Sackcloth and Ashes

By the time I will have finished this, it will have become the most convoluted thing I've ever assembled.  Somewhere, I make a reference to "a month" but I've been coming back to this for monnnnttthhhs, not editing so much as inserting.  Or maybe I've been like some abstract artist, flinging my paint at the page.  I've decided not to erase or white out any of the seizure-like quality here.  By the end of it, I trust the thing will have been worked out between me and Him and I'm leaving anything past that entirely to His management.

I'll be amazed, quite frankly, if anybody even gets to here.
In fact, just the publication of this one might be worthy of a monument, some small altar.

Easily, this could have begun with

uuuuhhhhhhhh ummmmmmmmmm

and gone on that way for several more lines. 

For a month or more, it seems, I've been like this.  I keep returning here, only to sit and stare at just this many words.

There's something in my head, some emerging idea or barely grasped concept and it's just nearly a tangible thing like a splinter working its way out. 

There's an element of pain involved.

[Long, deep exhale.]  [Push forth.]

I facilitate a small group at my church on Wednesday nights, have done it for some time, six or seven years, maybe.  And yet, to this day, I've adamantly insisted that my group-mates not refer to me as their teacher.  (yep, I think this is it.)  I don't teach.  I don't lead.  I ask the questions.  I fa-cil-i-tate. 

And it's seemed reasonable to me, this model.  I've noticed that Jesus was frequently asking questions ~ ones to which His listeners already knew the answers.  If I am His disciple, then surely I'm "doing it right" if I'm interrogating people, right?!

And yet...

In my heart, I keep hearing "sackcloth and ashes."

I close my eyes, I see myself

kneeling in the dust,
rocking, wailing,
tossing the cinders.

Why am I so troubled?

I know why I am so troubled.

I take back what I said before about the white out.
I'm leaving the parts that show my attempt to dodge,
but deleting the attempts to close that loop.
This thing is really about just one thing.
One thing that plagues my mind.

Zion’s leaders are silent.
    They just sit on the ground,
tossing dirt on their heads
    and wearing sackcloth.
Her young women can do nothing
    but stare at the ground.

 My eyes are red from crying,

Jan Swart Van Groningen

my stomach is in knots,
    and I feel sick all over.
My people are being wiped out,
and children lie helpless
    in the streets of the city.
 A child begs its mother
    for food and drink,
then blacks out
like a wounded soldier
    lying in the street.
The child slowly dies
    in its mother’s arms.

Lamentations 2:10-12

I've made my excuses, have let fear, self-centeredness, laziness stop my tongue. I've been stone-cold when I should have been swift.  I've not taught the things I should have to whom I should.

I can't change my past.  I can only tell you about it.
And say,
See Here: 1, 2, 3...

Teach your children in the way they should go.
Teach them from their very first breaths, believing everything you've ever heard about the formative years and about their coming back to it after the rebellion.
Teach them, knowing that when Jesus said to "love your neighbor as yourselves," your children are among your very first neighbors.
Teach them as if their lives depend on it.

Write, Schmite

I've said this before:  I really don't know why I write here.  I have, at moments, believed I'm under some sort of divine direction.  Other times, it occurs to me that I should just go back to writing in my journal.  Maybe that's all this is:  my personal, digital diary.

In any case, what I do here is record my experience, share my story and maybe, just maybe some insight.  I am always, always in the process of working something out and always, always need every bit of insight I can get.  It makes sense to me that if I gain so much from reading other people's stories, then maybe I can drop a grain of helpfulness for someone else.

In any case, we're all just humans on this planet, doing this life one way or another.  Some of us write about it.

I have a draft I've been working on for six months or more that's not so much about a particular thing as it is about my responsibility to speak about any particular, given thing. What I mean is that I've wondered if I might oughta be more forthcoming about things I know.  You know, less of the lyricism and poetry, more of the "See Here: 1, 2, 3" kind of stuff.

But something in the blogosphere recently has put me a'kilter.  And of all the things I think about, read about, am working out, I did not expect the subject of servanthood - or, more specifically (by God!), the subject of female servanthood - to be the catalyst for this kind of unravelling.

I mean ... there's gun control, gay marriage, abortion, greed, hunger...
A lot of stuff to think about.

I have thoughts about all of this stuff.
I have oh-pin-yuns.
gasp, oh Lord, I have convictions.
I have some stuff I could write.

...

hello?

"Female servanthood" probably isn't even the right ... "  ".

Please allow me to be vague...

Somebody wrote about it and I, personally, thought it was a great, grounded article.  It made sense to me, made me think for a bit.  I never - at any point - had the idea that the author portrayed herself as a scholar, as a theologian, as the only one having the only answer.

But somebody else didn't like it.  Mainly, I gathered, because it wasn't right.  And I mean, perfectly, like "your root meanings of Hebrew words aren't put together right" right.

Somebody else didn't like it because "nyah nyah, nyah nyah nyah."

Some of the finest, smartest writers that I've read showed up - and quick! - to point out the errancy of this woman's way....that way being a good and fair attempt at pointing out a better path for certain others of us.  You have doubts about that?  Haters hate?  Maybe I'm simple-minded or slow but I was encouraged by the article - not to be less than any man but to be more like Jesus.  And that's my favorite kind of encouragement in the whole, wide world.  I don't care a lick if that turns out to be simple-minded.

The negative responses from all the deep-thinkers?  It's had exactly the opposite affect on me.  Is that what higher education and IQs are really all about?

You know, I'm really grateful for root meanings and for people who study them and for folks who have alternative perspectives and are willing to share them and for the great "out there" of open discussion where everybody can tell everybody else to &*%^ off*... but in the nicest, most intellectual ways, of course.

But I'm also reminded of high school.
There were all the cool kids that I'd wanted so much for so long to join.
What was it that made them so cool anyway?
Was it really just their ability to find the un-cool-ness about everybody else?

Why?  Why would I ever want to be a part of that?

I don't even use Hebrew words.
Maybe that's why I'm not so much the "everyman's writer" as the "onlyman's writer." Maybe I should start locking this stuff up.  Before somebody tells me I'm not right.

By the way, can somebody please tell me the root meaning of the word "schmite"?




*Maybe this is one of those times that I should have just said "&*%^" but I happen to believe that there is such a thing as foul language (and I struggle with it sometimes, and am aiming to end that) and I happen to know that my resistance to blogging such language does not indicate my apathy toward starving children.

Mantra

This will be very, Very hard for me to say, but...

I may, in fact, possibly have taken on more than I can handle.

There are women my age who are just now having their kids...or having more kids.
I've seen, continue to see, have heard references from throughout history of grandmothers taking care of their g'youngins while the baby-parents go plow the field.  Or whatever.

It's embarrassing, to be quite frank.  A little depressing.
I feel thin-skinned, see-through, tired.  Tired.

My tired mind starts looking for reasonable explanations:

it's the gluten.
it's the gmo's.
it's the government.

Then I start wanting to say to friends (and sometimes random people in the store, too, to be honest), "Hey, you know I work too, right?  That I do actual, sit-at-a-desk, earn-grocery-money, work?"

I want to say to my kids, "Hmph.  Don't think I've forgotten that weird, secret (latent-guilt-inducing) thrill that comes in getting to drop your kids off and goooo to work."

So far, I've managed not to actually say these things.  I think.
Did I already say that I'm tired?

Help does come, though.  For instance, this: Stuck In the Doldrums, Jen Hatmaker.  It was impressive how invigorated I was just in reading that.  I was just sorta wishing Jen Hatmaker could have come to fold my laundry too.

A friend asked if I was drinking my water and I answered a resounding, "yes."  Truth is, I probably need to be asked again and again in order to keep it on my tired mind.  I'm grateful for friends who keep me on track.

And that brings me to my greatest help of all.  I have found that some of what I thought would be my most challenging days turned out to be some of my most successful just by remembering to practice (a prayer of) gratitude.



Every time I print a contract,

thank You, Lord.

With every push of the vacuum,

thank You, Lord.

Every fold of a shirt,

thank You, Lord.

When I glue the zebra's leg back on,
When I brush the crumbs from the paper dolls,
When I change the diaper,

thank You, Lord.

When I can sit and listen and hold and love,

oh, thank You, Lord.

thank You, Lord. 

And He reminds me that this is but a season of my life.
And I feel a little less tired.
And a lot more aware of the ways that I am blessed.
Thank You, Lord.

Tradition

This was gonna be called "Half-Price"

because

I've worn that skirt twice now.

Seeeee.  See how that works out.

However, I'm wearing it today out of a (fond) sense of tradition.  In all my growing up, getting dressed for Easter Sunday was some serious business.  In this way, I am still child-like and clinging to the old ways.

But I also believe that my faith is organic, that it breathes and grows and changes - and not always in the anticipated, traditional ways.

So below is one of my favorite stories and I'm quoting it from Eugene Peterson's paraphrase, The Message.  Having grown up on the Old King James, I must assure you that this is a true demonstration of just how progressive I've become.

"That same day two of them were walking to the village Emmaus, about seven miles out of Jerusalem. They were deep in conversation, going over all these things that had happened. In the middle of their talk and questions, Jesus came up and walked along with them. But they were not able to recognize who he was.

He asked, “What’s this you’re discussing so intently as you walk along?”

They just stood there, long-faced, like they had lost their best friend. Then one of them, his name was Cleopas, said, “Are you the only one in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard what’s happened during the last few days?”

He said, “What has happened?”

They said, “The things that happened to Jesus the Nazarene. He was a man of God, a prophet, dynamic in work and word, blessed by both God and all the people. Then our high priests and leaders betrayed him, got him sentenced to death, and crucified him. And we had our hopes up that he was the One, the One about to deliver Israel. And it is now the third day since it happened. But now some of our women have completely confused us. Early this morning they were at the tomb and couldn’t find his body. They came back with the story that they had seen a vision of angels who said he was alive. Some of our friends went off to the tomb to check and found it empty just as the women said, but they didn’t see Jesus.”

Then he said to them, “So thick-headed! So slow-hearted! Why can’t you simply believe all that the prophets said? Don’t you see that these things had to happen, that the Messiah had to suffer and only then enter into his glory?” Then he started at the beginning, with the Books of Moses, and went on through all the Prophets, pointing out everything in the Scriptures that referred to him.

They came to the edge of the village where they were headed. He acted as if he were going on but they pressed him: “Stay and have supper with us. It’s nearly evening; the day is done.” So he went in with them. And here is what happened: He sat down at the table with them. Taking the bread, he blessed and broke and gave it to them. At that moment, open-eyed, wide-eyed, they recognized him. And then he disappeared." Luke 24:13:31

I hope that you have had a lovely, blessed Easter and that your eyes have seen the risen Lord Jesus!

Okay, Okay...

I mighta cheated a little at this one.

I've been staring long and hard at every crinoline and drape that comes through the Bargain Box, attempting to find the thing that I can convert into my dream tulle skirt but to no avail.  And y'all don't seem to be wantin' to come off of yours.

So I found this skirt on ebay.

Go ahead, gasp and cringe.  Not really!

I've had the shoes since long before I began this (mostly) dollar dressing adventure so we're calling them fully depreciated.

The rest of it did come from the thrift shop so I've copied one of my favorite pins for still less than $25.


And that's pretty okay.  Okay?  Okay.

inpiration pin
source:  whatsaybeauty.tumblr

Alleluia

today, i

- cleaned my bathroom (first time in over a month, i'm pretty sure)
- worked (one contract, one bill, one phone call still counts)
- washed some laundry (i'll fold it maybe next week)
- responded to an email (on the same day)
- sat on the porch with two g'babies
- made a movie(s)
- made a point
- listened
- lost my senses, then regained them
- had a moment of weakness, and overcame it
- survived an "episode"
- failed to do some things i should have
- got some things wrong
- focused on the things i got right

now, i am

- going to bed
- thanking Him for this day
- trusting Him for tomorrow

alleluia, alleluia

Pink Is IN

I really wasn't sure how - or even if - I'd ever wear a pink (faux) fur collar but it was in my "just in case" stash, just in case.

Then a friend said something about the ridiculosity of having seen someone wearing a (pink) neck pillow at the airport.
And not just, like,
on the airplane, but
hanging around the airport,
boarding the airplane.
That kind of (ridiculous) wearing.

Got me thinking, though...

Anything they can do, I can (probably) do for a dollar.
Or two, counting my shirt!

And who in her right mind would pass on such an opportunity as that?!