Writing Words on my Heart

A new believer in Jesus, a seasoned saint living by faith more than 20 years, and a 4-verse passage from Titus. A place to start.

I had read and remembered passages of the Bible before this time. Even before I knew Jesus, I had been instructed in bits of his Word and committed those to memory as part of a neighborhood children's program.

But now I was being led in a more meaningful discipline: writing these words on my heart.

That was more than 20 years ago, and still I can pull up those words and that truth from my heart.

For the grace of God has appeared, teaching us to say "no" to ungodliness and worldly desires, and to live sensibly, righteously, and godly in this present age, waiting for the blessed hope, the appearing of Jesus Christ our Savior, who redeemed us and purified us for himself, a people for his own possession, eager to do what is right. (Titus 2:11-14)

At this point, a few of the phrases have become a little fuzzy, and I can't remember which translation I am speaking. But these words have washed over me for many years, just when I needed the reminder to say "no" to sin, just when I wondered how I should be living, just when I had nearly lost my hope.

Since then, I have committed many passages of scripture to memory just long enough to be able to recite them to a partner or rehearse them in a class. And maybe a verse or a phrase is still floating through my subconscious mind, available for recall with a little prompting. 

But those words I write on my heart -- the ones I mull over, synthesize with my daily life, and use to fight sin -- those are the words that Jesus most often uses to change me.

  My son, do not forget my teaching, but let your heart keep my commands; for length of days and years of life and peace they will add to you. Do not let kindness and truth leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. So you will find favor and good repute in the sight of God and man. (Proverbs 3:1-4)

I am writing today by blogging invitation of A Holy Experience. Each Wednesday, Ann Voskamp and friends "Walk with Him," posting a spiritual practice that draws us nearer to His heart.

Today, we are writing about the habit of memorizing scripture. Visit Ann's website using the link above for many different resources to help you.

A Wheelbarrow Full of Leaves on a Windy Day

On Saturday, I decided to make one last push to get the fall yard work done . . . that meant finishing the enormous task of taking care of the leaves. I had already bagged 33 garbage bags full of leaves, and there seemed like at least 20 more on the ground (the final count ended up more like 60!).

At some point during the day, however, I realized that not all of these leaves should go in garbage bags. Some would serve me well by becoming winter mulch and eventually compost on my gardens. So I hauled out the wheelbarrow to begin making the move.

The problem was that it was a really windy day, and though the leaves had been rained on at some point, they were now completely dry and full of life in the breeze. Moving a wheelbarrow full of leaves on a windy day didn't feel like a very productive task.

As I hauled load after load to a couple of my vegetable garden beds, the futility of the moment felt frustrating, then comical. I imagined winning a couple thousand bucks on America's Home Videos as I started with a full load and ended up dumping out much less. Then, I began to imagine coining a new phrase for all the futile tasks we do in life. Now, when someone seemed like they were getting nowhere, instead of saying, "It's like emptying the ocean with a teaspoon," they would say, "It's like hauling a wheelbarrow full of leaves on a windy day." (I wonder if I can copyright that?)


But then, I realized that the job was really just like a lot of life. It wasn't neat and efficient -- there were as many leaves on the path as there was on either end. And it certainly wasn't exciting -- I can think of at least one hundred more exciting things to do than move leaves around the yard, like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon, for one. But the job was there for me to do, and in doing it, I will reap the benefits. 

Not just the benefit of having better soil in my garden next spring, but also the character that comes from doing mundane jobs and finishing the work, of using my resources rather than buying a new and improved tool for the job, and in seeing the silliness in life and laughing at it rather than complaining.


There are lots of tasks that Jesus puts in front of me that seem like a wheelbarrow full of leaves on a windy day. But even if I leave a lot of leaves on the path along the way, I know there will be at least a little something left for the garden when I get there, and that can only mean new growth in the Spring.

That Word of His

A word, a phrase, a thought, a truth. Day after day I come again to the ancient text that molds and shapes me - looking, searching.

In my closet are boxes of journals, outlining and unraveling the mysteries of Jesus in loopy teenage scrawl, and tight collegiate script, and hurried adult handwriting. Pages full of truth copied, paraphrased, understood, and wrestled with. The words sometimes reflecting transformation in this life, sometimes stagnation.

Over the years, I've come to God's word with a plan - reading those books in an annual progression. I've come to God's word with an idea - searching those pages for a theme. I've come with pain - seeking comfort. I've come with questions - looking for answers.

And I've come to this book looking for Jesus, and most of the time, I find him. Though sometimes, when I come to those pages so proud and demanding, "show me Jesus!" I leave alone, isolated by my own sinfulness. But the holy book reveals that to me as well.

I've been a student of this book, a teacher of this book, an observer, a critic, an analyst, and an audience.

During the dark days of chemotherapy and the few months just after, I had a hard time focusing, so I spent very little time reading in general, even this Word. But that Living Book wouldn't let me go. A verse would emerge from the depths of my foggy memory; the pages would open to the right Psalm at the right time . . . efficiently for a brain that couldn't linger; and these words came from the mouths of friends, saints who knew my struggles and my need for truth.

I would like a more nuanced spirituality, if you'd really like to know. One in which I connect with Jesus most fully through silence or simplicity. But the one spiritual practice that has most deeply affected my relationship with Jesus is engaging with that Word of His. Day after day, year after year.

I am writing today by blogging invitation of A Holy Experience. Each Wednesday, Ann Voskamp and friends "Walk with Him," posting a spiritual practice that draws us nearer to His heart.

Today, we are writing about the one spiritual practice that has most deeply effected our relationship with Jesus.

You Can't Have One Without the Other

You can't have this . . . 

Without a lot of these . . .

 

to rake up off of here.

 

 

 

Twenty bags of leaves and counting! I LOVE FALL!

 

Repay No One Evil for Evil

I'm not usually one for revenge.

Oh sure, I do the usual mumbling under my breath when someone cuts me off in traffic or takes the parking spot I was signaling for. But true offenses, like being lied to or stolen from, haven't typically evoked a deep need for vengeance in me.

Until recently, that is.

It started sometime in September when I planted a pot full of fall lettuce. After taking into consideration the predicted weather, the decreasing daylight, and the hardiness of my seed, I determined that I had just enough time for another crop. After an easy planting and the perfect germination weather, my crop was off to a good start. Until one day, I noticed that most of the seedlings had been dug up and strewn across the patio. 

A quick investigation revealed the several of my other planters had evidence of digging, as well, and the only culprit could be one of the many squirrels that have been loping around my yard. I was mad; I'll admit it. But I didn't wish harm to the squirrels. At least not at that point.

So, I rearranged pots, added some twirling yard art and flowing streamers where I could to try to create the illusion of unpredictability. As skiddish as squirrels are, I figured they would be deterred. 

And they were for a while, until I showed up with a fresh pot of mums and a home grown pumpkin from my dad's garden.  Within a day or two, there was evidence of more digging, and a hole in my pumpkin with the slightest hint of squirrel-sized teeth marks. 

But the real offense came a few days later when I brought home another pumpkin, this one with beautifully carved bats in the front. In just a day or two, the squirrel had eaten enough of the bats that they were now just sagging orange strips. And the original pumpkin, the one my dad had grown with his own hands, was beginning to look like it was carved from swiss cheese. Now I was ready for revenge.

The next day, I sprinkled cayenne pepper all over the pumpkin, especially in the chewed up pock marks where I knew the squirrel would start again the next time he came. I wasn't sure what might happen to the furry little guy if he got a mouthful of fire, but by this time I didn't care.

The plan worked for a few days until the rain washed away all the pepper, and once again it was eating season for my pumpkin. Eventually, I gave up. The squirrels won. I carried the pumpkin out next to the tree as a final act of surrender. "Enough, already. You can HAVE the pumpkin," I thought, with vengeance still in my heart.

--

A few days later, as I was raking my front yard, I found the remains of a dead little squirrel nestled among the fallen leaves. At first I was horrified, then disgusted, then shameful. Was this my enemy, mortally wounded by my peppery weapon?

Whoever said, "Vengeance is sweet," has never had to remove the remains of their enemy with a shovel and garbage bag. In vengeance, nobody wins. When God says, "Vengeance is mine," he's not just protecting our enemy. He's protecting us from the shame and defeat that follows.

I don't know for sure that my cayenne killed the squirrel, but I do know that my vengeful words and actions bring a slow death to both me and my human enemies when I seek to repay evil with evil. From now on, God can have the vengeance. It should have been His, anyway.

Another Year, Another Dress

Saturday was my birthday. Though throughout that day I celebrated 39 years of life, this whole month has been a celebration to me. I am a two-year cancer survivor.

It felt more tragic at the time to be diagnosed with cancer so close to my birthday. I remember October 2007 as a month of flowers and greeting cards. There were piles and piles of Get Well AND birthday cards, and my house looked like a florist shop with bouquets and baskets of roses, hydrangeas, and mums: some celebrating the life I've had, some wishing me more life.

Last year, I morphed my cancer anniversary and 38th birthday into a celebration of life: my own, as well as those of the people who helped me through a year of illness. It felt important to do it big last year, to rejoice with lots of people over what God had done in our lives together because of cancer.

This year, there were no parties, only a few quiet meals with friends and family, a handful of cards and calls, just a couple of flower arrangements. And that felt exactly right for now. Cancer is still part of my everyday life (at least in my thoughts), but it's not all my life is about. I have taken this month to reflect and be thankful. Jesus has also given me some more dreams back, and I continue to imagine a future again. A future BEFORE heaven, that is.

My future life IN heaven continues to be the greatest gift, however. And I pray that this coming year finds me more and more in love with Jesus.

--

A few days before my birthday, I was at my friend Kelly's house for dinner. When I arrived, her two sons popped out of their bedroom with a gift and shouts of "surprise"! After dinner, we had chocolate cheesecake in honor of my special day; I got to blow out the candle AND have the first bite, though my four-year-old and six-year-old buddies could hardly resist the dessert on their plates.

Later, I even got to pick which Wii game to play, and Jensen insists that my victory in boxing (his specialty) was a gift as well. (Even if I DID when fair and square, I'm not sure I should brag about beating a four-year-old in boxing!)

The whole evening was special and fun, but one bit I will carry with me for a while. The gift I opened was Alex's idea. When Kelly asked the boys what they should get me, he immediately said, "I think we should get her a dress." And with no other thoughts prevailing, that's what I got.

The dress itself was certainly nice; I wore it on Sunday to church. But the whole time I was wearing it, the greater gift was that a six-year-old would look at my life and see reason enough to celebrate with a new dress. A perspective I can learn a lot from, especially on the days when the memory of cancer seems a little too close.

--

Speaking of the memory of cancer, I will have my three-month blood tests in early November. If you think of it, will you pray that I would walk closely with the Lord as I anticipate both the test and the results?

Horses, Not Zebras

I recently gave my mom the perfect set up for an "I told you so." (She was gracious and didn't take it, by the way.)

It started when the sink in my bathroom was suddenly clogged, and each time I washed my hands or brushed my teeth, the water would back up. Gross.

I am no plumbing professional, but after taking care of a few drain clogs in the bathtub over the last couple of years, I thought I knew how to handle it. My mom suggested it was probably just a hair ball in the trap that could be remedied with a small plunger, but that seemed WAY too obvious. My mind was traveling to far more exotic solutions.

First, I tried the plumbing snake I had recently purchased.

When that failed, I decided to resort to a relatively "safe" drain cleaner I found during my last bathtub clog incident. But when I could no longer find it at the hardware, I opted for another safe (READ "ineffective") enzyme product.

One round of the enzymes had no effect on the situation. So I decided to try again the next day. When I got home, turned on the water, and still found no improvement, I was just about to give in and buy the really powerful cleaner that came with its own protective gear.

But in the back of my mind, I heard my mom suggesting the plunger again. I only have one size of plunger, and it's on the large side. But I was feeling desperate. So, I covered the ventilation hole, plunged twice, and immediately the drain released. My joy lasted only a minute until I realized I could have saved myself time and money by just trying the obvious solution first.

The philosophical community would likely recognize a classic Occam's Razor in my clog dilemma: when multiple explanations are available for a phenomenon, the simplest version is preferred. (Likewise, the simplest remedy would be in order). In the medical community, this is acknowledged through the axiom, “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."

For some reason, keeping life simple seems really hard in these early years of the 21st century. For one, my schedule becomes so complicated as I layer activities on top of activities and rush from one event to the next. Also, social media and communication technology makes relationships more, not less, complicated as I can be interacting with multiple people at the same time. And then there's all the information and entertainment and products and ideas and services all just waiting for me 24 hours a day if I just lay down a little time and money.

But it's not just the 21st century that creates complexity. It's my heart, always wanting more, more, more. More stuff, more friends, more information, more recognition, more tools, more projects, just more. And never being satisfied with the simple.

Simplicity comes in and out of vogue. Leonardo da Vinci apparently saw simplicity as the ultimate sophisication. And the past couple of years, especially during this recession, seem to be an especially GOOD time for simplicity; there's even a magazine called Real Simple (which is ironically full of adverts for all kinds of things none of us really need!).

But real simplicity, the biblical kind that encompasses contentment and gratitude and generosity, isn't just a passing fad. In fact, it's a hard discipline that Christians have been "practicing" at for years. It's about looking at our lives, our relationships, our stuff and coming up with the simplest version possible. Not making assumptions or creating too many possibilities, though not taking short cuts or doing it the easy way, either.

Mostly, keeping it simple means taking each breath, doing the next thing, and loving my neighbor one at a time with the strength God gives me.

And it never hurts to have a plunger on hand, either.

Green Striped Seats and Three Things Wrong

Three years after buying my house, I'm finally getting around to some interior decorating. I've hung a some paintings here and there, and I have curtains in two rooms. But really, if you didn't know better, you might think I've just moved in.

I've been meaning to paint the walls since I moved in and have been talking about it ever since. But talk is cheap. And it certainly doesn't get paint on the walls. Now, I'm putting my money where my mouth is and am going for it. I even bought the paint.

But decorating a home is more than just slapping some paint on the walls. It's about creating a living space that reflects the personality of the place. For some people, that means minimalism: white walls, empty shelves, streamlined furniture. For me, it means crowded book cases, sketches and water color pieces in frames that don't match, and spruced up furniture passed down through the family.

Recently, I spent a Sunday afternoon refurbishing a couple of old chairs given to me by my dad, who also had gotten them second hand. Though they probably once sat around a dining room table with four others just like them, in my home they have always just been extra seating in the living room or office.

These chairs are very sturdy, but they've never been much to look at since I got them. The legs and back of the chair were stained to look like a luxurious dark cherry, but since they been schlepped around my various apartments and house over the past several years, the scuffs have revealed a wood of a different sort. And the seats had been obviously RE-upholstered with a material that looked more like a shower curtain. In my undecorated home, they were fine. But now that I'm in the process of an upgrade, they needed a change.

I decided that I would put new fabric over the seats and paint the rest black. I bought some fabric I could afford, and decided to use the rest of a can of black spray paint left over from another project. Though I am not really skilled a furniture restoration, I figured I couldn't mess them up too badly.

I began stripping off the fabric from the seats. When I finished with the first chair, I found an amazing green striped upholstered fabric underneath in perfect condition. Little did I know that this beautiful material had been under there all this time.

After the luck with the seats, I was very excited about continuing the project. I took the chairs outside to refinish the wood. But soon, the project took a turn for the worse. As I was sanding, I realized the sandpaper I was using was too coarse and was leaving grooves all over the wood. Then, when I began spray painting, I remembered that the paint was a flat finish, and I really wanted glossy. But the real problem came as I was running out of paint I realized there were patches that I had not gotten covered completely. Apparently furniture restoration isn't as easy as I thought.

Later, when the paint had dried and I went out to assess the damage, I had a renewed spark of hope. Through I had done three things wrong, they seemed to be working together to produce a finish I couldn't have achieved even if I tried. What I found were trendy, distressed chairs that I would actually have paid money for. Especially after I reattached the seats, I couldn't believe how well they turned out after all.

I marvelled at my three things wrong, no two of which could have produced the same result. But by finishing the project even while making a third mistake, I ended up with a treasure.

Now, when I look at those chairs, I see a picture of redemption in those distressed legs and surprisingly beautiful seats. Life isn't about a single disappointment or a single success. It's about what God can do with the sum of all our experiences, both our failures and our feats. And it's also about moving on, even if the next thing we know to do doesn't seem much better than what we have just finished.