Under the Covers or Under His Wings? Going Deep Without Getting Buried, AKA, Metaphor Overload

Hey, faithful readers! I jotted down notes for this article a couple of weeks ago when anxiety was running high and strength was running low. After a few hours of prayer, Bible study and “doing the next right thing,” (a tool I learned in Al Anon many years ago), the feelings subsided and I laid my jottings aside. But worries and fretting have lately been crowding out that which I know (the Lord will never leave me nor forsake me). Therefore, I’m placing fingers to keyboard and hoping to create some sense from my scribblings. I trust the following thoughts will comfort both my readers and myself (not necessarily in that order)!

Treading Deep Water

I made a careless driving mistake recently, and as soon as it happened, I knew why. My mind was only partially on the road. A good 80% of my mental machinations concerned current events and personal issues which, while of great importance, are completely out of my power to control.

There’s no point in enumerating the cares which distracted me that morning; we all have them. Whatever one’s point of view, anyone who’s at all awake can see that the USA is fast becoming the “DSA” (Divided States of America – I thought I made this term up, but a quick internet search revealed that many have beaten me to the proverbial punch). This and other “fret-ables” of my own (I think I coined this one – it means things to fret over) managed to remove my attention from the road, causing a close call.

The other driver responded with grace. Yes, she honked (only as much as was necessary to alert me – she resisted the urge to lean on the horn), but there was no tongue-lashing or middle-fingering. I was so thankful for God’s protection and my fellow traveler’s kind reaction that, when we ended up side by side at a light, I rolled down my window, thanked her for her reasonable response, and apologized profusely.

“You’re fine!” she laughed. “We all make mistakes!”

What I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry for my stupid blunder, but, you see, I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. You see, there’s this, this and this that are bothering me, and it’s just too much.”

 But that’s just the point, isn’t it? To quote a MercyMe song, “[we] were never meant to carry this beyond the cross.”

Look at it? Yes. Comfort the brokenhearted? Absolutely. Attack problems? You bet. But carry it? Not on your life.

Let’s face it – there are challenges and messes everywhere. Christ acknowledged this when He reminded Martha that it was more important to commune with Him than to make a perfect party. Later, He counseled Judas, “You always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me” (Matthew 26:11).

Did He mean we should abandon our responsibilities and spend 24/7 with Bibles open and heads in the sand?

God forbid.

I believe He was calling His followers to counter one of two urges to which many of us fall prey. One is to try to singlehandedly clean up all the muck that humanity in its sinfulness has created. The other is to hide under the covers – sometimes literally – and hope it will all go away.

Metaphor Madness: Deep Breathing

To illustrate the process of letting go a la Thea, let’s revisit a morning two weeks ago when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Here I’m going to switch to present tense, so my audience  will hopefully catch the immediacy of the moments which led to this article. Imagery alert: my readers should beware if they’re metaphor intolerant, because my mind wandered to a bunch of those literary devices on the morning in question. While it may fly in the face of freshman English, I’m just going to roll with the disparate thoughts God gave me at the time.

It’s a cool day. Windows are open, causing the curtains to sway lazily with the gentle breeze. As is my habit, I tuck my head underneath the sheets, cocooning myself in the
perceived safety of cotton and polyester.

Metaphor #1: Without warning, the familiar feeling rises in my chest. That feeling of being sucked under with nowhere to go and no way to breathe. I somehow manage to claw my way to the surface and, once there, I inhale greedily, letting out all the bad stuff that’s been building up, replacing it with oxygen-saturated air that refreshes and rejuvenates and is worth more than the Crown Jewels.

I’m reminded of my doctor’s instructions on how to properly use my asthma inhaler. After prescribing medication to combat shortness of breath, he taught me steps to maximize intake of this life-sustaining product. I first exhale deeply, then depress the mechanism on the inhaler, which releases particles into a middleman tube called the spacer. Then and only then can I take a deep breath and hold it for ten seconds. Most of the time, when I stick to the method and timetable he taught me, I can stay out of breathing trouble.

That’s how I tend to my lungs pharmaceutically; since I know they don’t function optimally on their own, it would be foolish to reject a preventative strategy that can keep them working at fullest capacity. Therefore, I let the physician call the shots (pun intended and metaphor #2, for those who are keeping track). This is his specialty and it’s my life he’s trying to protect.

Interestingly, this process in a way mirrors the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives. According to Pastor David Guzik of Calvary Chapel in Santa Barbara, “in both the Hebrew and Greek languages, the word for spirit (as in Holy Spirit) is the same word for breath or wind (this also happens to be true in Latin) … In Genesis 1:1-2, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, blowing over the waters of the newly created earth. In Genesis 2:7, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, blowing life into newly created man. In Ezekiel 37:9-10, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, moving over the dry bones of Israel bringing them life and strength” (https://enduringword.com/bible-commentary/acts-2/). How wise of our Lord to associate the lifesaving work of the Holy Spirit to the life-preserving work of an ordinary medical procedure.

Similarly, I can nourish my spirit according to the Great Physician’s orders. To paraphrase Rev. Dr. Charles Stanley, when God tells me to do something, the wisest thing is for me to do it when He says, how He says, for as long as He says to do it. On a day-to-day basis, this means making regular deposits into my spiritual bank account (metaphor #3) through Bible reading, prayer, and fellowshipping with other believers. It’s simple, really, but simple things are not always easy.

This is all well and good, but I still can’t shake the feeling of wanting to hide under the covers and opt out of the things on my plate today.

Metaphor Madness: Digging Deep

That being the case, I may as well go deep (metaphor #4). If my head’s going to hide, let it be hidden in the ultimate Hiding Place (metaphor #5). If I’m going to bury myself beneath common cloth, let me simultaneously burrow deep underneath heavenly wings (metaphor #6) that never tire or give out.

I allow my troubled self to take refuge under the covers and in the Lord’s arms. I shut out the world physically and, as best I can, go deep. Only He and I inhabit this sheltered place. I will have to come out some time, but not yet. Right now, it’s all too much. Right now, the best I can do is hide away from the rack and ruin of this world that God never intended for me to shoulder, let alone fix.

Quite simply, I pray. I remind myself of His promises. I plumb the depths of His steadfastness. I let myself go deep.

From my “hidey hole” (the name my son gave to cubbies and crevices he tucked into as a child) I hear neighbors starting up lawnmowers and shouting across fences while pulling weeds from their gardens. I think of my sad looking garden which, truth be told, doesn’t even deserve to be called a garden. It’s really just a lot of what my neighbor calls “volunteer plants” that have spread elsewhere from things I planted optimistically in the past. In all honesty, there are more weeds than intentional foliage; I can’t keep up with them, nor do I want to.

I think of all that and it makes me cringe. But then I think, well, that’s why I’m paying someone to cut my grass and trim back the overgrowth when it gets out of control. It’s why I’m forking over cash for my handyman to tackle the poison ivy; I’m highly sensitive and the allergic reaction I get from even standing near the stuff isn’t worth the price I’ll pay later in itching. That’s how I do my garden, such as it is, and that’s how I do life, more often than not.

Some things I can tackle myself; other things require linking up with someone more intrepid than I. Again, I can apply this idea spiritually, as in Psalm 55:22: “Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never permit the righteous to be moved.”

This whole gardening business is too much for me, and I know it. Others love it and say they commune with God while playing around in the dirt, and that’s fine for them. For me, it’s hot, filthy agony, and I’d rather chew glass (metaphor #7 – this is getting ridiculous).

Nestled under my covers, I ponder that there are different ways to garden. Trigger alert: metaphor on the horizon (oops, that’s another one – don’t say I didn’t warn you). I emerge from the inner sanctum of my covers when God inspires me to send a few texts to loved ones, which I know will buoy their spirits.

Isn’t that a form of gardening? My grass may be too high and weeds may overshadow the flowers in my physical garden, but hopefully when I die there will be lots of people whose spiritual gardens I tended with love, and that investment will shine forth as much or more than tulips and daisies which are (idiom alert, just to break up the monotony) here today but gone tomorrow.

From my blanketed nook, I recall rescuing several plants recently. Literally. They had actually been put out with someone’s trash. These were beautiful, color-soaked Gerber daisies – healthy and vital – that somebody tossed out. It was as if the owner wanted to give them a fighting chance and thus placed them prominently, if ironically, atop a dilapidated trashcan, rather than just chucking them inside the receptacle.

Despite my aforementioned aversion to all things landscaping, I brought the poor things home. Perhaps this was how Christians in ancient Rome felt when they adopted unwanted babies left outside to die. Like me, they surely had better things to do than dirty their hands with other people’s castoffs; then again, one man’s trash – well, you know.

My sweet neighbor, Anita, helped me plant the daisies with my grandson. It was still torture – after all, it was gardening – but with Anita cheering me on and Luca wielding a pint-sized spade, at least we got a few smiles out of the deal.

And the daisies remain alive – for the moment.

When I complimented Anita on her green thumb, she replied, “Oh, no – I just keep trying.”

Maybe that’s the secret. Green thumb or no, it’s the trying that brings out the blooms.

Metaphor Madness: The Deep Dive (Last Metaphor – I promise)

My takeaway from all this metaphorical (and personal) madness is nothing new or magical. It’s the same advice I’ve been giving myself and anyone who will listen for years: deep diving into our Creator’s mind and heart always has been and always will be the best treatment for internal distress.

There will be tedium at times, as occurs with any discipline. Puffing away on inhalers doesn’t make for an interesting Saturday night, but it sure beats a weekend in the ER. A breathtaking garden requires, in the words of my late friend, Cynthia (whose yard was truly a showplace), “hours and hours of backbreaking work.”

This author hasn’t found any shortcuts to communing with the Lord. Like any relationship, time must be committed in order for thriving to occur. Diving into God’s word and dialoguing with Him demand something of us. This will look different for every believer. Parents of young children will have to work around their kids’ active hours to nurture their own spiritual lives. Busy professionals may have to pray through lunch breaks.

One thing, though, is for certain. When we work in tandem with the Lord, it’s like riding a bicycle built for two or paddling a canoe with two people (I didn’t break my promise and squeeze in more metaphors – the bike and canoe analogies are similes, so they don’t count 😊). The work is halved because two are sharing it. Most importantly, one is steering and the other following.

Guess which role we’re supposed to have?

The Faces of Recovery

"Whom you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

That's the opening admonition of every 12-step meeting I've ever attended, and I have no intention of violating that vital rule. That said, I am going to relate an incident which greatly encouraged me and I hope will put smiles on many a worrying face.

Last night I dragged myself out of my comfort zone and went to an Al Anon meeting. That's a bit of an overstatement, as I've gratefully attended many a recovery meeting on and off for nearly 40 years. It's OK to out myself, as I have very few secrets where my recovery past is concerned, so for the record, I'm a veteran of several such programs, and have found them to be literally lifesaving in the mental health department. But by "comfort zone" in this instance, I simply mean I was nice and comfy, relaxing in my room after a busy day, but decided at the last minute to un-comfort my cozy self and take care of my head (which tends to take on a life of its own when I'm worried about someone or something, as I was yesterday).

As happens often when I divest myself of "snuggy-ness" and do the right thing, I found myself richly rewarded.

This particular meeting is always well attended, and last night was no exception. Arriving a few minutes late (my usual MO), I found there was nary a chair to be had. Lots of cushion-y furniture is arranged in a circle in the main part of the room, and there are always a few folding chairs set up around the perimeter. Latecomers like me end up in those less desirable seats, but there wasn't even one of those to be found.

 I did, however, notice one chair in the outer circle with a bunch of junk on it - nothing like a coat or purse, which would have indicated someone was sitting there, or of course, I wouldn't have moved it. This meeting, like most 12-step meetings I'm aware of, took place in a room rented from a church. The items I'm referring to were "office-y" things from the church that had somehow ended up on the seat of this chair.

Here's where the miracle started to happen. A young man a few seats down, not realizing I had found a place to sit, stood up and offered me his chair! I quickly indicated that I had solved my dilemma, but thanked him profusely in whispered tones for his kindness.

Then miracle number two kicked in. Another young fellow had snagged himself a primo seat on the couch in the inner circle. I don't even know how he realized what I was struggling with, since theoretically, his eyes would have been on the speaker as opposed to something going on behind him. Nevertheless, he gallantly stood up and insisted I take his seat.

Let me insert here that I've been so conditioned by the supposed equalization of women (which, admittedly, has resulted in a much greater leveling of the playing field vocationally and economically, but has also yielded the unfortunate side effect of many niceties "gentlemen" used to perform for "ladies" going by the wayside) that both these acts of chivalry somewhat threw me. In the first case, the young man didn't need to follow through on his offer, as I had located a chair. In the second instance, I was being offered a more comfortable spot in the inner circle. This meant, because of the way the meeting typically runs, I would get a chance to "share" (i.e., say a few words about how I related to the topic of the meeting) before he would, and if time ran out, he might not have the chance to speak at all. Sharing is an important part of recovery, as it forces attendees out of their comfort zones and hopefully steers them towards healthier thinking.

So, you see, this guy wasn't just giving up a soft seat; he was potentially forfeiting his chance to grow a little bit in his recovery.

I had to make a split-second decision. Would I accept this young man's act of chivalry, or simply indicate that I would be fine in the austere chair I had cleared? I must admit, vanity played a small part in all this mental wrestling. Was he making the offer to a woman, or to an older woman? In other words, was his gallantry due to my sex or my age? The former, I found lovely. The latter, although still chivalrous, might suggest I was over the hill!

Laying those concerns aside, I accepted his gracious offer. I later reciprocated when, as I had predicted, the opportunity arose for me to share. I relinquished the privilege, offering it instead to my Sir Galahad, and publicly acknowledged both young men, who had truly proven themselves gentlemen.

I find this anecdote encouraging on many levels. Apparently, our society isn't as far-gone as many believe. There may be hope for us yet.

But wait. It gets better.

It turns out both the gentlemen to whom I've referred are in recovery for substance abuse. In fact, they were part of a group of recovering addicts who attended the Al Anon meeting for reasons of their own. Without divulging any of their stories, let me just say that all expressed gratitude for the warm welcome they received from a group they knew was formed in response to the antics of addicts.

In a time when so many are losing their lives to the opioid crisis and other forms of behavioral enslavement, it touched my heart deeply to witness such tender concern and humility on the part of those struggling with addiction. In short, it gives me great hope.

It also reinforces my resolve to pray for folks who are fighting a monkey on their backs. Statistically, the guys I saw last night run a high risk of relapsing. It behooves me to intercede for them and their loved ones, just as I appeal to the Almighty for those in my own life for whom this is a mortal battle.

There but for the grace of God go I.

"Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed

 through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." 

~ Hebrews 4:14-16 ~

Thea, Thea

“Are You kidding me, Lord?”

The words form in my head before I can edit them. Even in the midst of holiday hoopla, I know I’m conversing with omnipotence; there’s a certain decorum to such encounters. I smile, realizing I'm also communing with omniscience. Why sweat it? 

This is, after all, Christmas Eve, and I know the Almighty realizes it's a hugely busy day for those He came to die for.

I’ve already obeyed Him several times this morning. I woke early, then spent quality time with Him and a few dear friends He laid on my heart. Isn't it about time to get to my chores?

“No, you heard me right, Thea,” He whispers back. “You can choose to ignore Me … but is that really how you want to commemorate My birth?”

I reluctantly seat myself at the keyboard, shooing away fragments of to do lists that are cluttering my brain. The food and presents will have to wait.

The reason I must sit down and write is because the message He’s giving me really concerns all the mania of this time of year. I’ve been mentally checked out most of the week at work (I’ve come to refer to this phenomenon as “Christmas brain”). Task piles upon task as I strive to “get Christmas right,” and I almost resent having to show up at the place that not only represents my livelihood, but also a strong sense of purpose for my existence.

More thoughts arrive unbidden.

“You’ve got another hour, Lord. Then Elise and Aaron arrive, then her father, and he's never been to the house before, and the bathroom's not clean yet, and then we go to Anita’s, and then … “

Breathe.

I had a divine encounter at the super market yesterday. I met up with my son and daughter-in-law to grab the cholesterol and sugar, er, ingredients, needed for today’s festivities. It was the most peace I’ve had all week. Despite the crowds and shortage of parking (we had three vehicles between us), my heart surged with joy to be sharing such madness with two of the dearest people on earth to me. We divvied up the list and finished in short order. I told them I enjoyed every moment of our trip, and I meant it.

I’m ashamed to admit, though, one thing marred my happiness. While scrambling to hunt down my share of the goodies, I bumped into a friend. I haven’t known her long, but there’s a certain depth to our acquaintance that comes from shared struggles. She had been a frequent texting correspondent some months ago, but had fallen off the radar of late and not responded when I contacted her. That’s never a good sign.

She followed along as I shuffled through the peanut butter aisle. At first we chatted about trivialities, but all of a sudden she shared something from the heart. I’m an experienced selective listener (most multi-taskers are), but the down side of only paying partial attention is you can miss important tidbits when you’re in deep speculation about weighty matters like which jar of honey has the best unit price.

I did a mental double take, forced my gaze away from the food fest that had been consuming my attention, and looked her in the eye.

In all honesty, I really didn’t have time for an in-depth conversation in that setting and with that company. BUT it behooved me to MAKE time to share my love and concern for her wellbeing, and to let her know I was praying for her. That was all I had to give in that instant, and it had to be enough.

A young boy once had a small lunch which he was asked to share with a great multitude. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course – a couple of fish and a paltry amount of bread. Still, what he had he shared willingly, and at day’s end, thousands left satisfied.

Do I dare offer any less?

The phone rings as I type that last sentence. When my son's number appears on caller ID, I know it means he and his wife are on their way and my time to write is slipping away. 

And I haven't wrapped one present yet.

I think of a long ago party such as the one I'm helping to host today. An important Guest was expected, one who had never graced that home before and maybe never would again. When the Visitor arrived, one hostess served with gusto, growing more and more resentful of her sister, who chose instead to soak in the presence of their prestigious company. It’s worth examining Luke 10:38-42, where Jesus rebukes Martha, the complainer, and commends Mary, the listener:

“Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus’ feet and heard His word. But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, ‘Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me.’

 And Jesus answered and said to her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.’”

Check out Jonny Diaz's "Just Breathe"                    

Impasse

I've been experiencing an impasse lately, on many levels. I guess it's been obvious I've been off the radar for months, but there's been a good reason for that. I'm writing a pro-life novel called Belabored. I finished the guts of it over the winter, but there's still a lot of work to be done in the way of revision and fact checking. I'm sort of in a holding pattern, waiting for interview responses and still trying to find sources whose brains I can pick to ensure the book's credibility.

I think this is the flip side of writer's block. I'm going to call it writer's wait.

I don't mean to whine (well, maybe I do - the post is called "Impasse," after all, so I may as well explain how I got there), but this waiting stuff really is for the birds. I'm a pretty proficient waiter, having waited for things like marriage and motherhood and scads of other milestones and non-milestones much of my life. In fact, it's only in recent years that I've learned how to turn the waiting into productive action, sometimes disguised cleverly as prayer and inaction. 

Then there's the matter of worry. My family experienced a serious crisis recently, followed by several disappointments of varying shapes and sizes. I don't do setbacks very well. I generally like to do something once and have it stick, so to speak. I get annoyed and frustrated when things don't go as planned. No crisis I've ever known has stuck to my timetable or played by my rules, so the aforementioned events have upset my equilibrium and played havoc with my emotions.

I found myself at a point of "where do I go from here" this past weekend. I complained to my son, who offered a listening ear and no small degree of comfort, as he always does (bless his 18-year-old, about to graduate and go into the big, wide world unfettered by Hovercraft Mama, heart). He immediately plucked Captain Janeway and Commander Ryker, two Star Trek Christmas ornaments who sit atop our doorways, from their regal perches, and ordered me to draw strength from those compelling characters. He then did what he always does, offered his services around the house, even though he's got a wicked case of Senioritis, with AP exams and finals right around the corner. 

Bless his heart.

But I was one hurting, discouraged puppy, and needed to take a few more steps. 

During the worst periods of my life, I've found great help in counting my blessings. In so doing, the clouds somehow part and make way for some pretty significant sunshine. 

So I took paper and pen and started scribbling. By the time I was done, I had a sizable list, not least of which was the fact that we weren't harmed or robbed when our back door was left open all night recently! Oft unnoticed things like safety and security, Providence and provision, take on greater importance when committed to print. 

Maybe that's why I'm a writer.

It also didn't hurt to take the day off and "play" with my youngest sister, Roz, who obligingly bought me frozen yogurt and helped me goof off while her dog, Sadie (everybody's blessing), gave off peaceful vibes and made everything seem better. 

I still haven't figured out how to avoid stress while keeping up with the news. I'm sure that's part of the problem, but I'm no longer willing to shut my mind to the great problems of the day in order to keep a phony grin on my face. Frankly, I'd rather force my features into a half smile while realizing this world's not my ultimate home than hide my head in the proverbial sand, as I did for too many immature years.

Today is the National Day of Prayer. My friend and I will be showing up at some events and making our voices heard alongside other believers who also refuse to pretend everything's fine. We'll continue to rise early most mornings to lift our voices to heaven, trusting that the one who hears those prayers will also answer them. And we'll commit to the great concepts of the Serenity Prayer, which help us figure out what's our business and what belongs to God.

 I'm beginning to see a break in my impasse.

Bereft or Blessed?

Those are the emotions I'm swinging between now.

Our canine house guest, Tripp, just departed. Gone are the comfy pillows he snuggled on while I typed and he napped. Gone is the baby gate that was supposed to keep him out of the construction area of my house (it worked 75% of the time, but that story will have to wait for another post). Gone are his food bowls and the pleading look that materialized whenever they were empty.

I know I need to count my blessings when I get into a funk like this, and there are plenty of them. Opening a prayer guide packet this morning, I came upon Luke 6:38: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you." Ephesians 3:20, one of my all-time favorites, followed: "Now [God] is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us..." Finally, Philippians 4:19 leaped out at me: "And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus."

Still, I feel bereft.

I gave a talk at my Al Anon meeting last night about the ways God has provided for me over the years. I recalled the anonymous monetary gifts my husband and I received when he was in medical school. I described taking a blind leap of faith by leaving a job without having a new one lined up. My then-toddler son was accompanying me to my part-time job at a day care center, which helped with expenses while Mike was earning his medical degree. My little boy began acting out in order to divert my attention from the other dozen kids I had to manage. When my request for him to be placed in a separate class was denied, I regretfully left the position. A week later, the director begged me to return in a substitute capacity, where I was given more hours and, lo and behold, a separate class for my son!

Next, I recounted the financial terror I felt when leaving my husband, then finding just enough money in our joint savings account to pay my son's school tuition in advance. I looked back on my first job after becoming a single parent: how God used my sister to find the perfect work-at-home position that would allow me to care for my children; how I really shouldn't have gotten it because, in despair over my marital situation, I had to cancel the interview, thinking I'd never hear from the employer again. Miraculously, he still wanted to hire me, and we worked together for five years, just long enough for me to get my younger son into school so I could begin a full-time position with benefits. I recalled having a flexible weekend job drop into my lap, providing just enough money for the orthodontia my older son badly needed. I related God's most recent resourcefulness in having me stumble across a cache of jewelry and coins left over from my parents' estate, which has brought in much needed funds for an essential home renovation project.

And these are just the highlights! I've shared in the past how my parents and sisters have been an incredible source of blessing and support to my children and me. I might not even have a decent place to live or the wherewithal to fix it up, were it not for the exorbitant generosity of my family of origin.

Yet, somehow my mind keeps getting trapped in anxiety. As the bills for the kitchen project come due, my savings are taking a hit (the second major one after I had to replace my car two years ago). I'm questioning some past monetary decisions which I hoped would please the Lord, yet seem to have come back to bite me.

I don't want to go backwards. When I opened my talk last night, I remembered being driven by great financial worry as a young adult. For example, I used to buy huge quantities of sale items at the grocery store. Only later did I realize my behavior was rooted in the irrational fear that those things might never be on sale again. I didn't want to miss out or be caught short! I fretted over recreational spending in the same way I fretted over recreation itself when I was in college; somehow I must have thought every dime and every minute needed to be reserved for life's necessities, as opposed to its niceties. Balance lost out to business every time.

I don't want to go backwards. If I'm to avoid it, I must focus on the fact that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills, and (as evidenced by the steaks in my refrigerator), He's only too happy to share them with me.

"Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God." ~ Psalm 42:11

Obedience vs. Outcome, AKA, Knotted Up

There seems to be some dispute as to who wrote the following prayer, commonly known as The Serenity Prayer, but several sources I checked credit the 20th Century pastor, Reinhold Niebuhr, with penning it in the 1940s:

Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change;

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time;

Enjoying one moment at a time;

Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;

Taking, as He did, this sinful world

as it is, not as I would have it;

Trusting that He will make all things right

if I surrender to His Will;

That I may be reasonably happy in this life

and supremely happy with Him

Forever in the next.

Amen.

My prayer partner, Tina, and I were discussing this heavenly appeal today in connection with a faith challenge I'm working through. This particular matter is of no small significance, and has me somewhat knotted up when I let myself think about it. Tina is a good listener and an excellent adviser, and she reminded me of this simple prayer as I kvetched about my problem. She also compared worrying to sitting in a rocking chair, i.e., using up lots of energy to get absolutely nowhere.

After Tina and I had finished praying over my "Goliath," the phone rang again. This time it was another friend with a Philistine giant of her own. I told her I really had no advice to offer (this being a legal and family matter), but pointed her to the One who does. We began reading and praying through various passages of Scripture that pertain to difficulties and threatening situations. Together we looked at 1 Corinthians 10:13, in which God promises not to give us more than we can bear; the story of Gideon, detailing the Israelites' victory over oppressors using a small squadron of men, torches, and clay jars; and the account of King Jehoshophat, where God's people were told simply to suit up and show up for battle, and God would do the rest. 

We also considered Isaiah 55:8: "'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the LORD. 'As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.'" This reminded us that, as uncomfortable as life's curve balls may be, our Creator has a plan and we're not always privy to it. We're responsible for obedience, not outcome.

So I'm taking trembling steps toward resolution, knowing I'm walking in angelic and almighty company. It's also helping to recall past situations that have been gut-wrenching, muscle-building, and soul-stretching. I was pleasantly surprised to remember having survived several dozen slippery, unpleasant trials with hard-headed adversaries, only to come out stronger by the grace of God.

Why should this one be any different?

Check out Chris Tomlin's Whom Shall I Fear

For more like this, check out: 
Morsels for Meditation...: Fear That Said Its Prayers       Morsels for Meditation...: Called Off the Bench