The other day I was walking along the road eating some fabulously crunchy grapes. As I walked in the hot sun, I was meticulous about which grapes I ate first, avoiding those that were not as visibly appealing. As I neared the end of my walk and the end of the bag of grapes, I began throwing those grapes that seemed a little beat up into the near by wooded area. Coming to the last grape, I examined it and threw it a bit ahead of me in the street. My intention was to kick it the rest of the way home. I'd thrown it about 50 feet ahead of me, and increased my gait in anticipation of kicking the bruised and battered grape. Not 15 paces into my trot, my fun was interrupted by a baby bird who darted into the street, scooped the grape into its beak and transferred it to a nearby tree. There he began to greedily consume the grape, one bite at a time.
I stopped, taken aback at how quickly this turn of events morphed my frivolity into curiosity and indignation. This bird had taken risk. Clearly he had been watching me. This bird had stolen my bruised grape, and was now devouring it with delight! For some reason I have not been able to get that bird and my bruised grape out of my mind. Not necessarily because I mourn the loss of my grape, but because God taught me something powerful through it. It’s a lesson I hope will help some man or woman who has been thrown around and kicked about as if they are someone's play thing as well.
That little bird taught me that one person's toy can be another’s nourishment. Nothing had changed about that grape; it had simply found itself in the right context to be celebrated for all it had to offer. Hence, there is no need for you or I to be anything other than what God made us to be. That bruised grape couldn't be crunchy for me no matter how hard it tried. Time, circumstances, the thermos in my lunch bag had made that grape the bruised imperfect grape that it was, and despite its imperfections, to that bird it was nourishment - integral to its survival. Not only did the grape nourish him, but by the way he was tearing that thing up, you could tell it he was getting pleasure and satisfaction out of that grape. He savored it as if it was the best thing he had seen in a minute and he delighted in that grape as such. As men and women, we should spend less time trying to change ourselves to be what those who would treat us as play things want us to be, and align ourselves with those who consider us their nourishment - those that celebrate us, those that delight and savor us, bruises and all.
Ever Higher!
CB
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
To high to get over
To low to get under
Stuck in the middle and the pain is thunder
The words of the late great Michael Jackson could be considered the theme of my life for the past week. I am experiencing my first Durham Summer, and while it’s hot and sticky, just like I like it; my social life is anything but… I have always suffered from an acute case of longing – longing for love, laughter, movement, intensity in all of its forms. To my horror, God has been whispering words like moderation, quiet time and reflection in my ear, and while I love Him, I hate it. Summer isn’t for stillness! Summer is for frolicking, looking pretty and feminine in the wee hours of the night, sipping sangria with friends and new acquaintances, while the sultry air seduces your bare skin. It’s for dancing, and sweating, laughing and flirting, music and conversations on the porch that you never want to end. Summer is abundance, excess, late nights even though you have work in the morning, but waking up the next morning refreshed, because the sun beckons you for another day of play. Don’t get me wrong, I work during the summers too, but even the work seems easier when there is merriment to look forward to.
Alas, merriment cannot be found on my summer menu this year. Instead, I’ve been experiencing what I can only describe as the Durham doldrums. I’ve been bored… I mean really bored! Blame it on the fast paced life I lead during the school year, paper after paper being due, but it seems I have forgotten how to relax. While I have always been a thrill seeker, being in grad school has intensified my sense of purpose to such a degree, that I literally have a hard time not having something to do. The church I am interning at keeps me steadily busy during the day, but the evenings are treacherous. I’m used to a plethora of friends during the school year, but the summer months have me down to three, two of whom are pretty inconsistent. So what is an adrenaline junkie to do in a town that has 3 options for the social scene? 2 weeks into the summer and I’ve already done them to death. Which leads me to my earlier statement, The longing, otherwise known as my restlessness has set in.
The restlessness presents itself as a nagging, comparable to the way I feel when I know a long paper is due and I need to get started in the worst way. Essentially I feel like I NEED to do something, get out, meet someone, anyone. The other weekend I made friends with a moth who mistakenly found himself in my apartment. I named him Marty. (Yeah, its that bad) The worst part about the nagging is there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. There is no where to go. I mean, I could call my faithful friend and have the same conversation for the 6000th time, but that’s usually when I my internal tantrums begin and Michael’s song starts reverberating in my mind. The longing is too high to get over. It’s too low to get under. I am indeed stuck in the middle.
Last Saturday night I found myself with a hunkering for some cake (otherwise know as desperately in need of at least investigating “the scene.” In my pursuit of “cake,” I hit 2 of the earlier mentioned social options. (In my defense one, does have some bangin’ sweet potato pie) I’m not really sure how I ended up in the lounge next door. But there I was. I am not a drinker so it’s not like I was in need of libations, but I am junkie. I thrive off of the energy of others, and this summer of solitude is about as fun as kneeling on rice. As I moved through the crowd I saw at least three folks I knew, all who must have been suffering from the same restlessness that was now upon me. But after a few minutes of conversation, I became conflicted. Did I really need to be out here? Its not that I felt like it was sinful to be out or anything, it just wasn’t what god wanted for me that evening. The whispering continued to plague me.
Moderation…
Be still….
Reflect…
Write….
Pray…
So what’s a girl who loves to live on the mountain top do when there’s nothing but plateaus for miles? Well in the midst of moderation and quiet time, God has also been whispering love where you are. Love where you are God? But I hate it here. I feel trapped, and that just makes me angry. And then it occurs to me. I am not trapped. I am exactly where God wants me to be. The only thing that’s holding me hostage is my attitude, my will. There I go again, wanting my own way and thinking I know better than God. I yield. I yield. I will probably have to yield again in another 10 minutes, but moderation, especially for an energy addict is a hard and slow lesson. But God doesn’t instruct us for no reason. He’s always up to something. So rather than be angry about a lack of distractions, I will rejoice that God wants my attention, and he’s removing those things that I would ordinarily put between us. Surely he’s making me over… And he’s making summer over too.
Ever Higher
CB
To low to get under
Stuck in the middle and the pain is thunder
The words of the late great Michael Jackson could be considered the theme of my life for the past week. I am experiencing my first Durham Summer, and while it’s hot and sticky, just like I like it; my social life is anything but… I have always suffered from an acute case of longing – longing for love, laughter, movement, intensity in all of its forms. To my horror, God has been whispering words like moderation, quiet time and reflection in my ear, and while I love Him, I hate it. Summer isn’t for stillness! Summer is for frolicking, looking pretty and feminine in the wee hours of the night, sipping sangria with friends and new acquaintances, while the sultry air seduces your bare skin. It’s for dancing, and sweating, laughing and flirting, music and conversations on the porch that you never want to end. Summer is abundance, excess, late nights even though you have work in the morning, but waking up the next morning refreshed, because the sun beckons you for another day of play. Don’t get me wrong, I work during the summers too, but even the work seems easier when there is merriment to look forward to.
Alas, merriment cannot be found on my summer menu this year. Instead, I’ve been experiencing what I can only describe as the Durham doldrums. I’ve been bored… I mean really bored! Blame it on the fast paced life I lead during the school year, paper after paper being due, but it seems I have forgotten how to relax. While I have always been a thrill seeker, being in grad school has intensified my sense of purpose to such a degree, that I literally have a hard time not having something to do. The church I am interning at keeps me steadily busy during the day, but the evenings are treacherous. I’m used to a plethora of friends during the school year, but the summer months have me down to three, two of whom are pretty inconsistent. So what is an adrenaline junkie to do in a town that has 3 options for the social scene? 2 weeks into the summer and I’ve already done them to death. Which leads me to my earlier statement, The longing, otherwise known as my restlessness has set in.
The restlessness presents itself as a nagging, comparable to the way I feel when I know a long paper is due and I need to get started in the worst way. Essentially I feel like I NEED to do something, get out, meet someone, anyone. The other weekend I made friends with a moth who mistakenly found himself in my apartment. I named him Marty. (Yeah, its that bad) The worst part about the nagging is there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. There is no where to go. I mean, I could call my faithful friend and have the same conversation for the 6000th time, but that’s usually when I my internal tantrums begin and Michael’s song starts reverberating in my mind. The longing is too high to get over. It’s too low to get under. I am indeed stuck in the middle.
Last Saturday night I found myself with a hunkering for some cake (otherwise know as desperately in need of at least investigating “the scene.” In my pursuit of “cake,” I hit 2 of the earlier mentioned social options. (In my defense one, does have some bangin’ sweet potato pie) I’m not really sure how I ended up in the lounge next door. But there I was. I am not a drinker so it’s not like I was in need of libations, but I am junkie. I thrive off of the energy of others, and this summer of solitude is about as fun as kneeling on rice. As I moved through the crowd I saw at least three folks I knew, all who must have been suffering from the same restlessness that was now upon me. But after a few minutes of conversation, I became conflicted. Did I really need to be out here? Its not that I felt like it was sinful to be out or anything, it just wasn’t what god wanted for me that evening. The whispering continued to plague me.
Moderation…
Be still….
Reflect…
Write….
Pray…
So what’s a girl who loves to live on the mountain top do when there’s nothing but plateaus for miles? Well in the midst of moderation and quiet time, God has also been whispering love where you are. Love where you are God? But I hate it here. I feel trapped, and that just makes me angry. And then it occurs to me. I am not trapped. I am exactly where God wants me to be. The only thing that’s holding me hostage is my attitude, my will. There I go again, wanting my own way and thinking I know better than God. I yield. I yield. I will probably have to yield again in another 10 minutes, but moderation, especially for an energy addict is a hard and slow lesson. But God doesn’t instruct us for no reason. He’s always up to something. So rather than be angry about a lack of distractions, I will rejoice that God wants my attention, and he’s removing those things that I would ordinarily put between us. Surely he’s making me over… And he’s making summer over too.
Ever Higher
CB
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Sing Her Home
As is the custom in my divinity school, each summer, students are dispatched to various places around the country and the world to practice ministry, in the context of real life, real pain, real need. This summer I have been placed in a well-to-do church in Raleigh. Despite the obvious lack of diversity in the church, I am really enjoying my placement. As I was telling my friend the other day, "I'm just glad to be in his service!" It's amazing how removed you become from ministry when you decide to study God 24/7. Our summers remind us why we put down our lives and started chasing after God in the first place.
This year, I requested a larger church so that I could explore pastoring a large group of people. I wanted to experience everything, from preaching and teaching, to visiting the sick and really developing relationships with the congregation. Some of my braver friends requested more challenging placements, like 7 weeks in Kenya and working in hospices as a chaplain. None of that stuff is for the faint of heart, and being weary from another tough semester, I took what I thought was the easy way out. While having dinner with my friend who is now serving as a hospice chaplain, I mentioned how courageous I thought she was. I could never spend days upon days with people who were dying. It would be too much - Quiet as kept, I am pretty sensitive.
On the first day of my placement, the Senior Pastor takes me to a retirement home to see an elderly member. No muss, no fuss. This is what I signed up for. We get to her room and Betty (the elderly woman) isn't there, apparently she'd been moved to the hospital. Ha! Guess we will be bypassing the downer of aging and moving right on to lunch! Maybe the Cheesecake Factory, or that great bar and grill around the corner. No such luck... After leaving a quick note, Pastor Chuck informs me we will attempt to locate her at the hospital before leaving for lunch. Mmmm. ok.(stomach growl)
We arrive at the hospital and locate Betty rather quickly. She and her daughter and her daughter's husband were sitting quietly in an emergency room examining room. As I approached I could see that Betty was a pistol, very outspoken and in complete control of her faculties. She even makes a few jokes about the pastor and his relentless pursuit of her, all the way to the emergency room. "How'd you find me? I haven't even gotten a room yet," She joked. I stood in the shadow of the pastor, introducing myself when appropriate and shaking the hands of the family and offering my support. After a few more pleasantries, the Pastor and I laid hands on Betty and prayed for her comfort, healing, and peace. That was easy enough! "Courtney will be back to see you tomorrow," Pastor Chuck said as we left. What? Did you want to run that by me first? Was I getting dropped in the deep end, without my floaters after just one visit? I guess...
The following day I went to the hospital to visit with Betty. She was sitting in the chair next to her bed watching The View on ABC. I walked gingerly over to the chair next to her and asked if we could visit for a while. She happily obliged. I don't really know what to say about my conversation with Betty. It was pretty average. The kind of conversation you might have with anyone you were talking to for the first time, but knew instantly you would be friends. We filled space with the names of the towns we grew up in, talk of family, and even a little bit about faith. When I learned Betty had served as a minister of music at a local church once, I felt led to sing to her. "What's your favorite song," I asked. ..... "Too many to name," she said.........................................................................
"Sing to her," I kept hearing................................."Go on.... Sing to her." Finally I told her my favorite hymns. "Love Lifted Me" and "Solid Rock". Then without warning, my lungs filled with air and pushed it into my throat.
I was sinking deep in sin...
My lips were moving. The tune was unsure, but sweet.
Far from the peaceful shore...
And without skipping a beat Betty joined in...
Very deeply stained within,
Sinking to rise no more.
Her voice was a rich baritone, not the least bit shaky for an 80+ year old woman. It was confident and smooth.
But the master of the sea heard my despairing cry
From the waters lifted me now safe am I...
There we were, to women, one seasoned and abundant in years, the other slightly seasoned but short on experience, especially ministry experience. Yet in the raising of our voices, singing of how God had saved us; we were family - Children of God, sharing in a moment that I will not soon forget.
Love lifted me - from the selfishness of wanting to avoid those parts of ministry that were difficult for me. Love lifted me- from the doubt and uneasiness of a lack of experience with sick people. When nothing else could help, love lifted me.
Love lifted her - what joy you could see in her face in singing to the Lord a new song,
love lifted her - regardless of sickness that I was unaware of, but was presently ravaging her body, when nothing else could help. LOVE... LIFTED... US.
Needless to say Betty and our singing made my day. I was once again a witness to the power of the Holy Spirit in reviving, restoring, and refocusing us. In that moment I was changed and I so looked forward to more opportunities like it to minister. Betty was different too. She now had a grin on her face, a song in her heart, and the assurance that when all else fails, God will lift us up, because he loves us. I left with pep in my step and asked Betty if she would be my pal for the summer. She happily agreed.
Two days later I visited Betty in the hospital to find her lying in the bed, unconscious. Apparently, the lung cancer she had been struggling with was having its way with her. The pain was too much. The doctors felt it would be more comfortable for her to be on morphine, which severely compromises one's lucidity. As I walked into the room, I saw a shell of who Betty was. Her breathing was rattly and laborious. She had no smile for me. I don't even know if she knew I was in the room. I took my seat next to her bed and began to sing a hymn of comfort.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
There is something about that Name
Master, Savior, Jesus
Like the fragrance after the rain
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
Let all heaven and earth proclaim.
Kings and Kingdoms may all pass away,
But there's something about that name
I closed with Psalm 103 and prayed over her while holding her hand. Who’s to say if she knew I was there, but one thing was for sure, there was a peace that came about the room, as if surely the presence of the Lord was in the room. Her breathing even seemed to be better by the time I was finished. After I left the hospital, I called my mom, as I often do when I am feeling emotional. "This is not what I signed up for, but I now that my visits are making a difference. It's just so sad." I said. And then my mom said something wise like only moms do.
"Maybe she's ready to go home. Sing her home baby," she said. For a second I had let the difficulty of aging and dying fool me into believing that Betty's life was ending rather than transitioning her to a place where she would sing all the say long. The transition is hard, but the destination is lovely. "Sing her home," she said; and that's exactly what I intend to do.
Ever Higher.
CB
5/30/10 ****** I learned today that Betty passed on to glory about the time I was writing this post. Seems my last visit will have to hold her until we can sing together in the presence of the Lord one day. Welcome home Betty. Welcome home.**********************************************************
This year, I requested a larger church so that I could explore pastoring a large group of people. I wanted to experience everything, from preaching and teaching, to visiting the sick and really developing relationships with the congregation. Some of my braver friends requested more challenging placements, like 7 weeks in Kenya and working in hospices as a chaplain. None of that stuff is for the faint of heart, and being weary from another tough semester, I took what I thought was the easy way out. While having dinner with my friend who is now serving as a hospice chaplain, I mentioned how courageous I thought she was. I could never spend days upon days with people who were dying. It would be too much - Quiet as kept, I am pretty sensitive.
On the first day of my placement, the Senior Pastor takes me to a retirement home to see an elderly member. No muss, no fuss. This is what I signed up for. We get to her room and Betty (the elderly woman) isn't there, apparently she'd been moved to the hospital. Ha! Guess we will be bypassing the downer of aging and moving right on to lunch! Maybe the Cheesecake Factory, or that great bar and grill around the corner. No such luck... After leaving a quick note, Pastor Chuck informs me we will attempt to locate her at the hospital before leaving for lunch. Mmmm. ok.(stomach growl)
We arrive at the hospital and locate Betty rather quickly. She and her daughter and her daughter's husband were sitting quietly in an emergency room examining room. As I approached I could see that Betty was a pistol, very outspoken and in complete control of her faculties. She even makes a few jokes about the pastor and his relentless pursuit of her, all the way to the emergency room. "How'd you find me? I haven't even gotten a room yet," She joked. I stood in the shadow of the pastor, introducing myself when appropriate and shaking the hands of the family and offering my support. After a few more pleasantries, the Pastor and I laid hands on Betty and prayed for her comfort, healing, and peace. That was easy enough! "Courtney will be back to see you tomorrow," Pastor Chuck said as we left. What? Did you want to run that by me first? Was I getting dropped in the deep end, without my floaters after just one visit? I guess...
The following day I went to the hospital to visit with Betty. She was sitting in the chair next to her bed watching The View on ABC. I walked gingerly over to the chair next to her and asked if we could visit for a while. She happily obliged. I don't really know what to say about my conversation with Betty. It was pretty average. The kind of conversation you might have with anyone you were talking to for the first time, but knew instantly you would be friends. We filled space with the names of the towns we grew up in, talk of family, and even a little bit about faith. When I learned Betty had served as a minister of music at a local church once, I felt led to sing to her. "What's your favorite song," I asked. ..... "Too many to name," she said.........................................................................
"Sing to her," I kept hearing................................."Go on.... Sing to her." Finally I told her my favorite hymns. "Love Lifted Me" and "Solid Rock". Then without warning, my lungs filled with air and pushed it into my throat.
I was sinking deep in sin...
My lips were moving. The tune was unsure, but sweet.
Far from the peaceful shore...
And without skipping a beat Betty joined in...
Very deeply stained within,
Sinking to rise no more.
Her voice was a rich baritone, not the least bit shaky for an 80+ year old woman. It was confident and smooth.
But the master of the sea heard my despairing cry
From the waters lifted me now safe am I...
There we were, to women, one seasoned and abundant in years, the other slightly seasoned but short on experience, especially ministry experience. Yet in the raising of our voices, singing of how God had saved us; we were family - Children of God, sharing in a moment that I will not soon forget.
Love lifted me - from the selfishness of wanting to avoid those parts of ministry that were difficult for me. Love lifted me- from the doubt and uneasiness of a lack of experience with sick people. When nothing else could help, love lifted me.
Love lifted her - what joy you could see in her face in singing to the Lord a new song,
love lifted her - regardless of sickness that I was unaware of, but was presently ravaging her body, when nothing else could help. LOVE... LIFTED... US.
Needless to say Betty and our singing made my day. I was once again a witness to the power of the Holy Spirit in reviving, restoring, and refocusing us. In that moment I was changed and I so looked forward to more opportunities like it to minister. Betty was different too. She now had a grin on her face, a song in her heart, and the assurance that when all else fails, God will lift us up, because he loves us. I left with pep in my step and asked Betty if she would be my pal for the summer. She happily agreed.
Two days later I visited Betty in the hospital to find her lying in the bed, unconscious. Apparently, the lung cancer she had been struggling with was having its way with her. The pain was too much. The doctors felt it would be more comfortable for her to be on morphine, which severely compromises one's lucidity. As I walked into the room, I saw a shell of who Betty was. Her breathing was rattly and laborious. She had no smile for me. I don't even know if she knew I was in the room. I took my seat next to her bed and began to sing a hymn of comfort.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
There is something about that Name
Master, Savior, Jesus
Like the fragrance after the rain
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
Let all heaven and earth proclaim.
Kings and Kingdoms may all pass away,
But there's something about that name
I closed with Psalm 103 and prayed over her while holding her hand. Who’s to say if she knew I was there, but one thing was for sure, there was a peace that came about the room, as if surely the presence of the Lord was in the room. Her breathing even seemed to be better by the time I was finished. After I left the hospital, I called my mom, as I often do when I am feeling emotional. "This is not what I signed up for, but I now that my visits are making a difference. It's just so sad." I said. And then my mom said something wise like only moms do.
"Maybe she's ready to go home. Sing her home baby," she said. For a second I had let the difficulty of aging and dying fool me into believing that Betty's life was ending rather than transitioning her to a place where she would sing all the say long. The transition is hard, but the destination is lovely. "Sing her home," she said; and that's exactly what I intend to do.
Ever Higher.
CB
5/30/10 ****** I learned today that Betty passed on to glory about the time I was writing this post. Seems my last visit will have to hold her until we can sing together in the presence of the Lord one day. Welcome home Betty. Welcome home.**********************************************************
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Fair Weather Friends
I have this friend; we are really close. I mean, sort of. When we are together, we are like peanut butter and jelly. Our energies feed off of each other to such a degree, that we talk for hours, sharing the most intimate aspects of our lives. Ourthoughts, our dreams, our fears, our struggles. We will go through these amazing periods of close intimate friendship, and then she will just fall off the face of the earth. I'll call, and text and even instant message with no response from her. By the 4th or 5th attempt, I'm usually pretty annoyed, shaking my head and thinking to myself, " I fell for it again." It's at that point that I usually vow never to speak to her again. (I know, I'm immature.) Within 2 to 3 days of my boycott, she always turns up with syrupy sweet words that bring me right back to that place of closeness with her. It's like a shampoo cycle - lather, rinse, repeat.
I was recently feeling some kind of way about this fickle relationship and began talking to the Lord about it, when I struck me. The rhythm of this relationship was much like the rhythm of my relationship with God. God knows I love him, just like I know in my heart of hearts my friend loves and enjoys me, but for the most part, its always on my terms. When I feel like putting in the time, I spend hours and days in His presence, but when something more engaging is going on, I, like my friend, get too busy for the briefest of chats. My revelation was two fold. 1. I'd been compromising my intimacy with God, by being a fair weather friend to Him. I'd essentially been denying Him the intimacy and relationship God delights to be in with his children. I somehow believed that because the moments we did spend together were such highs that it proved my love and adoration. However, in light of the feelings of abandonment and frustration I was now feeling with my friend, I realize that the intensity and fervor of the highs magnify my consistently occasional absence all the more. After feeling like an afterthought long enough, you begin to question the sincerity and authenticity of relationships that are so one sided. Could God think the same?
Which brings me to the 2nd realization... Hallelujah to his name, God's ways are not our ways. In the midst of our unfaithfulness, he is still faithful. While God might desire a greater relationship for us, and desire to spend that intimate time with us daily, our lack faithfulness NEVER compromises his love for us, He loves us as much on the day that we spend our whole day in prayer and meditation with Him, as on the day we neglect to even bow and bless our food. Great is his faithfulness! He does not deal with us according to our sins, but delights in showing us mercy. How awesome is that?
Still I don't want to use God for my highs and then leave him desiring more, like my friend does me. I don't want to be in relationship with Him on my own terms. I don't want to take advantage of his mercies even if they are new everyday. I want this thing called worship to be for real, a 24 hour seven days a week, participation in the presence of God... even when its hard. I want his presence to be my meat, my delight, my joy, my best thing. But that can only happen if he makes me over. So God, here's my heart. Refashion, rearrange me for your good pleasure, so that there is nothing I desire more than YOU.
Oh and by the way, I'm taking a page out of God's book on love and loving my friend where she's at. No matter her fickleness, I love her, and I am going to be there for her. I'll be her peanut butter, even if she is not quite ready to be my jelly. Maybe my friendship will teach her how to be a friend, just like God's friendship taught me.
Ever Higher!
CB
I was recently feeling some kind of way about this fickle relationship and began talking to the Lord about it, when I struck me. The rhythm of this relationship was much like the rhythm of my relationship with God. God knows I love him, just like I know in my heart of hearts my friend loves and enjoys me, but for the most part, its always on my terms. When I feel like putting in the time, I spend hours and days in His presence, but when something more engaging is going on, I, like my friend, get too busy for the briefest of chats. My revelation was two fold. 1. I'd been compromising my intimacy with God, by being a fair weather friend to Him. I'd essentially been denying Him the intimacy and relationship God delights to be in with his children. I somehow believed that because the moments we did spend together were such highs that it proved my love and adoration. However, in light of the feelings of abandonment and frustration I was now feeling with my friend, I realize that the intensity and fervor of the highs magnify my consistently occasional absence all the more. After feeling like an afterthought long enough, you begin to question the sincerity and authenticity of relationships that are so one sided. Could God think the same?
Which brings me to the 2nd realization... Hallelujah to his name, God's ways are not our ways. In the midst of our unfaithfulness, he is still faithful. While God might desire a greater relationship for us, and desire to spend that intimate time with us daily, our lack faithfulness NEVER compromises his love for us, He loves us as much on the day that we spend our whole day in prayer and meditation with Him, as on the day we neglect to even bow and bless our food. Great is his faithfulness! He does not deal with us according to our sins, but delights in showing us mercy. How awesome is that?
Still I don't want to use God for my highs and then leave him desiring more, like my friend does me. I don't want to be in relationship with Him on my own terms. I don't want to take advantage of his mercies even if they are new everyday. I want this thing called worship to be for real, a 24 hour seven days a week, participation in the presence of God... even when its hard. I want his presence to be my meat, my delight, my joy, my best thing. But that can only happen if he makes me over. So God, here's my heart. Refashion, rearrange me for your good pleasure, so that there is nothing I desire more than YOU.
Oh and by the way, I'm taking a page out of God's book on love and loving my friend where she's at. No matter her fickleness, I love her, and I am going to be there for her. I'll be her peanut butter, even if she is not quite ready to be my jelly. Maybe my friendship will teach her how to be a friend, just like God's friendship taught me.
Ever Higher!
CB
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