Why am I afraid to live, I who love life and the beauty of flesh and the living colors of the earth and sky and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who love love?
--Eugene O'Neill
All this is possible only because we have been given so much: life itself, eyes to see and hands to touch, a mind to shape ideas, and a heart to beat with love. We have been given God in our souls and Christ in our flesh. We have the power to believe where others deny, to hope where others despair, to love where others hurt.
We are all, equally, privileged but unentitled beggars at the door of God's mercy!
Whatever our failings may be, we need not lower our eyes in the presence of Jesus. Unlike Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame, we need not hide all that is ugly and repulsive within us. ... As we glance up, we are astonished to find the eyes of Jesus open with wonder, deep with understanding, and gentle with compassion.
--Brennan Manning
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
From John Ruskin's The Stones of Venice
Therefore, to every spirit which Christianity summons to her service, her exhortation is: Do what you can, and confess frankly what you are unable to do; neither let your effort be shortened for fear of failure, nor your confession silenced for fear of shame. And it is, perhaps, the principal admirableness of the Gothic schools of architecture, that they thus receive the results of the labor of inferior minds; and out of fragments full of imperfection, and betraying that imperfection in every touch, indulgently raise up a stately and unaccusable whole.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Attending readings like tonight's always bring up all sorts of questions for me:
If I've been endowed with any sort of talent (literary, artistic, or otherwise), am I really exercising it? Am I cultivating it? Trying to improve that skill in me? Or do I refuse to try to create? Out of a fear of failure, out of my feeble attempts to share my heart, out of fear my heart will be rejected? And, while I certainly appreciate the talent all of my friends share, and applaud and congratulate them for it, what does talent mean? How did God decide to divy up talents, and gifts, natural, and spiritual? Just because I perceive myself as having little talent, does that mean that God loves me less than those He has endowed with greater gifts, who are, somehow, inherently better than me? Who have greater goodness, inner resources, or acuity of perception? I'll never quite understand. I have to reassure myself with the words of 1 Corinthians 12
22On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, 23and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, 24while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has combined the members of the body and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it, 25so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. 26If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.
Hmm. Is my desire, in wanting greater talent, to bring glory to God, or to prove my worth in His sight? Is it a way for me to shirk the often difficult work of creating? Am I making excuses for not caring, for not living?
A good, rather wise friend of mine asked what the point would be of doing anything if someone was always better at it than someone else? And that very obvious question begs an answer.
One day, I will be called to account on my use of my talents. I must exercise them in some way, some probably very insignificant way for the work of His Kingdom. Why do I feel as if I must deny what God has created me to be, and how He takes pleasure in things I enjoy and excel at doing? Why must I denigrate myself, and make myself invisible, so that the more talented can always take the stage? I do not want to glorify myself; I must continually remind myself that any good thing I am or have is only because of the creative work of God in His design of me, and in His presence in my daily life.
If I've been endowed with any sort of talent (literary, artistic, or otherwise), am I really exercising it? Am I cultivating it? Trying to improve that skill in me? Or do I refuse to try to create? Out of a fear of failure, out of my feeble attempts to share my heart, out of fear my heart will be rejected? And, while I certainly appreciate the talent all of my friends share, and applaud and congratulate them for it, what does talent mean? How did God decide to divy up talents, and gifts, natural, and spiritual? Just because I perceive myself as having little talent, does that mean that God loves me less than those He has endowed with greater gifts, who are, somehow, inherently better than me? Who have greater goodness, inner resources, or acuity of perception? I'll never quite understand. I have to reassure myself with the words of 1 Corinthians 12
22On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, 23and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, 24while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has combined the members of the body and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it, 25so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. 26If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.
Hmm. Is my desire, in wanting greater talent, to bring glory to God, or to prove my worth in His sight? Is it a way for me to shirk the often difficult work of creating? Am I making excuses for not caring, for not living?
A good, rather wise friend of mine asked what the point would be of doing anything if someone was always better at it than someone else? And that very obvious question begs an answer.
One day, I will be called to account on my use of my talents. I must exercise them in some way, some probably very insignificant way for the work of His Kingdom. Why do I feel as if I must deny what God has created me to be, and how He takes pleasure in things I enjoy and excel at doing? Why must I denigrate myself, and make myself invisible, so that the more talented can always take the stage? I do not want to glorify myself; I must continually remind myself that any good thing I am or have is only because of the creative work of God in His design of me, and in His presence in my daily life.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
All the Way My Savior Leads Me...
I am constantly astonished at the sheer poetry of hymns that I don't always notice in the act of singing them.
All the way my Savior leads me;
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my Guide?
Heav’nly peace, divinest comfort,
Here by faith in Him to dwell!
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well;
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well.
All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread;
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living Bread.
Though my weary steps may falter,
And my soul athirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see;
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see.
All the way my Savior leads me
O the fullness of His love!
Perfect rest to me is promised...
All the way my Savior leads me;
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my Guide?
Heav’nly peace, divinest comfort,
Here by faith in Him to dwell!
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well;
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well.
All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread;
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living Bread.
Though my weary steps may falter,
And my soul athirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see;
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see.
All the way my Savior leads me
O the fullness of His love!
Perfect rest to me is promised...
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
From Michael Rosen's Sad Book
Sometimes sad is very big. It's everywhere. All over me.
Sometimes I'm sad and I don't know why.
It's just a cloud that comes along and covers me up.
It's just because.
Maybe it's because things now aren't like they were a few years ago. Like my family. It's not the same as it was a few years ago. So what happens is that there's a sad place inside me because things aren't the same.
And sometimes I write about sad.
Where is sad?
Sad is anywhere.
It comes along and finds you.
When is sad?
Sad is any time.
It comes along and finds you.
Who is sad?
Sad is anyone.
It comes along and finds you.
Sad is a place that is deep and dark
like the space under the bed
Sad is a place that is high and light
like the sky above my head
When it's deep and dark I don't dare go there
When it's high and light I want to be thin air.
This last bit means that I don't want to be here.
I just want to disappear.
Sometimes I'm sad and I don't know why.
It's just a cloud that comes along and covers me up.
It's just because.
Maybe it's because things now aren't like they were a few years ago. Like my family. It's not the same as it was a few years ago. So what happens is that there's a sad place inside me because things aren't the same.
And sometimes I write about sad.
Where is sad?
Sad is anywhere.
It comes along and finds you.
When is sad?
Sad is any time.
It comes along and finds you.
Who is sad?
Sad is anyone.
It comes along and finds you.
Sad is a place that is deep and dark
like the space under the bed
Sad is a place that is high and light
like the sky above my head
When it's deep and dark I don't dare go there
When it's high and light I want to be thin air.
This last bit means that I don't want to be here.
I just want to disappear.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Lo, at midnight clouds are slowly passing,
rosy and lustrous,
O'er the spacious heav'ns
with loveliness laden.
From the boundless deep
the moon arises wondrous
All the birds have ceased
their sad and mournful complaining;
Now appears on the sea
in a silver reflection
The light of the moon softly
waking the soul and constraining
Hearts to cruel tears
and bitter dejection.
Lo, at midnight clouds are slowly passing,
rosy and lustrous,
O'er the spacious heav'ns
dreamily wondrous.
--Ruth V. Correa
Friday, April 3, 2009
Counting my blessings.
I sense a need to remind myself of all of the joys/delights/blessings that truly abound in my life.
For instance, it's a gloomy it's raining it's pouring the old man is snoring...going to bed and bumping my head and not getting up in the morning day. I like days like this, even if it means I'm a little less productive than I should be. The creek rushes and rises a little bit higher, walking barefoot in the puddles. I'm also watching Sleepless in Seattle, which has a fantastic soundtrack; I just watched the section where Sam Baldwin talked about how much he loved his wife. It reminds me of the incomparable love of Christ, and also about the potential for being loved in that way some day.
Doctor Marcia Fieldstone: What are you going to do?
Sam Baldwin: Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while.
Doctor Marcia Fieldstone: Tell me what was so special about your wife?
Sam Baldwin: Well, how long is your program? Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were suppose to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and I knew. It was like... magic.
I'm thankful for a God who has promised never to forsake me, even when He seems absent. I'm thankful for friends that persist in loving my stubborn self and assuring me of my standing as His Beloved. I'm thankful for my family, for a mother who "loves me to pieces"; her words, not my own. ; p
I'm thankful for sips of cider, tea, and irish mint mochas, for the words of cummings, tennyson, donne. For the Word.
I love all of the memories I have in the pictures on my wall: the birth of a foal, fresh out of the womb; bottle feeding a baby ewe; my dad and I on the beach with my hand resting lightly on his; the salt water-cut dunes and cliffs bordering the Pacific; siamese kittens with the bluest of eyes, rainbows and cloud scattered skies; silos at sunset; the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben on the Thames highlighted by the pier bulbs; redwood-covered creeks; the light of the Sun streaming through the cathedral at Canterbury; the un-swimmable pump water at Bath; an impressionistic painting set in a field of poppies; a profusion of spring bulbs and daffodils, and so on. And I could go on.
I have a little collection of cards that I've saved that remind me of the beautiful people who have taken the trouble to write me cards for birthdays, Christmas, etc. These remind me that people do care, that perhaps I'm not quite as alone as I think I am.
For instance, it's a gloomy it's raining it's pouring the old man is snoring...going to bed and bumping my head and not getting up in the morning day. I like days like this, even if it means I'm a little less productive than I should be. The creek rushes and rises a little bit higher, walking barefoot in the puddles. I'm also watching Sleepless in Seattle, which has a fantastic soundtrack; I just watched the section where Sam Baldwin talked about how much he loved his wife. It reminds me of the incomparable love of Christ, and also about the potential for being loved in that way some day.
Doctor Marcia Fieldstone: What are you going to do?
Sam Baldwin: Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while.
Doctor Marcia Fieldstone: Tell me what was so special about your wife?
Sam Baldwin: Well, how long is your program? Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were suppose to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and I knew. It was like... magic.
I'm thankful for a God who has promised never to forsake me, even when He seems absent. I'm thankful for friends that persist in loving my stubborn self and assuring me of my standing as His Beloved. I'm thankful for my family, for a mother who "loves me to pieces"; her words, not my own. ; p
I'm thankful for sips of cider, tea, and irish mint mochas, for the words of cummings, tennyson, donne. For the Word.
I love all of the memories I have in the pictures on my wall: the birth of a foal, fresh out of the womb; bottle feeding a baby ewe; my dad and I on the beach with my hand resting lightly on his; the salt water-cut dunes and cliffs bordering the Pacific; siamese kittens with the bluest of eyes, rainbows and cloud scattered skies; silos at sunset; the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben on the Thames highlighted by the pier bulbs; redwood-covered creeks; the light of the Sun streaming through the cathedral at Canterbury; the un-swimmable pump water at Bath; an impressionistic painting set in a field of poppies; a profusion of spring bulbs and daffodils, and so on. And I could go on.
I have a little collection of cards that I've saved that remind me of the beautiful people who have taken the trouble to write me cards for birthdays, Christmas, etc. These remind me that people do care, that perhaps I'm not quite as alone as I think I am.
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