(Unedited) Writing Project #1

The room was a big square, walled with old-fashioned yellowed wallpaper that was peeling in spots. The tears in the wallpaper revealed even more old-fashioned Pepto-Bismol pink paint that was chipping and peeling even more. The only two windows were on the west wall which looked out on the more scenic side of the house at the tree-filled park across the street. Unfortunately, there was also a streetlight there also, which poured its light in to the house each night, necessitating window-blackening shades which blocked the only pretty thing about the room.

The floors were bare, unless you counted the gobs of dog hair that lined the baseboards. Last summer, she’d torn out the old maroon-colored wool carpeting. At one time it might have been fashionable, but 50 years of dust and UV rays had rendered it to dry-rotted shreds and threads. The floors underneath were pine wood, hardly durable enough to withstand her own minimal wear and tear, let alone that of two dogs dragging their paws over it. It was now quite scratched up. As luck would have it, at the side of the bed on which she raised each morning (and more than a few afternoons, when the naps of depression took over) there was a popped nail that she repeatedly stepped on and swore at. The nail had popped at such an angle that it was impossible to fully pound back in to the boards. She supposed she could buy a throw rug and place that over the nail, thus protecting the soles of her feet, but that would involve choosing a color and pattern and committing to some decorating style and she didn’t have that kind of energy in her.

The room seemed to mirror her own self – lonely, messy, beat-up, undecorated, worn …old. It had potential, but that potential needed someone with greater talent than she had to bring it about.

Double Take

One Sunday, Barblings #1 & 2 were walking down the aisle and I was taken by how much they look alike.  Aged 17 & 14, there is a bit of an age and maturity gap.  But the manner in which they presented themselves at that moment, they could have been twins.  Both are tall, lithesome teenagers.  Both have medium brown hair cut to similar length and style.  On that day, both bore winsome smiles and a graceful and peaceful demeanor.  Only one issue - B#1 shares not an iota of DNA with B#2.  B#1 is adopted.

So how can that be?  How can they look alike?  It's not nature, so it must be nurture.  Raised by the same parents, living in the same house, sharing a bathroom, the very presence of each other over 14 years has given them some likeness.

As a Christian, the Word says I'm adopted, too.  Have I spent enought time with my Lord to take on some resemblance to Him?  Have I shared myself, given my entire self, MY ways, MY desires over to Him?  My current mood would shout the answer "NO".  But there is hope.

When I feel so unlike Him, when I feel so far from Him, I recall the verses from Lamentations "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end.  They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness." and I cling to this promise.  Every morning is a new day.  And His morning doesn't begin at
5:30am, like mine so I'm safe while I sleep.  No matter how much self-pity I display throughout the day, no matter what hateful thoughts I might have.  No matter what un-Christ-like qualities I might have, His mercy is renewed each day ant I'm able to start each day with a clean slate, the ugliness wiped from my countenance.  I am given another day to grow to look more like Him.

TGIF???

Like any working American, I look forward to Fridays. I look forward to not working Saturday and Sunday and I’m filled with the hope of all the things that I will accomplish over the next 48 hours. And then reality strikes.

Weekends really are the worst for me. They are blatant reminders of the stark loneliness that is my life. My phone does not ring. Like Charlie Brown I wait expectantly for the mailman, but there is no “Valentine”, no personal correspondence from friend or lover. My email is impersonal; my Facebook “friends” only request Farmville or Café World gifts.

I need the weekends to recharge for the work week, certainly. I need the weekends if for nothing else to get my laundry done. But I hate them at the same time. The silence and isolation attack and pummel me. They grind my heart and hope in to dust. I bleed heartache and misery. But there is no emergency room available to treat my sadness; no police force to defend me against the assault. And so I suffer the violence until Monday morning.
 
This sounds tremendously unfaithful, and it is.  It's downright sinful, I confess.  I repent...every Sunday night.  And I successfully avoid this particular sin...until Saturday morning, when the cycle starts all over again. 

Taming of the Shrew

My pastor recently preached a sermon on Genesis 1 titled “God’s Calling”. In it, he mentioned that everyone’s calling is to subdue creation and have dominion, that is control it and turn it into something of benefit.. My limited brain immediately brought to mind the example of musicians taking jumbles of notes and making beautiful music and artists taking color and line and making picturesque, museum-quality artwork. Later, when my friend and I were out running, I jokingly said we were subduing the creation that was our bodies and making fit beings out of them. A few steps and labored breaths later, I realized my joke was true (some of my most profound statements often start off as joke). It made me start thinking of other ways I could subdue creation and make something beneficial.

One of the problems with being single is not having someone readily available to bounce off ideas. I have so many of them they overwhelm me. I drown in my imagination, my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions. They wind up jumbled into a giant knot that weighs me down, ties me up and restrains me where I’m unable to move. Kind of like a “hoarder” only it’s my spirit that’s trapped inside my mind. My brain is like a cluttered, bulging file cabinet that lacks order. Hundreds, maybe thousands of stray notes have been stuffed in there with no order, causing me distress and confusion.

Perhaps writing more would give me an outlet, a manner by which I could subdue the thousands of thoughts that crowd my mind and maybe uncover something beautiful. Subduing my thought-life may bring about something honorable to God. At the very least, my mind would be decluttered and cleaned up and maybe not weigh me down with the junk of sad and desperate thoughts. Maybe something lovely might be uncovered, like a buried treasure.

My Hope Chest

For the past 30 years I've sat through hundreds, maybe thousands of hours worth of sermons, Bible Studies, book discussions and conversations on marriage and parenthood.  Though I had no need for the information at the time, no practical application, I absorbed that information for the time when I would need it.  For the time when I would be married and have children.  I gently placed each and every tidbit in my heart like a girl filling her hope chest.

At times, I would open up the chest and look over all that I had, imagining the days when I would put all that great advice to use.  I would be well supplied when I started up my new life with my spouse.  I would hit the ground running when parenthood happened.

In 16 days I turn 50 years old and all the items in my hope chest have sat unused and they never will be.  They've gathered dust, rusted, rotted.  I wonder what I could have done with all that time I spent sitting through those sermons, etc.  I wonder how much money I could have saved had I not spent it on those books.  I feel as though all those people who told me that a time would come when I would be able to put that info to good use lied to me.  I was tricked, deluded, used.

If I had a real hope chest filled with towels, sheets, dishes and other household goods I could donate them to charity, toss them in the garbage...or burn them.  How do I get rid of all this unusable advice that is stored in my mind and heart?  There's no way to get rid of it all.  Every tiny morsel taunts me.  It all weighs me down; my heart is heavy and burdened.  How can I divest myself of all this clutter?

A Question

If I believe God is sovereign (and I do), why do I wear a seat belt and get a flu vaccine?  I'm correct on both sides of this equation, but I can't articulate the reasons why.

A Jackson Pollock Painting

I'm not a fan of Jackson Pollock's art.  It's way too out there for me.  But I was thinking about myself, my personality, my likes/dislikes, my history, what I read, what I listen to, what I think about.  And I realized, I am a Jackson Pollock painting.  I'm a mishmash of colors thrown together, with no discernible rhyme or reason.  A drop of green here, a streak of blue there, dabbles of pink and red and purple and white.

I like jazz music, rock music, bluegrass, Celtic, some country.  I own some bagpipe cd's, for crying out loud.

I read murder mysteries, urban noir, biographies, history, current events, contemporary thought, health and wellness.  I read newspapers, books, magazines, blogs, cereal boxes and nutritional labels.

I dress conservatively, casually, modern, old-fashioned.  I'm just as at home in jeans and sweatshirts as I am in business suits, as I am in khakis and blazers.  I'm LL Bean, Evan Picone, WalMart, and Salvation Army Thrift Store.

My home is decorated in Traditional, Country, Cottage, Mission, Victorian, Romance, Contemporary.

I have an educated slang casual city country vocabulary.

I drink wine, Diet Coke, tap water, spring water, flavored water, black tea, white tea, green tea, herb tea, iced tea, Long Island Iced Tea and the occasional cappuccino.  That's really as far as I've delved in to the coffee world.

I like a clean house; I like a messy house.

I like to ride my bike, walk, hike; I am a couch potato.

I feel happy, sad, angry, encouraged, fearful, confident, excited, disgusted - sometimes all at the same time.

Many biographers and art historians speculate that Pollock suffered bipolar disease, which would explain the mania exhibited in his art.  Some might look at the canvas that is my life and wonder about the Artist that created me, as well. 

No one understands what was going through Pollock's mind as he dripped and tossed paint on canvas.  No one knows what fueled the thoughts and feelings he was trying to display, what emotions he was trying to free from deep within his soul.

I don't really understand what the Artist who created me was/is trying to accomplish.  His Word, His Autobiography says we all were fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps 139:14) in His image (Gen 1:27).  However, His art is not from bipolar disease.  He is not manic.  God is quite deliberate in how He proceeds.

One need only look at the history of creation in Genesis to see how carefully He made the earth and all that is within it.  For six straight days, He created a new item, one thing leading to another.  There was nothing random about it.  He separated land and water before He made plants.  He created plants before He created the animals that would eventually feed on those plants. 

As I feel happy, sad, angry, encouraged, fearful, confident, excited, disgusted (sometimes all at the same time), contemplating the "why's?" of my life, I have to step back and see the Artist at work, trusting there is a masterpiece being made that is still in process.  He's dripping points of sad blue on to streaks of boring beige next to lines of hot red through pools of peaceful yellow and green, with some splashes of fun pink and purple tossed in for humor and good measure.

There will be a day when the canvas that is me will be in His  heavenly gallery.  Jesus and I will be viewing the completed  work and I'll understand why that big black drip fell on to that fuschia experience and that it hadn't ruined but enhanced my life.  I need to have faith that the omniscient, omnipotent Artist will complete the good work He began in me (Phil 1:6).  Until that time, I need to watch the Artist wield His brushes, trusting that He has complete and total control.  There is nothing random about His paintings.

A Rose By Any Other Name

I've seen where many people seem to resemble their name.  In most cases, these people were named at birth before their personalities had emerged, so it serves to reason that God knew who or what they would become and informed theparents of the proper name before their child came in to being.

Look at Jacob (Supplanter/Trickster) who took his brother's inheritance.  Saul (Responder) who responded to God's call and became Paul (Humble).  John the Baptist (God is gracious).  And then, of course, there's Jesus (God Rescues).

My name is Barbara; it's Greek for Stranger, Foreigner.  Maybe it was set from birth that I would be out of place, lonely.  I don't want to be a stranger anymore.  I'm tired of it.  I want Him to change my name like He did for Jacob who became Israel (God Wrestler).

But to what will He change it?  And when?

Jigsaw Puzzle

Each life is like a jigsaw puzzle. Every experience is a piece in that puzzle and we spend our lives matching and piecing those parts together to form the whole of our lives here on earth. In heaven, we get to look at that completed puzzle and understand how all the pieces, all the experiences – good and bad, fit together and appreciate the beauty of the finished product.

In the meantime, however, we have to live through the completion process – twisting and turning the various parts, trying to match them up, endeavoring to make sense of it all. As we get older, bigger chunks form. Or at least, one would think they should or would. But that hasn’t been the case with me.

I have so many individual pieces still unmatched. Despite incredible efforts and prayers I struggle to put these pieces together. After almost fifty years, two or three pieces might have come together, but still there is no discernible image forming. I just have lots of small, seemingly pointless chunks sitting on the table, waiting to be assembled and identified, their purpose known.

I wait.  Sometimes patiently.  More often, not.  But still, I wait.  I won't abandon the puzzle, but I surely wish it would come together soon.

Decision Making Questions

What criteria do You use to determine which prayers You'll answer, and which ones You'll refuse?
Why do You answer my quick requests to find my lost car keys, but deny my desperate pleas for bigger things?
Are You looking for certain words, certain arguments, certain actions?
What am I doing wrong?

Arthritis of the Heart

I suffer from the chronic illness called loneliness.

Like arthritis, I wake some days symptom-free.  Most days, however, it's slow going; but eventually, once I get moving, the aches and pains subside.

But some days, the pain is downright debilitating.  Every movement, every word, every experience is a stabbing reminder of my alone-ness.  The pain is unbearable, making me wish for a quick and easy end.

There is no cure.  There are no emotional anti-inflmatories to take.  I just have to ride out the waves of pain.  But I anxiously, impatiently and hopefully wait for heaven, where there will be no more pain, no more tears, no more suffering.

Binded by the Light

O to grace how great a debtor


Daily I'm constrained to be!

Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love;

Here's my heart, O take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above.

Intelligent Life in the Kennel

I awake at 2 am needing to go to the bathroom. The dogs are in a deep sleep around me, evidenced by their loud snoring. I gently extricate myself from the sheets, blankets and dogs, so as not to disturb them. I ease myself up from the mattress, letting sleeping dogs lie. Tiptoeing across the floor, I listen carefully verifying that they remain in their sweet canine slumber uninterrupted.  I continue about my business. I’m gone no more than two minutes, tops. When I return, the dogs, still snoring, have soundlessly moved in to MY recently vacated spot on the bed.

How do they do that?

The Electric Slide

I unplug my curling iron and toaster as fire safety precautions.

I unplug my cell phone charger for economic and environmental reasons, to eliminate "phantom power".

I keep my blender and stand mixer unplugged because I have a fear that they'll turn themselves on in the middle of the night.

I've been forever damaged by the horror films of my youth.

The Power of Powerlessness

When I was employed, Sundays were the hardest day of the week for me. It was the day when I was most alone, left to my own thoughts. It was the day when my feelings about those thoughts overwhelmed me and my emotions would rage out of control.

Now that I'm unemployed, virtually every day is Sunday, to this regard. Though I try to keep busy, there is still too much down time and my disatisfaction with my life, and my thoughts of failures past and present take over.

Today, on my way to church I was mulling over all my shortcomings, all my mistakes, all my sins and I was overcome by my powerlessness. I can never change the past. I can never make up for bad decisions I made throughout my 49 years. I will never be able to catch up to where I should be. And then God (gently) flicked me on the head (He does that to me sometimes) and said "AHA!" and I said in my most quiet, mouse-like voice "oh" (I do this with Him alot).

I AM powerless. My anguish comes when I think I actually have power. But I was created and adopted by God Almighty, who is NOT powerless. Not only is he NOT powerless, He IS most powerFUL. He is the only one able to actually keep the promises He makes and because of this, I can trust and truly hope in Him.

His promises weren't quitely communicated, either. He put them out there in His Word, for all the world to see and hear. He keeps His word; He doesn't have to worry about someone pointing out some flawed thinking or failure on His part. This is the one, true and perfect God here; not some fly-by-night philospher hawking self-help DVDs on TV.

A few verses come to mind:

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil,to give you a future and a hope." Jeremiah 29:11

"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights." James 1:17

"For the Lord disciplines the one he loves,and chastises every son whom he receives." Hebrews 12:6

"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2Cor 12:9-10

All I need to do is remember all this tomorrow morning, when faced with the blank page that is my day.

Consider the Lilies of the Field

"And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin,yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."(Matthew 6:28-29 ESV)

Over my 40+ years I've heard or read this verse hundreds of times. Yet, since I've been hanging out with Seedling #1 it's taken on new meaning. Now, when I think about "lilies of the field" I picture Seedling #1 running, dancing, playing...a big smile on her face; her curls bouncing, eyes flashing. Add in to the equation child-like faith and I've got the perfect picture of how life should be for believers...not a care in the world, with total trust in their Father. Now, when I hear this verse, I always smile. I feel a certain warmth in my soul when this picture enters my mind.

When I was her age and younger, I'm sure I felt this way, but I don't really remember those carefree days. I long for heaven when those days return and I get to live them out for eternity - along with Seedling #1 and all the others.

Question of the Day

Why do I believe the words of discouragement that I tell myself more readily than the words of encouragement? Why do the encouraging words sound so thin, so patronizing, so juvenile?

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words?

It's been said a picture is worth a thousand words, but pictures of me never match the thousand words that I think they should. Pictures of me never seem to portray what I'm thinking or feeling at the time. Pictures of me are never reflect how pretty, or how ugly, or how thin, or how fat I felt at the time the button was pushed. So I guess, like garage sale items, pics of me are worth a lot less than they were when originally procured.

Thoughts on Heaven

2002/2003 was a difficult time for me. The church I attended went through some terrible times and I felt it necessary to leave. My employer of 21 years closed. I had to have my dog put down. I lost much of what I treasured, what gave me purpose in the space of 9 months and I was devastated.

I have since been attending a great church where I have grown spiritually. Though currently unemployed, I had 2 jobs in this time frame, neither of which was as fulfilling as my previous one, but they provided a salary and I didn't lack for anything. I have two dogs (and many visiting ones) that I love. None of the originals have been "replaced"; they never could. There was only one Metro, one Evangelical Free Church, one Coach for that time for the person I was at that time. But...

God has promised that the losses I've experienced are not for nothing and He will replace them with something so much better - in heaven. In heaven I will have pets (yes, plural). I don't know if they will be the pets I had here on earth (Coach, Dusty, Priscilla, Grace, Dora, Lucy...) or if they will be new ones. I'd like the latter, but I'll trust God's judgement. I'll have a job, though not as a hospital purchasing agent. There will be no need for hospitals in heaven! And Best of all, there will be only one church of one mind and spirit; a church that will never have infighting, theological differences or doctrinal debates. This church will worship perfectly the one true Perfect God.

Until then, I bide my time, trusting God with the current and future circumstances of my remaining days on earth.

Tending the Garden(ers)

It's no secret that there are a lot of children in my life, though none of them belong to me. I often blog about the Barblings. As explained in a previous post, they are my best friend's daughters. I refer to them as Barblings because it's easier than typing a lengthy explanation of who they are each time. In addition, understanding the possible dangers associated with revealing names (especially those of children) on the internet, I choose to respect their privacy and use a pseudonym.

Now, during my unemployed state, I've been spending more time with a friend/neighbor/sister in Christ and her four children. They've given me some fodder for possible posts, but I needed a name for them. Today the thought struck me - Seedlings. Those of you who know me well and travel in the same circle should understand the name. If you don't, let me know and maybe I'll explain it to you.