Manasseh's Mess

I was just reading yesterday in 2 Chronicles about dear old King Hezekiah, a godly king who served the Lord. After he died, his son Manasseh came to power. And he did pretty much the opposite of what his dad had done.

Okay, I get that he probably resented his dad for not kicking off 15 years earlier when he was sick. But God heard Hezekiah and healed him - so there you go. But this dude, Hezekiah's kid Manasseh, had the ultimate preacher's kid syndrome. He HATED everything his dad stood for. So he started worshiping idols, passing his baby sons through the fire (yeah that meant killing them by flame, folks) and building shrines to other gods. And this started the moment he was crowned king.

Photo by Ulricke Leone at Pixabay.

More and more he made a huge mess of the kingdom his dad had expanded. And God put up with this rebellious behavior for a few years. And then, (surprise surprise) He stepped in and allowed a foreign king to come in and defeat Judah, and his troops captured Manasseh, pierced his nose with a brass ring like an ox, and literally led him by the nose back to Assyria. 

Now let's think about that picture for a minute. That was a couple of weeks of a king who used to wear royal robes and get anything he wanted, walking behind some camel's butt with a rope attached to a ring in his nose, and tromping through camel dung. He had a lot of serious time to reflect on his choices.

And guess what! When he was in captivity in Assyria, at some point, he honestly and truly repented. He did. And God miraculously worked out a way for him to return to his throne in Jerusalem. And once he was there, he made good on his change of heart: he tore down the idols, removed the idols from the temple, re-instituted temple sacrifices, and encouraged the people to return to the God of their ancestors. 

And God blessed him. That was a big deal. This was before the cross, folks. And even though Manasseh didn't take down the shrines to Asherah (the Assyrian god), and still allowed the people to use these pagan places to pray to the God of Israel, God still blessed him ... because his heart had changed. 

I find this so cool. Most people, when they read the Old Testament, see a vindictive, mean-spirited God. Yet Manasseh learned from experience that God is both holy and loving, powerful and gentle, and he learned that he could not stand against Him. It was far better to live FOR Him. And when Manasseh repented God not only forgave him, but He blessed him, and gave him a long reign. 

Yes, Manasseh had to clean up the mess he'd made. But he did - thus proving that his repentance in Assyria wasn't just words. He meant it. He was living in a relationship with God. And over and over again in the Old Testament, God shows that He desires a relationship with His people, not just collectively, but as individuals. 









And Manasseh's story also tells me something else. It doesn't matter how many mistakes a person makes. It doesn't matter how much of a mess a person makes of things. 

What matters is now. 
What matters is the heart. 
And it is never too late to start a new life.

Kids kids

It was about 1994. My two children, barely aged 5 and 2, were running around the church sanctuary as the worship team was practicing the songs. I let them run because nobody else was there yet for the service, but as people started to file in, I began to tighten the reins.

"People are coming in," I told them. "Time to stop running and play quietly."

They listened - for as long as small children's attention span lasts. Especially when one of them has undiagnosed ADHD. 

So they started making noises and playing under the seat. Their giggles mingled with thumps their feet made on the underside of the pew as they lay on the floor. Occasionally one of them would run around and I would have to go and catch the offending one (usually the youngest) and cart them back. 

I was getting more and more frustrated as more and more adults turned toward me and glared.

Free Image courtesy of chriswolf at Pixabay.com

One of the greeters at the entryway was a large, jovial man named Blair.  He watched the kids and saw my frustration. As I was carting my toddler back for the fourth time (it felt like the tenth), Blair touched my arm. I stopped, still holding the child under my arm like a football. By this time, the oldest was coming closer to investigate.

Blair smiled at me. "I'm going to tell you something that my kids' Ukranian grandmother said to me when our children were their age," he announced, jerking his head toward my children. He looked me straight in the eye and said slowly, "Kids kids."

I stared back at him quizzically, confused by his statement. "Kids kids?" I queried. 

He chuckled. "She didn't speak English all that well. What she meant was that children are going to be children no matter where they are. And they are children for such a short time. So let them be children." 

He grinned as I slowly grasped his meaning. He was encouraging me as a mother - saying that it wasn't so horrible of me to let my kids play - because after all, they were children! To let them be children was the best gift I could give them.

That statement helped form my (and our) parenting decisions from that time onward. If they wanted to play at church, I'd take them into the foyer (or outside if I could) and let them play themselves out, rather than subject a teacher to them fidgeting and their excess of energy. 

If they wanted to go into Cubs instead of Brownies, into Cubs they went - and excelled! The oldest wanted to go into Scouts - so we supported her when the time came. And when she decided on her own that it wasn't for her, we supported that too. 

We encouraged each of them to plunge into whatever they wanted and we didn't force them into activities they had no interest in. As a result, they decided to take swimming classes together - something their mom had never had the courage to do! The oldest was in her junior high school band for a little over three years, learned to play the flute, and dropped out of senior high school band when she got a "creepy teacher" (who eventually was discovered to be too "friendly" toward some of his girl pupils...) and the youngest discovered she had a gift (among the other gifts she had) for using her hands. She developed an interest in carpentry and welding before she passed away in 2013 in a car crash. 

Each person has unique gifts and fills a special place in the world that only they can fill. And it all came into focus for me that day when a man named Blair took the time to encourage a young, harried mother. 

He also had another saying, which he said quite often: "It's nice to be nice."  And he lived by it.  Thank you, Blair. Thank you.

 

Here - Through it all

Through it all, through it all my eyes are on You;
Through it all, through it all it is well.
Through it all, through it all my eyes are on You,
And it is well ... with me.  (c) Kristene DiMarco, Bethel Music

I just finished reading an amazing article. It's about photographs taken from INSIDE THE EYE of Hurricane Dorian while it was still a Category 2 Hurricane off the coast of the United States. 

It's full of birds. All kinds of birds!  Flying, sitting in the still water if they are able to swim, resting on anything that floats if they can't swim, they stay in the eye of the storm until it makes landfall, where they stay. If ships are in the eye of the storm, they rest on the ship.  

Amazing.  

This is a photo of Tropical Cyclone Catarina,
clearly showing the eye of the storm, courtesy of
a contributor to Pixabay.com

The analogy is plain between this image and the storms of life, so I won't belabour it here. But the mental picture of the eye of the storm being calm and a refuge for those caught in it ... is a powerful one. I can think of several incidents, not only in my life but in those of others, where this is the reality: we have stayed in the midst of turbulent circumstances and yet there has been an inner calm, a 'peace that surpasses all understanding' (Phil 4:7), that has steadied us and been a refuge for us. It's not that we are unaffected by the storm at all, it's just that our  focus has been on the One who is the Centre of all things. 

I've experienced a real hurricane before. Hurricane Juan (Sept. 29, 2003) visited our province and caused all kinds of damage to property, shoreline, and power lines.  We had not been listening to or watching the news for the previous few days, and I had been on vacation so away from the office grapevine, so we were totally unprepared. During the fury of the storm that morning, my husband and I felt we had to go outside because water was pouring over the edges of our rain gutters. 

We were soaked to the skin within two seconds, and we got the ladder out anyway. I held the extension ladder while hubby went up and cleared out the debris from the gutters, a job that we have since learned must be done in mid-summer. The rain and wind were blinding; the wind itself ripped our breath away from us, and we had to keep our chins tucked down to our chests to be able to breathe. And we were only out there for about five minutes. We lost three of our eleven shade trees in that storm. 

In hindsight, it was kind of crazy of us to venture outside. But we did experience the strength of a Category 1 hurricane - as least as much as we ever want to (if we wanted to, which I doubt). I'll never forget it. 

Yet, through it all, we were protected. We discovered a large, one-foot-in-diameter tree limb suspended in the maple tree that was right next to our house. It had been ripped off one of our other trees and became a projectile that was hurtling right at our picture window. And the maple tree's limbs caught it and didn't allow it to travel further. A mini-tornado (common in hurricanes, I've been told) landed on one of our other large shade trees (60 feet tall) and twisted it at the trunk as if it was a matchstick, slamming it onto the lawn. That tree was about 25 feet from our front door. When it hit the ground, it hit at an angle about 60 degrees to the house, so it missed us completely, still tethered by a portion of its own trunk to the ground. 

As I ponder this event, I am overwhelmed by a sense of divine protection - even in our ignorance - during Juan's devastating visit. And as Hurricane Dorian nears our province later today, I am trusting in God's protection for us and our home and property. 

And for the storms of our lives and circumstances, I am trusting that same kind of protection in the emotional and spiritual sense. I know we are in the Centre. 

So it's all good. Through it all, it is well ... with me. With us. 
He is here in the midst.

Mothers Day

For all of my adult life, I have dreaded Mothers Day.  I thought of it as a day where people were gushing on about their mothers, how wonderful they were, how lucky they were to have such wonderful people who loved them unconditionally.

And I would compare their experience to mine and come up WAY short. Not everyone's mother is a saint, I would say. Of course nobody would believe that my growing-up years were so awful, especially after they met my mom. But the woman they met was not the woman I knew. They were totally unaware of what happened behind closed doors, and she liked it like that. And that, as Forrest Gump said, is all I have to say about that.

All that aside, soon after the death of my youngest daughter in a car crash, I started to rethink Mothers Day. This time, I started thinking about it from the other side - instead of me gushing on about my mother, I could look at it as my family honoring me AS a mother. 

Image by Liz Noffsinger at www.freedigitalphotos.net

That changed my perspective a bit. Especially when I look at how my relationship with my daughters changed after I got into therapy - hard to believe that was over 10 years ago!! - and I started to understand about personal boundaries. 

What I mean by personal boundaries is how everyone has them (including me), how I need to take a step back and not try to control everyone's thoughts, beliefs, and actions, and just let life happen, let people be who they are, and allow them to bear the consequences of their own actions without trying to fix them. 

That realization that everyone has boundaries (see my page on "What is Codependency?" on this blog) literally revolutionized my life and my relationships with my husband and my kids! I learned a whole new way of living life, and I would never go back to the way it was. That new lifestyle was a gift; it gave me another four and a half years of good relationship with my youngest before she passed away, and it has allowed me to grow and become a better person and a better mom. 

So instead of looking at Mothers Day as a time to honour my own mother (thus living a lie in my own mind - she was my abuser, not what everyone thinks of when they think of the typical concept of motherhood) I started to see the day differently: it became a way to celebrate the mom I am becoming. It became a means to let my children express their gratitude to me, and not robbing them of that experience like I did before. 

And instead of spouting all sorts of platitudes about HAVING a mom and feeling resentful of those people who had that gift in their lives, I could literally celebrate BEING a mom, breaking the cycle of abuse, and starting a new, gentle, accepting, and loving legacy. And that shift in focus helped me survive the annual dread-fest in the month of May at the beginning, and actually (as time went on) look forward to the second Sunday of May.

It's been a slow and sometimes painful change at times. As my own mother ages and gets further into her age-related dementia, she has already completely forgotten the things she did and said to make my life a living hell when I was growing up. And - though it surprises me to say it - it's become less and less important to me to have people believe my story, and more and more important to BE the kind of mother that I wish I had, the kind who showed her love in private instead of just in public, who supported me and who believed in me. She was rarely like that with me because she didn't want me to become prideful, but that fact doesn't keep me from choosing to be that loving, caring, accepting person with my loved ones. I can give them what I never was allowed to have: a chance to believe in themselves, to take pride in their accomplishments, and to have their own voice.

I've also been rethinking my reaction to others' desire to honour their mothers on Mothers Day. Before, I would roll my eyes or just want to stay away from folks who do that. I would hide in my house that day, want to pull the covers over my head, and reject any effort made to spoil me on Mothers Day. Honestly. What that did was steal something very important from my children, and make others who had good relationships with THEIR mothers to feel guilty for having something so wonderful.

Now, I'm more inclined to just say "Happy Mothers Day" to them.  But not only to them!  Now, I say it to women who - because of trauma - don't feel good on that day: women whose mothers were mean to them, women who never could have a child of their own, women who have miscarried, aborted, or lost a child to tragedy, women who never had the opportunity to have grandchildren, and also women whose children (and/or grandchildren) have walked away from everything they tried to teach them. Those are the hearts that hurt and weep on Mothers Day. And those are the people I think deserve to hold their head up and say that yes, I AM A MOM. I am worth something.

And we are.

A God Thing

It's been a hellish week. Never mind the relentless cold, wind and yo-yo weather of Maritime winter. Never mind the mind-numbing routine of eat, work, eat, sleep and repeat. It's been especially stressful lately, and nowhere has it been more stressful than in our daughter's struggles with the health care system and the disability insurance process. 

She's been on disability insurance for two years after an accident in which she dislocated her kneecap ended eventually in first one surgery, and then another, with very little improvement. 

About 5 months ago, her insurance company told her that her DI benefits would run out at the end of February 2015 because the rules were changing from "unable to do former job" to "unable to do ANY job." She's spent the last five months gathering information about all her other disabilities, not just her knee (which is the reason we have a handicapped parking permit). The list is ... daunting: everything from TMJ disorder (that jaw thing) to problems in her neck, shoulders, and back, to psychological difficulties like PTSD and panic disorder, to migraines and multiple chemical sensitivies, to a possible carpal tunnel syndrome. Not to mention that her body is a human barometer and she has pain whenever there are storms on the way. And there have been a LOT of storms.

The last month, she's been complaining of more muscular and joint aches, more headaches, and more panic attacks. The stress of the upcoming insurance deadline (February 2015) was weighing heavily on her, and it had become so much a part of her everyday life that she wasn't even aware of it. This past weekend, her beloved iPhone (that never left her side) bit the dust, and she spent six hours dealing with sales people and insurance people while still grieving the loss of her daily companion. She did get a new phone (though not an iPhone since the newer models don't meet her criteria) but the process of change AND being around people that long AND having to talk to strangers on the phone ... gave her a panic attack when she got home. 

There have been construction workers in the house this week with jackhammers. Jackhammers. The cats have been terrified and she has been jittery and uneasy. Talk about stress.

Today, she'd gotten back from her weekly counselling session and a few errands in town, when the phone rang; it was her insurance company. They had rendered a decision on her disability insurance. 

It was favourable. They had concluded that she met the criterion of "not able to do ANY job" and her benefits would therefore be extended. 

Photo "Opening Door Knob" courtesy of
sixninepixels at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Her financial situation immediately looked a whole lot more rosy. The pressure of wondering how she was going to pay her way ... lifted.

Moreover, the insurance company is committed to providing everything she needs to become functional again. Everything. Prescriptions, travel to and from out-of-province appointments, physio, therapy, whatever she needs.

Instantly, the weight of all that hidden stress lifted from her shoulders, her back, her neck, and her jaw. 

I found out about the phone call when I phoned home from work to check on how the morning went. As my husband explained everything to me, my eyes started filling with tears because I knew how much of a relief this would be for her. How much she would feel vindicated! How much she would relax and focus on looking after herself.

It was like opening a door.

It was definitely what I call "A God Thing." Only God could have worked it out, in a time frame that would mean no interruption in benefits, for maximum stress reduction, just when she needed it most, and she knows it. She knows it. 

I know it too. This is her time.

For far too long she has been suffering, hiding, pretending not to exist. For far too long she has settled for the leftovers, not spoken up for herself, thinking that "nice guys finish last." For way too long this child of God has accepted defeat. Now it is time to start walking in victory. Now it is time to heal. Now it is time to begin to live instead of just exist. 

And I, as her mother, am in a position to be able to do support her and to be one of those who will speak healing (and not judgment) into her life: body, soul and spirit. The tide is turning; I can sense it. It's the beginning of a new way of living, of thinking, of praying, of believing for me. Of believing that God's will isn't some namby-pamby wishy-washy bunch of platitudes like 'if it's His will.' It's time to really believe and declare that He not only wants to makes something beautiful out of her life, but that He WILL do it. 

I look forward to seeing more and more "God Things" happen ... because I know that He loves beyond anything that any of us could imagine. 

Just wait.

David's Dead Dog - or - Ripples of Grace

He was damaged goods - the only survivor of a failed empire. In the great escape when his grandfather and father died in battle and the new king came to power, his governess dropped Mephibosheth, and he was injured - crippled for life. He was only five years old at the time. His older brothers were all killed in the people's zeal to eradicate all traces of his grandfather's kingdom.

Servants carried him to safety and he lived a quiet, unassuming life, far from the public eye. He stayed out of harm's way as the battles for the control of his country raged near and far. He contributed nothing to the war effort - he could not. His life depended on staying safely anonymous. 

And he thought he did. 

Then, the tables turned - he received a summons to appear before the king. "This is it," he must have thought. "I'm dead meat." 

But the king did something totally unexpected, way over the top. "Your father was my best friend. I want to make sure you never want for anything. So I am restoring your grandfather's land back to you. It's yours," King David told him. "Your grandfather's servant Ziba will look after it for you, it's all arranged. And as often as you like, every day if you want, you can eat with me and my sons at my own table in the palace." 

David was within his rights to have Mephibosheth - and his son Mica - killed. Yet because of Mephibosheth's father, Jonathan, David chose to be generous to this young man. You can read the story for yourself in 2 Samuel 9.

"Who am I," Mephibosheth marveled, "that you would look at a dead dog like me?" He was keenly aware that he was a cripple. He KNEW that he could contribute nothing to the king's wealth or power, that he was actually a drain on the king's resources. 

Photo "Nicely Arranged Table" courtesy of marin at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

But David was true to his word - he restored all of Saul's lands and appointed Ziba and his sons to look after it, and Mephibosheth? 

Mephibosheth ate - sumptuous fare beyond what he could imagine- every day in the private residence of the king. He was waited on hand ... and foot. He became a treasured part of the family. 

And he knew it. Never again did he ever have to ask King David if it was okay for him to walk into the palace. He just walked in. The right was already his. It was a done deal.

And he never - ever - forgot what the king did for him. He never took it for granted. He had a new life. He had a new start. His son Mica had a future. Gratitude was his daily companion. He grew to love the king.

Gratitude, love, and devotion are always the natural response to grace.

And even when David messed up big time, and eventually had to go on the run again (this time from his own son) Mephibosheth remained faithful, loyal to his benefactor. In fact, he made a vow that he would not cut his hair until the king returned to his home from being in exile. 

In the meantime, Mephibosheth's servant Ziba lied to David, saying that his master had designs on the throne. David believed him and gave Saul's lands to Ziba. But Mephibosheth stayed at the palace. He had been given that right, and it was never taken away.

After Absalom's death and David's return to the palace, Mephibosheth was able to tell the king the truth - that he had never wanted to return to the monarchy - that Ziba had lied.

David didn't go back on his word to Ziva - he just said that now Ziba and Mephibosheth would be co-owners of the property (remember that in those days, land was wealth...)

But this time it was Mephibosheth's turn to surprise David. "Let him have it all," he said. "I just want to stay with you."

"I just want to stay with you. Yes, Ziba wronged me, spread lies about me, and stole the inheritance you gave to me, away from me. But as long as you and I are together, my king - that's all I really want."

If we'd been able to ask Mephibosheth how he was able to let go, why he was so devoted to the king, I'm sure he would have said, with a shrug, "He rescued me." In other words, "He had every right to have me killed but he showed me mercy instead. I already have everything I need with him; why would I hold onto something else? I hold no ill will toward Ziba - I just want to be with the one who chose me." 

That's how grace works - from the top down - from the inside out. It creates ripples that touch everything and everyone with whom we come in contact. It remakes us. It transforms who we are, how we think about ourselves, and inevitably how we think about the people in our lives.

Life eternal - and grace so big - what's not to love about that?

Outside the Box

Okay, I would like to share with you today the story of a 21-year-old girl named Arielle. In June 2013, she left the safety and comfort of her parents' home (much like a prodigal but needing to make a new start as well) and traveled three thousand miles away to an unknown city that promised employment opportunities and a better life.

What she found was not as shining and sparkly as she had dreamed. She stayed in touch with her parents the whole time, through texting and sometimes calling. This was a lifeline for her, a way to stay connected.

For a while, she and her friend (NOT boyfriend) and his mother were living at the mom's ex's place. That is, until he got drunk and broke his son's nose and ordered the two young people out of his house. They got out and never looked back. They did find a job at a store, making barely enough to pay rent; their boss took pity on them and let them stay with her, for the amount they would have paid for an apartment. It was not a good idea; living in the boss' house made it so that she was privy to family secrets. She hated secrets. Pressure built at work as a co-worker made life a living hell for her. In spite of advice from her parents not to quit until she had another job lined up - she couldn't take it any more and quit her job, thinking she would be able to find another one soon enough. 

That didn't happen. Her money started running out. Her landlady (now her former boss) started looking for ways to kick her out.

In the middle of all of this, she met a wonderful young man named Tanner. This guy was fun, caring, and treated her with respect. They got to be very close, spending more and more time together. 

This past Tuesday (September 17) she picked him up from work and he said, "Let's go for a drive. I need to tell you something after we get outside the city and the traffic." He got her something to eat... and they went for a little drive. That's when he told her his story.

A guy at his work - Roy - had been speaking to him for quite some time. This fellow is a Christian ... but unlike any you'd ever expect to see - as if Christians have to always wear 3-piece suits or something (LOL - another topic for another time!) He looked like a biker dude, simply put. But he got Tanner's attention and started talking to him about God, sharing his own experience without any of the "you should" stuff. (That stuff turns people off like the PLAGUE). Tanner was listening. He was fascinated. He'd go to Roy's place and listen to him tell stories of what he'd experienced, hours upon hours sometimes.

And last Monday night, he'd been at Roy's place and suddenly, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change. There was an almost electric presence in the room; neither man spoke about it, but Tanner could feel gooseflesh rising on his skin, and he started to "get all emotional" but didn't break down or anything. And Roy reached over and touched him. "Do you feel that?" he asked. Tanner nodded. "That's God." 

Right then and there, Tanner had an experience with the Almighty One. He was shaking, crying, felt warm all over his body, and the two men just shared this amazing experience for ... well they didn't know how long.

The next day, at quitting time, Tanner's girlfriend Arielle (remember her?) picked him up from work because his car was in the shop. "I have to tell you something," he said. "But not here, let's get out of the city." He bought her some taquitos and a pop - and they set out for the countryside. He told her his story once they reached the outskirts ... as she drove. She felt goosebumps as well, hearing him tell about it. And a warmth spread over her shoulders and through her torso. 

There was a break in the conversation; they had been talking for over two hours. Tanner asked her to pull over - they were in the country so the area was pretty unpopulated - so he could take a leak. When he got out of the car and she locked the doors... she said to herself - or was it to God? - "I don't know if what I am feeling is me, whether I'm feeling Tanner's emotions or what this is... but if it's not, if it's something more, I need a sign."

IMMEDIATELY she began to sob, uncontrollably. She felt that same Presence that Tanner had told her about!! 

Photo "The Cross And The Hand" courtesy of |
njaj at www.freedigitalimages.net

In those moments, she KNEW it was real. She knew GOD was real. She knew that everything she'd ever been taught was REAL. God reached down into her life and pulled her out of her darkness and into His marvelous Light. 

When Tanner got into the car, he caught her (in her words) "bawling" her eyes out. He first checked to see if she was okay. When he had convinced himself that she was - he grinned and said, "It felt just like that for me too." 

They spent all night talking about God. And talking TO Him. Tanner shared his gospel of John with her; they started reading it together. 

Since that time, life has been transformed. They pray together. They read the book of John together because it's all they have of the Bible. She wants to get a Bible. They both want so badly to know Him more. And they want to grow in this new friendship with Jesus.

Arielle couldn't wait to call her mom and tell her that whole story, so she called this past Wednesday afternoon - saying this was too important to put in a text. "I used to be lonely all the time, Mom," she told her mother. "Now I'm not lonely any more. He saved me. It's like I have this friend with me who never leaves me." 

"Mom" has been praying for a good 10 years for her daughter to know that the gospel is true, ever since her daughter started to reject the god she had been brought up with at church. You know, the judgmental one, the one that is about rules and regulations. The one whose people are more concerned with how many swear words are in a film rather than the message it might contain to touch someone. 

"Mom" was literally dancing in happiness and gratitude, and she still is inside.

As you can probably tell, Mom's done a lot of growing in the last ten years too. 

I can vouch for that. Because that mother ... is me. And Arielle is my little girl. :'D

The Father's Grief

There is a story told in the New Testament of two sons; the elder stayed home and did everything his father asked, and the younger wanted to leave. 

In those days, upon the death of a father, the elder son got two thirds of the inheritance, while the remainder was divided among the younger sons. There was a provision in the law of the day that a son could ask for his share of the inheritance prior to the father's death - but requesting such a thing was, in essence, saying that the son desired his father's death. It was a very mercenary thing to do. Greedy. 

Many commentaries on this story look at the son leaving as the moment at which the son turned his back on his dad. 

Might I submit that this had happened long before the boy packed his bags - that the younger son had done nothing all of his life, or at least all of his teenage years, except to take whatever the father freely gave to him as his right, and still asked for more. He used his dad's name, his dad's wealth, his standing in the community, and that wasn't enough. He couldn't wait for his dad to die. And it wasn't happening fast enough. 

So he grabbed what he wanted and left the farm. 

From the dad's perspective, this son had turned his back on everything he had taught him. He robbed his dad of the help and care that would be his in his old age, by taking off and spending his money on frivolities and lascivious living. 

Did you know that the word "prodigal" means "wasteful"? It does! 

Did you also know that when a child in the Hebrew culture embraces a lifestyle with which the parent does not agree, the family has a funeral for him? That started many centuries ago and it still happens!

"Male Crying" photo courtesy of
David Castillo Dominici at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The father in the prodigal son story grieved the loss of his son ... as if he had died. In fact, the boy he remembered, the child who doted on his father's every word, truly no longer existed. He'd been replaced by a petulant, prideful, pathetic individual who only looked after himself and who ignored or rejected all efforts to make him see the error of his ways. 

The father mourned for him. Perhaps for weeks, perhaps for months and maybe even years his heart ached within him. At sunset and often during the day, he found his eyes straying unbidden to the gate, the place where he had watched his son's retreating form walk up the hill, then disappear over the top of it.  

Over and over he thought about those last few months prior to his son's departure. He blamed himself for not being able to teach his son right from wrong. He wondered if there was anything he could have done to keep his son from engaging in such selfish behavior. All the arguments, all the bitter words, echoed through his mind. Shame and anguish engulfed him. Once in a while, he'd hear reports of what his boy was doing out there - and his spirit was distressed, the grief as fresh as the very first day. He wondered if there would ever be an end to the waste, to the selfish actions by which the boy's life was characterized now. 

Yet, he'd had no choice but to let go... as painful as it was.

In the meantime, miles away, it took the natural consequences of those selfish actions to hammer the boy's pride and self-absorption into submission. The process might have taken years; we are not told how long it was. 

But one day - one day when the former heir had thrown it all away and there was absolutely nothing left - he realized that in wasting his father's riches and resources, he had wasted himself. He knew he had given up the right to be treated as a son. He knew his dad had already had a funeral for him. He knew that he didn't exist. 

He was a non-person. A second-class citizen. A servant. 

Yes, he had in reality made himself a servant to his own passions, to the grips of excess and then to the bony grasp of poverty to which his self-centered behavior had brought him. 

His mind dwelt on servanthood; he knew a lot about it. His father had many hired hands - they had enough to eat and more besides, and a warm and clean place to live. True, their lives were at the beck and call of their master. Yet their master - the father - was good to them. They were protected, cared for, fed, clothed and housed.

He, on the other hand, was feeding pigs. Swine - the most disgusting animal a Jew could possibly be asked to tend. He smelled of pig feces; the odor is one of the worst in the world of domesticated animals. His clothes, his hair, his skin reeked of it. Yet he was so hungry that he gladly would have fought them off at close range to get the pig slop that they received. Yet, he wasn't even allowed to share the pigs' food. Nobody gave him anything. Not one thing.

He wasn't aware how deeply his dad had grieved; in fact, he'd convinced himself that his dad didn't care about him the way a dad cares about a son. He'd done too much, wasted too much. Especially himself. 

Yet ... he was desperate.

He'd go back to the homestead, he thought, and ask to be hired on as a servant. Living in the servants' quarters wouldn't be so bad. It would certainly be a lot better than what he was forced to do now. And it was a lot better, he reasoned, than he deserved. 

When he left home, he felt entitled to the life he thought he'd been denied. When he started back, he felt beaten. Used up. Worthless. 

He was desperate. He was willing to go to any lengths to have a better life than the one he'd chosen, the lifestyle that had turned on him and devoured him. 

Before he rounded the crest of the hill toward home, before he was amazed to find that his father welcomed him with open arms and reinstated him as a full member of the household, little did he know how many long nights his dad had held close to himself all that was good about his growing-up years, how profoundly and constantly his father had missed him. His company, his voice, his smile, his laughter. 

His heart. 

The relationship he'd abandoned, wasted in the dust on his father's front doorstep, was waiting for him when he returned. The father made that perfectly clear. He knew it - though the enormity of the dad's forgiveness and acceptance overwhelmed him - as surely as he knew his own name. The sounds of music and dancing had returned to the house. He was so very grateful.

He stole a glance at the older man amid the festivities.

His dad's face was wet with tears. But he was smiling from ear to ear.

In Direct

I'm learning something new. Well, actually it's old - but it's new to me.

I'm learning how to cope with being hurt by someone - whether inadvertently (which is usually the case) or on purpose.

I've always known THAT I was not supposed to go blabbing my stuff to other people and participate in the most common church activity there seems to be: backbiting, gossiping, and spreading discord. 

Yet it seemed to be the only way for me to get the message out without actually confronting someone - something I dreaded, so I just didn't do it. I didn't know how, and I didn't care to know either. After all, it would mean that I would have to change. And I didn't want to change; they were the ones who were supposed to change, not me. 

And people got hurt; their reputations got hurt. 

And I stayed hurt, too. Nothing got resolved; as a matter of fact, it usually got worse over time as I built my imaginary castle of perceived slights, false assumptions and expectations of being hurt further, and I thickened the walls with other people's opinions, people who already had axes to grind.

I raised the passive-aggressive approach to an art form. All that did was isolate me and attract more of the same sort of treatment - this time for real.

Learning how to put my head down, brace myself, burrow in and go directly to someone instead of to everyone but that person - that was hard. It was hard because I was ... terrified. 

Two friends spending happiest time together - courtesy of
imagerymajestic at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Even after I'd learned to be honest with myself about how I was feeling, even after I had learned to set boundaries for myself with others, and was even starting to set boundaries around myself in some situations, the direct approach was something at which I quailed. I ran from it at every opportunity. 

Until I couldn't anymore. 

Until I didn't have the luxury of talking trash about someone because I really, truly liked - even loved - that person, and I didn't want to run away anymore. Not from my friend. Keeping the relationship alive was more important to me than my fear. 

But I wanted to be honest too. If my perceptions were correct, we needed to work things out. And if they weren't - I needed to know instead of assuming wrong things about my friend. 

So ... I wrote an email.

Hey - I write. I'm a big believer in the backspace key - and I was afraid of spilling out words I could never un-say. 

So anyway, I wrote - told my friend how I felt, how I was hurting - and left the door open for a response.

And the response came, tempered with gentleness. As I had hoped, my perceptions were wrong, based on my own feelings of inadequacy, and the door to restoration had been opened. Before the end of the day, we worked out our differences. 

Love won over fear. 

And nothing awful happened. Huh.

Busy Busy

One of the most common hindrances to peace and joy in intimate relationship with God is the busy - some would say frantic - lifestyle we lead in the Western world.  

Times are tough.  Couples usually need to have two incomes to stay afloat financially. Add church (more time if one is in ministry than if one isn't), children, their school, homework, and extracurricular activities, and a person might feel like he or she doesn't have the time to turn around, much less spend time with God.  

And stresses abound.  The fact is, especially this time of year, there are things that we feel that we "must" do - or it "just isn't the same".  But one person's definition of insanity is doing the same things over and over and expecting different results. 

I was talking to one person today who has too much to do for Christmas and too little time to do it, yet expects no help at all from spouse or children.  "They wouldn't help, and even if they wanted to, they wouldn't know how."  The person sighed.   

Wow.  Merry Christmas...and pass the Nexium! (ulcer medication)

At some point, it is necessary to sit down and prioritize all activities so that only the most crucial are done and the rest will need to be either dropped - or delegated.  State how long the activity takes.  Assign a number of importance, from one to three, to each activity, and an initial for each member of the family that is capable of performing said task.  The list might look something like this (fictitious tasks used):

Christmas 2011
 - - - - - -  (Dec 23, 24)
-  Shopping for ingredients (1.5 hours) - 1 - N, J
-  Baking pumpkin pies  (2 hours)  - 2   - J, A
-  Baking apple pies  (2 hours)  - 2 - J (A can peel)
-  Cookies, various kinds  (4 hours) - 3   - J, A, K
  - - - - - -  (Dec 25)
-  Tidying kitchen, dining room (2 hours) - 1 - J, A, K
-  Peeling vegetables (30 minutes) - 1   - J, A, N, K, B
-  Making dressing ( 30 minutes)   -  1   -  J, N
-  Stuffing turkey, putting in oven (30 min) -  1 -  J, N
-  Washing dishes (1 hour +/-)   - 3   -  J, N, A, K, B
-  Keeping counters clear (occ)   - 2   -  J, N, A, K, B
-  Setting table for dinner (15 min)- 1 - J, N, A, K, B
-  Making mulled cider  (2 hours) - 3 - J, N, A, B

You see?  Armed with that information, and some honesty about how it is impossible for you to do it all, it is time for a family meeting so that all comes together and that people understand the situation and what it would mean for you to get some help.  (This - of course - assumes that you have family members that are willing to help.)  Then, decide which activities you are willing to drop, and which ones will be delegated - or changed (for example, buying egg nog instead of mulling apple cider).  Make a schedule if necessary, who gets to use the oven when, for instance. See how the stress drops off?  If instructions are necessary, then write them out for each person and be available to answer questions when the time comes. But ... resist the temptation to take over.  

And (this is important) NeVeR forget to say thank you!

I've used a very minor example of getting help over a three-day period.  It could be used in getting help with a weekly schedule on a regular basis, too.

The point of all this delegation is to relieve the stress associated with having too much to do, PLUS to give you more time to spend with God, and with each other.

You might be surprised at how much you enjoy yourself. Hm.  I think I'll try this myself.  ;D