I climbed into my car and tilted her toward home, reflecting on my need for the Light to illumine and enliven me.

Simeon's Prayer

LORD, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace according to Thy word. For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, Which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people; To be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of Thy people Israel. 

Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end—Amen.

God fulfills the promises He makes... Sometimes it takes four hundred years of silence. But sometimes we need the silence first to remind us how beautiful the voice of the Lord is.

Afraid of God's Answer...

Be willing to be only a voice that is heard but not seen, or a mirror whose glass the eye cannot see because it is reflecting the brilliant glory of the Son. Be willing to be a breeze that arises just before daylight, saying, "The dawn! The dawn!" and then fades away.*

"What prayer are you praying right now that you're afraid God will answer?" Dark, questioning eyes probed my startled face when my friend asked me this question many summers ago. What was I praying that I wasn't sure I wanted God to answer? In a moment I knew. I blurted out, "I have been praying for humility." My friend nodded. Yes, she had prayed for that before and knew the double-edged piercing of such a request. I looked down, ashamed to realise that I was afraid that God would grant me my request. Humility would mean a tumble from my self-aggrandised opinion-spewing. It would mean learning to listen to conversations, not joining in until asked. Humility would mean crumpling my desires to look intelligent in front of others. 

Confusedly, I assumed that humility inevitably meant humiliation for the asker; as if that were the only way to expunge arrogance. I am slow to learn, and am no great expert in humility, even all these years after the above exchange. However, I have learned that God goes about shaping a humble person differently than I then imagined. Humility is an attitude of the heart, whereas humiliation is a surface blow to our pride. There are still moments when a friend pulls me aside to tell me I'm behaving like a jackwagon. My arrogance is suffocating in the workplace, in various conversations where I assert my opinion as fact, and in my own thoughts. 

Sometimes it stings to be told to knock off certain behaviour, but the pique is usually replaced by gratitude that my friend had the courage to speak up for my good and that of others. Oh, I still resent the remark, chafe against it, and doggedly defend myself until the Holy Spirit's nudges and whispers become seismic shocks and trumpet blasts. It can be hard to get my attention when I am loudly defending myself. That flare of resentment is a reaction to feeling humiliated, taken to task, lowered by someone else. It is the rearing up of my pride that needs to be mortified. The flood of thankfulness at being told of my ugly pride and foolishness is the heart attitude of humility. Humility reminds me that I cannot say that I am an ambassador of Christ—His temple, in fact—if I am walking in the flesh rather than the Spirit. 

Though I am still quick to defend myself when taken to task—by friends and family, or by God—I am learning to pray that I would more rapidly receive the truth with gratitude and humility. It remains a somewhat scary request because there is so much still to be pruned, and the pruning is painful for a time. Yet it is that pruning that is shaping me into the image of Christ, who "made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross."**

_______________

* Cowman, L. B. Streams in the Desert (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2008) 87

** Philippians 2:7-8 The Holy Bible, New King James Version Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

With Our Lives

ALMIGHTY God, Father of all mercies, we, Thine unworthy servants, do give Thee most humble and hearty thanks for all Thy goodness and loving-kindness to us and to all men; We bless Thee for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but above all, for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ; for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory.

And, we beseech Thee, give us that due sense of all Thy mercies, that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful; and that we show forth Thy praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives, by giving up our selves to Thy service, and by walking before Thee in holiness and righteousness all our days; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with Thee and the Holy Ghost, be all honour and glory, world without end.   Amen.

1928 Book of Common Prayer: The General Thanksgiving

We prayed this prayer during Evensong tonight. Much of the content gave me reason to pause and think, though the service swirled on around me.

"...give us that due sense of all Thy mercies, that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful..."   

Am I unfeignedly thankful? Without pretence, without contrivance do I thank God for little things? The orange rosebush or purple allium along my morning walk are cause for praise. As are the sweet-scented lilacs, spicy poppies, and soft snowy dogwood petals. May their beauty cause me to bow the knee in worship to the One who is Beauty.

Often I wonder if I am truly grateful for the things most of us take for granted. I certainly appreciate hearing out of both ears clearly now, after having a blocked ear for a few weeks not long ago. And I am often thankful for running water and water pressure in my shower, having had times without both. There is a greater appreciation for  a 'common' thing when I have lost that thing for a time. How sad when the separation of death causes one to realise how much they loved another!

I pondered, too, being thankful in all things - in trials, loss, suffering, and pain. I have been reading some thoughts by Amy Carmichael on her response to a great injury that befell her. The injury caused her to be bed-ridden for the last 20 years of her life. She could have been bitter. She had times of frustration. However, she chose to let God use that loss as a gain - for His glory. She trusted His goodness in all things. Miss Carmichael was able to give thanks as Paul said:

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (I Thessalonians 5:16-18)

~ ~ ~

"...and that we show forth Thy praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives, by giving up our selves to Thy service..."

On my kitchen window I have a line, paraphrased from a prayer written in the front of my Bible. The prayer is this:  

 Lord, I give up all my own plans and purposes, all my own desires and hopes, and accept Thy will for my life. I give myself, my life, my all utterly to Thee, to be Thine forever. Fill me and seal me with Thy Holy Spirit. Use me as Thou wilt. Send me where Thou wilt, and work out Thy whole will in my life at any cost, now and forever.  ~ Betty Scott Stam

That last line is rather frightening. Am I willing for God to send me where He wilt? Am I willing to give God my life at any cost, or are some things, dreams, or persons too dear to really mean that? 

The General Thanksgiving calls for much the same as Mrs. Stam's prayer: that I might show forth God's praise in my whole life, sacrificing myself to His service. Sometimes His service is pure bliss. Sometimes it is weary drudgery. Other times sacrifice is lonely or painful. Often, surrender is freeing, if we would but do it. There's the rub - am I willing to give up myself to God's service, or will I serve my flesh?

~ ~ ~

"...by walking before Thee in holiness and righteousness all our days; through Jesus Christ our Lord..."

Holiness and Righteousness all our days... Does anyone even believe a person can be those things? Many persons in Scripture were called 'righteous' persons, and we know they were not sinless. So it seems that a 'normal' person can be righteous. Further, the Bible commands believers to be holy as God Himself is Holy; and Peter calls Christians 'holy priests'. 

Note how the prayer book says this holiness and righteousness is accomplished: 'through Jesus Christ our Lord'. It is not our own goodness spoken of, or our own efforts that make us holy. It is Jesus Christ working in and through us that brings about change. This is only done when we lay down our wills (now, at any cost), and ask Him to be very present at work in us.

Are YOU unfeignedly thankful?

Is your life showing forth God's praise?

Are you allowing God to purify you with His Holiness, and to make you righteous?

~ Johanna